My personal best time of 1:12 means I’m usually fast enough to be near the front of the pack-top ten or so-but usually not fast enough to win. It’s right there-but it’s just out of reach. Sometimes-generally right after I finish just out of the top five-my friends will be impressed on the one hand and offer advice on the other-advice like maybe if I’d trained just a little longer (like those other guys), I could have made the podium. I don’t think so. If I actually believed that more training would enable me to finish higher, I might try to carve out some more time. The reality is, at some point, it’s back to those natural, God-given physical limits. When that happens, all the extra training in the world won’t let you run like Usain Bolt or swim like Michael Phelps. You either got it, or you don’t. I’m okay with this. I accept it. Fact is, most people never explore the edge of their own limitations. Even though I don’t win very often (three times in the last five years), I run because I like to find that edge. I keep at it.
Which is a long-winded way of explaining why I train year-round. The training keeps me in great shape all the time. Of course, the training also has the side benefit of allowing me to eat pretty much whatever I want without having to worry about it, and this is pretty cool, too. Maybe someday that will change-but for now, it’s working.
My training schedule is carefully structured to have me reach my athletic peak at various times in the year that coincide with the biggest races. It varies by time of year and by day of the week, but the pattern is similar year-round-I run shorter and harder on Tuesdays and Thursdays, longer and slower on Wednesdays. Fridays and Sundays are easy days. Saturdays are a bear-long and hard both. And Mondays-blessed Mondays-are a day of rest with no running at all. Today being Wednesday, the workout was a longish run at a moderate pace. For me-at this time in the season-this meant about ten miles in about an hour and fifteen minutes or so. I finished by 7:20, showered, and hit the office at eight o’clock on the dot. I walked straight into the conference room for our morning staff meeting.
After everyone was seated, I looked around the table. Kenny was there. I nodded to him. Then I turned to the tall, dark-haired man with shoulder-length black hair seated next to him. “How’s it goin’, Doc?” I asked.
He looked at me, smiled and then gave me a single nod-a fine answer for Doc-no words required.
Joaquin “Doc” Kiahtel is a Chiricahua Apache-claims to be a direct descendant of Cochise. I met Doc while we were both stationed at Fort Lewis just outside Tacoma when I worked to clear him from a little misunderstanding with some patrons of a local drinking establishment. We proved that Doc was acting purely in self-defense-even if all four of the guys who attacked him ended up in the hospital. Knowing what I know now about Doc’s background in the Army Rangers, I understand Doc actually exercised considerable restraint in the altercation: he didn’t kill a single one of ’em. Later, I got to really know him, and we became friends. Doc’s Special Forces background led me to offer him a position as director of security at our firm after he was discharged. I’m lucky that he accepted.
For the longest time, Doc was a solitary guy. It literally took him years to recover from the loss of his girlfriend who was killed by a hit-and-run driver in Fort Lewis in 2006. We got used to seeing Doc by himself. Then, two months ago, Toni and I met him at one of our favorite camping spots on the Olympic Peninsula and to our complete surprise, we found that he was accompanied by a woman! And a beautiful one at that! Toni and I were both struck nearly speechless when Doc introduced us to his “girlfriend,” Doctor Prita Dekhlikiseh-he just called her “Pri.” Unlike Doc-I mean Joaquin-Pri’s a real doc-a USC medical school grad and emergency doctor at Harborview Medical Center. Doc met her when the paramedics delivered me there after I was hit in the head with my own baseball bat. He never said a word about Pri until that camping trip.
If I hadn’t been unconscious at the time, I’d have noticed Pri myself-she’s hard to miss at six feet tall. Like Doc, she’s also a Chiricahua Apache, although she’s from Oklahoma, and Doc is from New Mexico. Because of her, the last couple of months may have been the happiest I’ve ever seen Doc. When it comes to Pri, I’m a fan. I’d like her anyway, but I especially like her for what she means to Doc.
Also seated at the table was Richard Taylor. Richard’s a tall, lanky man in his early seventies. He’s a former Seattle Police Department detective who, twenty-four years ago, retired and opened a private investigation agency called Taylor Private Investigations. Toni and I met him when he was a guest lecturer at a police procedural course in our last year at U-Dub. When Richard told us he wanted to retire at the end of 2007, my wheels had started to turn. I made him an offer to buy him out when we graduated in December 2007. Three months later, Taylor Private Investigations became Logan Private Investigations.
With twenty-eight years at the Seattle PD, and with another twenty-four years in private practice (the last four with us), Richard is a walking Seattle criminal justice encyclopedia. I mean, the man knows everybody. He knows the history and background of every bar and nightclub in the area. He knows secrets: who owes what to whom, who slept with whom, where skeletons are buried-you name it. As an accurate information source, he’s completely irreplaceable.
And the really cool thing? Even though he’s officially retired and thus, done with the pressures of owning a business, he still likes to sit in on our cases and give us the benefit of his experience-for free! He says it keeps his mind active. I say, great. All I have to do is give him an office, a desk, and a phone. We’re a whole lot stronger with Richard on our side. Not to mention the fact that he’s also become a great friend.
“How’d the qualifying go?” he asked.
“It went great,” I said. “Matter of fact, we both shot perfect scores.”
“Then he beat me in the tiebreaker,” Toni said. “Again.”
I smiled at her. She stuck her tongue out at me.
“Does Gunny Owens still run the qualifying?” Richard asked.
“Sure does,” I said. “Speaking of which, you ought to be due pretty soon, aren’t you?”
“July. I’ve got to go down there in July.”
“Piece of cake, right?”
He smiled, his blue eyes sparkling. “Is there any doubt in your mind?”
I shook my head. “Nope. None at all.” I turned to the group. “Everybody’s here. We’ll just get right into it,” I said. “Let me start by saying that I was going through the books yesterday and, as you may know, the coffers are getting a little thin around here. We haven’t had a good-sized job in a while. That’s the bad news. The good news is that I don’t think I’m going to have to dip into reserves because I think there are two nice jobs coming right up. I’ve got an appointment next Wednesday with Ferguson and Sons.”
“With whom?” Kenny asked.
“Ferguson and Sons is the largest restaurant-supply distributor in the Puget Sound,” Richard said. “They’ve been around for about a hundred years. The name should probably be Ferguson and Sons and Grandsons and Nephews and Nieces and whatnot.” He turned to me. “What’s their problem?”
Suddenly, Toni gave a little scream. She shoved herself back from the table.
“Oh, shit,” she said. “A spider just dropped down and landed on my damn notebook.”
Everyone looked. A small spider-less than half an inch across-sat on her notebook, unsure of what to do next.
Kenny leaned over to look. He started laughing. “That?” he said. “You’re afraid of that?”
She turned and fixed him with an evil glare. “I. Don’t. Like. Spiders.” Each word was carefully enunciated.