Nevertheless, as the man stood there, my eyes traveled up and down him appreciatively. I just couldn’t help myself. The detective seemed aware of this scrutiny, for he looked down at himself. Rubbing the sleeve of one arm, he murmured, “I was just at a funeral.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” he said, rubbing the sleeve of the other arm now in a self-satisfied and most distracting fashion. “I guess I’ve gone a bit law enforcement today.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. One of our own.” He seated himself opposite me.
“Sorry about that,” I said, and meant it. The death of a cop still does something to me.
He sat back, shifting his position in the chair. “Yes, it’s tough, but what can you do?”
I nodded, and then, because of the sensations provoked by this uniformed masculine presence in front of me, I couldn’t help saying, “Except, judging from your sartorial display, you might have said you had gone military.”
“Military?” He looked at me, puzzled.