I USED TO KNOW HIM

CHAPTER THREE

     Detective Lieutenant Callum Brice broke the Fairlane at 2312 Weisman

Drive and got out quickly. For a moment, he wasn't sure whether Margret

Danson would be awake, but it was a long drive into headquarters and he

didn't want to go back to a dismal office, or even a lonely bachelor

apartment. He glanced at his watch. 9:30. He shrugged and decided to try

it.

     She answered his knock almost at once, smiling him into the front room.

For a moment, he allowed his eyes to finger her body, letting them spear

through the wrap around robe and the flimsy nightgown to where warm

flesh ebbed and flowed against the sigh of silk. Her brown hair was

bed-tangled and most of the makeup was gone from her face, but Margret

Danson was a woman who had the unconscious ability to look beautiful

under any circumstances. Callum felt a thunder in his veins as he tossed

his hat on the sofa.

"Coffee, Callum?" she asked.

He nodded and they went into the kitchen. "We found the Peters' kid, so

that ends another case." He dropped to a chair and watched her fixing

the coffee. "You're up early, Margret."

A shadow crossed her face momentarily. "I had a dream, Callum. A bad

dream."

"About Nick?"

     She nodded and set a cup of coffee before him. The tears were close

again, but Brice hadn't seen them fall over Nick for a long while. It

was ridiculous the way she mooned over the guy, but there was no

understanding women.

"You ought to stop dwelling on him, honey," Callum told her. "It doesn't

do any good."

"He's alive," she said, softly.

"You know better than that. If he were alive, we'd have found him. Men

just do not drop out of sight in the Twentieth Century."

Margret lifted a hand to brush her hair into place and sat down to sip at

her coffee. Callum studied her. She actually believed that her husband

was alive and that he would return to her. He hoped not. It was a

selfish thing to think about, but he was in love with her; he'd have had

her long ago, if it wouldn't have been for Nick and his dark good looks.

      He mouthed a swallow of coffee and settled the cup in its saucer. She

was looking at him.

"Is there any news, Callum?"

"About Nick? No." He touched her arm. "They've given up ... and so

should you. Honey, you're young, beautiful. Hell, another woman would

have gone out and had a ball.

"Listen, there's a lousy show on down in Everett. Want to go?"

She smiled. "Thanks, but you're probably tired from hunting for the

Peters' kid..."

"I feel fine."

She shook her head. "Callum, I know how you feel about me. I'm very

flattered. But ... but I have to accustom to his loss in my own way. I'm

sorry."

Callum forced a smile. "That's the way the mop flops," he mused. "I'll be

around, when you are." He finished his coffee in silence. "Well, I have

to get moving, make out a report and all. Thanks for the coffee, Margret."

She nodded, but remained staring into her cup. Callum went into the front

room, picked up his hat and went out into the morning to climb into his

car. When he had started it and headed back toward Everett, he found

himself struggling with the feeling that he was being cheated.

After all, he reasoned with himself, why should a guy have to play

second fiddle to a man who was probably dead. If Nick Danson were alive,

it'd be different; but dead, and that was an almost sure thing, he felt

cheated.

 Margret could learn to love him. She could forget. Hell, a lot of

women lost their men for some reason or another, but they accustomed,

they altered their lives. If a man dropped the reins, some other guy

should pick them up. It was only natural.