Dance of the Bones

Though I didn’t like to admit it, my beloved recliner’s replacement wasn’t half bad. It was made of smooth reddish--brown leather and offered the kind of comfort the broken and dying springs in the old recliner could no longer provide. Even so, I wouldn’t have gotten rid of the recliner if I hadn’t been strong--armed into relinquishing it by Jim Hunt, my once and again interior designer.

I glanced at my watch, sighed, and heaved myself out of the chair. The last thing I wanted to do that night—-the very last thing—-was go to the Behind the Badge Foundation’s Gala and Auction down at the airport Hilton. And I most especially didn’t want to go solo. My reluctance had nothing to do with the organization sponsoring the event. After all, Behind the Badge helps maintain Washington’s Fallen Officer Memorial. It also supplies much--needed scholarship assistance to the sons and daughters of fallen officers. But the truth is, I would have much preferred whipping out my checkbook and mailing a sizable donation to actually making an appearance.

This was supposed to have been a fun event—-a double date of sorts, a foursome made up of my wife, Mel Soames, and me, along with my son, Scott, and his wife, Cherisse. Having aced his stint at the Police Academy, Scotty was now a full--fledged member of the Seattle Police Department. Tickets to the event had been a Christmas present to Mel and me from Scott and Cherisse, and the four of us had planned to go together.

Of course, with everything that had happened just before Christmas, the whole holiday season had turned into something of a bust. Then, at the last minute, Mel had been summoned to Washington, D.C. Homeland Security was putting on an anti-terrorism dog--and--pony show for police chiefs from all over the country. Mel, the recently designated chief of police in Bellingham, had initially declined the invitation, saying she didn’t have the time or the travel budget to attend.

Then, someone in D.C. had taken a look at their RSVP list and realized that, in terms of diversity, they were on the low side when it came to female attendees. I suspected there were a -couple of reasons for that, number one being that female chiefs of departments were still pretty much, as my mother would have said, “scarce as hens’ teeth.” And the top--drawer ones like Mel took their responsibilities seriously and probably figured they had better things to do with their time than to go trotting off to a meaningless conference in D.C. where they would be treated as little more than window dressing.

The upshot was, early in the week a new batch of invitations had been issued, ones that included Homeland Security coughing up all travel and hotel expenses—-for the distaff chiefs. This struck me as an out--and--out case of discrimination toward the male attendees. Nonetheless, Mel had accepted the offer and flown off to D.C. on a red--eye late on Thursday. Her absence left me batching it in Seattle rather than spending a quiet weekend with her in our downtown condo.

With our plans shot to hell, I had called Scott, intending to bail on the party rather than go without Mel. Scott, however, had not only insisted that I come along, he even offered to pick me up so we’d all be able to use the express lanes. With their ETA less than half an hour away, I headed into the bedroom to get ready. Fifteen minutes later, showered, shaved, and wearing the Montblanc cologne Mel had given me for Christmas, I stepped into my walk--in closet and pulled down the garment bag that held my best suit.