The man dropped his chin to his chest and whispered, Yes, it's Nina.
It's my wife.
The tears came a few minutes later.
Almost as though he had been meditating.
Not sobs, but the refined tears of a wealthy man who was trying to decide who to call first-his lawyer or hers.
His eyes were dripping cold tears into a bucket of ice and nothing was melting.
I'm sorry for your loss, sir.
I reached out and touched his shoulder.
You cold bastard.
Tino came around the chairs and was.
Black Rose Writing Shooting limpkins: a detective valarie garibaldi murder mystery, paperback/ricky ginsburg
