Friday, May 7th 5:00 A.M.
The early morning fog blanketing eastern Pennsylvania was thicker than the frosting on grandma's cake, but no thicker than the early morning fog shrouding David Dean's sleep-deprived brain. He felt like a packaged pound of dog meat after slightly less than three hours sandwiched in his warm and comfortable bed between Ethel Rosewater's last frenzied spasm of pleasure and the screaming alarm clock. For the first hour of his trip to the airport, Dean's vision was restricted to two red eyes of the taillights in front of him, glaring out of a haze as thick as chowder. The traffic crawled to a near standstill as Dean's blood pressure mounted, sure the 8:00 direct flight to Norfolk would leave without him.
He need not have been concerned. The airport was coping with the fog no better than the harried commuters. The place was a morgue of mannequins, all clutching briefcases, their faces in newspapers as the planes stood silently by.
It was 10:00 by the time the fog lifted enough for a bumpy take off and Dean gratefully accepted a much-needed cup of coffee from the pleasant attendant. He declined her offer of a magazine. They were all designed for Fortune 500 executives, not poorly paid detectives sworn to keep the streets safe for orphans and widows. He tried to snooze but only managed a wink or two before the plane began its descent into Norfolk.
Detective Norman Hunter, who met the arriving aircraft, was unperturbed by the overdue flight. The 32-year-old detective with bright red crew cut and opened-collar sports shirt looked as if nothing short of a catastrophe would cause him a lick of concern. Dean took an immediate liking to his southern counterpart as soon as the two shook hands and left the terminal.
"No problem," Hunter responded to Dean's apology. "I'm used to planes being late more often than on time. Your return flight back isn't until 4:00 so we've got hours to grab a bite and check out that motel. By the way, welcome to God's country."
Although Dean didn't say it, he figured God must be partial to roasting temperature and off the scale humidity that quickly drenched his clothes like an afternoon shower. By the time they reached Hunter's double-parked car, Dean felt like limp lettuce at a summer picnic. He loosened his collar and tie out of absolute necessity.
"The wife wants you to give her a call," Hunter said, as he started up the automobile and turned on that miraculous invention, the air conditioner.
"Mrs. Byrne?" asked Dean, somewhat surprised.
"Sure enough. I gave her a ring last night, just to tell her nothing's new and I mentioned you were coming down. She asked that I have you buzz her. She sure seems like a nice enough gal. Think he skipped out on her?"