The man who opened the door was big—Arena Ball-tackle big—with massive shoulders, tree-trunk legs, and bricklayer biceps.
He gave her a friendly smile as he stood with his bulk barring the entire doorway.
“Hi. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Detective Strong.” She shifted her gaze down to the puffball with teeth dancing at his feet. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”
“She doesn’t bite,” he said. “She just wants you to think she’s fierce.” Bending, he scooped the puffball into his hand and made shushing noises. “Lilah! Cop at the door.”
“Yeah? What cop?”
Strong looked around the man’s mass, and her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Detective. Can I come in?”
“Ah, sure ...” Obviously off guard, Strong looked around the room the way people did when unexpected company made them wonder how big a mess they had lying around.
In Strong’s case it was minimal in a simply furnished living area set up for comfort.
“Tic, this is Lieutenant Dallas, Homicide, out of Central. Tic Wendall.”
Tic offered a hand the size of a meat platter, and the careful way he took hers made her think of Mavis’s Leonardo. Big men with gentle ways.
“Nice to meet you.”
“The same. Sorry to interrupt your evening. Detective, I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Why don’t I give you ladies the room,” Tic began, “and take Rapunzel out for her walk?”
At the word walk the dog wiggled in Tic’s hold and did her level best to lap the skin off his face. He set the dog down. “Get your leash, girl.”
At the command the tiny dog scurried off in a storm of delight.
“Thanks, Tic.”
“No problem.” He took a poop bag out of a box near the door, and when the dog came back with a bright pink leash clamped in the tiny teeth, he clipped it on her jeweled collar.
“Back soon,” he told Strong, and kissed her in a way that told Eve they’d been together long enough to be casual.
Eve waited until the door closed behind them. “You have a dog named Rapunzel that’s the size of a well-fed rat?”
“Tic has the dog. She’s all hair, so, she’s Rapunzel. He takes her everywhere—even to work.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s a lawyer—tax attorney.”
“I figured him for Arena Ball, plowing the field.”
“Tic lacks the killer instinct. Sweetest man I’ve met in all my life, and I don’t think you came here to talk about my guy.”
“No. Can we sit?”
“Okay.” Strong switched off the screen, pointed to a chair. “Tic does some home-brew,” she said, nodding at the bottles on the coffee table. “Do you want one?”
“Wouldn’t say no,” Eve told her, knowing sharing a couple of short brews indicated the visit wasn’t official.
She took her seat, then the bottle Strong offered. She sipped. “Good. Smooth.”