18When I arrived at work the next morning, the tall version of Carl Perkins, was sitting in his unmarked cruiser, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. After I had parked my car, I noticed Schwilden hadn't arrived yet, and walked the length of the lot toward him. Detective Spezza stepped out. I saw he was actually sporting black, hand-tooled cowboy boots. He was wearing a jacket, jeans and a turtleneck. In this weather.
“Detective. Where's your guitar?”
“Mr. Goldman.”
He ground the cigarette stub out with his heel and tossed the Styrofoam cup on to the pavement.
“Isn't that littering?” I asked.
He looked at me laconically, his face slack, his eyes drooping.
“So, arrest me.”
“Did you want something?” He shrugged and didn't say anything. “You just like hanging out in parking lots?
