joint inflammation in the medical dictionary. They all ended in -itis and they all hurt like hell and he wasn’t even sixty years old. So what if he’d pushed his body for decades, as if it belonged to one of these obnoxious teenagers rather than that of an aging man who’d survived not one but two motorcycle accidents, not to mention a long history of work-related injuries (stab wounds, bullet wounds, punctures from a staple gun, multiple gashes from multiple box cutters, just to name a few). But it was Galileo who had finally beaten him. Penelope Sue, bless her heart, had done her best to build him back together, but not all the pieces fit, not anymore. He was becoming a relic, just like that motorcycle in Esme’s garage.
And he was kind of okay with that.
He slipped his electronic card key into the door, pushed his way into his room and willed himself to stay awake and mobile long enough to undress and step into the hot propulsive shower. God bless the water pressure in New York City. It didn’t quite melt away the soreness in his muscles, but it did liquefy them a little, and returned some much-missed flexibility to his neck. By the time he’d toweled himself off, he was warmed, massaged and oh-so-ready for sleep.
His head had barely tapped the fluffed hotel pillow when his cell phone buzzed. He considered ignoring it, but his abject curiosity curtailed that option.
“Hello?” he murmured.
“Oh, shit, did I wake you?”
Tom smiled. “Not at all, Penelope Sue.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Then you’re in love with a liar,” he replied.
“So I am.”
Tom spotted the digital clock. It was 12:32 a.m.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked her.
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because you called me, you adorable lunatic.”
“We haven’t talked all day,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”
“We talked a couple hours ago.”
“That was Monday. Today is Tuesday.”
Tom checked the clock again: 12:33 a.m. Dear Lord, he was in love with a dork. In spite of himself, his smile widened. “Mmm-hmm.”
“So are you in bed, Tom?”
“It’s almost one o’clock in the morning, woman.”
“Well, I’m not in bed.”
“That’s because you’re a weirdo.”
“No, it’s because I’m walking in a hallway.”
“Why are you walking in a hallway?”
“Because it’s the only way to get from where I’m going to where I need to be, silly.”
“And where is it you need to be at almost one o’clock in the morning?”
“I’m almost there, actually.”
“The refrigerator?”
“Tom Piper, are you calling me fat?”
“No, love. I’m calling you insane.”
“Insane for you, maybe.”
Tom audibly groaned. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you about this wonderful client I had today. Well, yesterday. He was about your age and—”
There was a knock at his door.
“Excuse me a minute,” he told Penelope Sue, and he wiped a hand over his face to clear away any nap-goo that may have accumulated, whipped the covers off his long body and ambled to the door, not even bothering to put on a T-shirt. The Big Apple bellhops had probably seen a lot worse than the late-night topless body of an over-the-hill gunslinger from Kentucky. The real question was, why would a bellhop be buzzing him at 12:34 in the morning?
Tom hesitated. The door didn’t have a peephole.
The stab wounds, bullet wounds, punctures from a staple gun and the multiple gashes from multiple box cutters had made him a wee bit paranoid.
He still had his Glock. It was in his shoulder holster, hanging with his black leather jacket in the sliding-door closet to his right. He could have it in his hands and ready in seconds, and cause some hapless bellhop to wet himself. Because although the local clerks were undoubtedly used to all variations of undress, nobody, no matter how seasoned, reacted well to the sight of a gun.
“Tom?” called Penelope Sue’s voice from the phone. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Just a second.”
He held the Glock behind his back with his right hand and with his left hand, still holding the phone, he reached for the knob. The door was heavy, thick. Practically soundproof. Great.
He took a breath to steady himself.
“Okay, Tom,” continued her voice, “in the meantime, let me tell you about this client. He’s kind and sweet…”
He opened the door.
“…and as handsome as can be,” she finished, staring him straight in the eye.
He blinked.
“Hello, sexy,” she said, and leaned forward to kiss him full on the mouth. Her arms smoothly wrapped themselves around his body.
He remained awkwardly unresponsive.
She stepped away from him, confused. Was he not happy to see her?
“I…” he replied,