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Kindle Edition
First published October 20, 2016
As he steps up on the sidewalk I notice the sleeves of his navy-blue suit jacket are above the wrist. His trouser cuffs are high-waters that show his gray tube socks, and he has on black leather trainers that aren't laced all the way up. His tie is almost color coordinated and just as unfashionable, black-and-red-striped and much too wide, possibly from the 1980s when people wore polyester bell-bottoms, Earth Shoes and leisure suits.
I watch Benton climb out of his car. He unfolds his long lank self, and my husband always looks newly minted. His pearl-gray suit is as fresh as when he put it on this morning, his blue-and-gray silk tie perfectly knotted, his engrave antique white-and-gold cuff links glimmer in the early evening light. He could grace the pages of Vanity Fair with his strong fine features, his platinum hair and horn-rim glasses. He's slender and ropy strong, and his quiet calm belies the iron in his bones and the fire in his belly.
N. E. Flanders is the brand of plain that Dorothy wouldn't have a single kind word to say about. I estimate the officer's age is mid- to late-forties, her chunky short-waisted figure not helped by her creaking black leather duty belt and low-riding trousers.
Their hands are in their laps, but I don't see any signs of restraints. Dorothy's eyes are wide, and the morning light isn't kind on her overfilled Botoxed face while Janet is quiet and steady.