Living Proof, стр. 19
Her lips spread into a genuine grin. “Is that the hardest profession like everyone says?”
He shrugged. “Depends what day you ask me.”
“What kind of writing do you do?”
“Fiction,” he said. The kind that lets you make up anything.
“God, you must have a great imagination. I wouldn’t even know where to start. I’m a doctor.”
“Oh?”
“An OB-GYN. I specialize in reproductive endocrinology.”
“Ah,” he said, “well, I doubt my work is harder than that.”
“So do you write short stories? Novels?”
“I’m on my first novel,” he said. “I used to be a reporter on Long Island, but I left to do something more creative.”
“What’s it about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It’s about—well, it’s a thriller, complicated to explain on the spot.” He drew back with a shy smile and sipped his Coke.
She nodded. “So you must really be able to appreciate all the techniques Dakota uses. I think he’s a fantastic writer.”
“Absolutely.”
A brief lull ensued, and he scrambled for words to keep the conversation flowing. All around them, people were talking loudly.
“It’s so crowded in here,” he said lamely, soon regretting it.
“Yeah, I have to get going anyway.” She started walking toward the exit, and he followed her outside. The unusual fall heat was like a furnace blast after the air-conditioned bookstore, and at once, he recognized another opportunity.
“Man, I should have ridden my bike here,” he remarked. “It would have been so much faster to get home in this heat.”
“You bike? I do, too, though I should go more often.”
“I’ve been trying to go more also,” he lied. “I need the exercise, since I just sit at my desk all day.” He paused, and then, as if it had just occurred to him: “Hey, would you like to go together sometime? Maybe in Central Park?” His mouth was dry; he glanced down at his sneakers, waiting for her inevitable response—if only he could stay in this exact moment, before the cards toppled, he could tell Dopp he’d lived up to the plan.
“Sure,” she said. “I sometimes go for a ride after I get off work, when the air is cooling.”
“Great.” He grinned.
“When do you want to go?”
His mind made a quick calculation: Let a few days pass so as not to seem pushy, but don’t waste time. “How’s Friday at seven?”
“Okay. Oh, wait.” She winced. “I have something Friday.”
“What about the weekend?” he asked, praying he didn’t sound desperate.
“Hmm.” She paused. “I think that might work. How’s Saturday morning, nine A.M.? It shouldn’t be too hot then.”
Oh no, he thought, an early riser. “That’s perfect.”
He withdrew his silver cell phone from his pocket, a finger-sized slat of plastic with a black sensor on one side. She took it out of his hand and waved her own similar phone in front of his.
“There you go,” she said, handing it back. “Call me Friday to confirm.”
“Will do,” he said, slightly taken aback at her directness.
“Nice meeting you.” She waved and turned to walk south on Broadway.
“See you in a few days,” he called.
Then he turned around to hide his disproportional elation in case she looked back. The seven blocks to his apartment passed in a blur of buildings and pedestrians and cabs, a backdrop to the feeling of accomplishment that radiated inside him. He wished he could report to Dopp immediately, but also relished the anticipation of delivering the news tomorrow morning. The case had sparked an enthusiasm he hadn’t felt since he was a reporter: that of a face-to-face challenge. Maybe God really had been watching him tonight; perhaps this was even His plan all along: to allow Trent to use his reporting and information-gathering skills for a more honorable purpose.
But one thing is sure, he thought with a wry smile. I need a bike.
* * *
Hunched over metal handlebars and seated on a hard wedge, Trent pedaled on his new street bike—$320 that Dopp had gladly told him to expense to the department. The shiny metal spokes in his wheels glinted in the sunlight as he rode. He was one block away from the designated meeting spot of Central Park West at Seventy-second Street, and two minutes away from being late.
Through his sleep-crusted eyes, he was surprised to discover that the world had a tranquillity this morning that he missed when he rushed to work during the week or to church on Sundays. Drops of dew on the grass glittered like strewn gems. The absence of traffic lent the air a pristine sweetness, and the only remnants of the bustling streets he usually navigated were lone joggers or other bikers. Encouraged by the lack of cars, he swerved into the middle of the road and peddled hard over the crunch of gravel, leaning forward to compensate for the pavement’s incline.
Tightening his grip on the handlebars with his right hand, he removed his left—the bars wavered slightly—and glanced at his new watch. It looked foreign on his wrist, unlike his other watch, a black titanium ode to sleekness. This one had a white circular face with roman numerals and a brown leather band that said old-fashioned elegance. The stiff band was secure around his wrist. Good. Dopp had promised him it looked classy, though Trent thought it just looked old. But then again, that was the point.
When he looked up, he saw Arianna ahead, standing next to an electric blue bike in gym shorts and a tight zip-up jacket, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Her hair was again pulled back in a long ponytail. They exchanged waves and he jumped off his bike, wheeling it toward her. As he neared, he could not help noticing the curve of her breasts under the jacket.
“Hey,” he said, stopping in front of her. “Hope I’m not late.”
“Is it too early for you?” She smiled, but he couldn’t see whether her eyes were friendly or mocking behind her black sunglasses.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Then let’s get going,” she said. “What path do you