It was the first warm day after a long, cold winter. Pale flesh sprouted from rising hem lines faster than the buds on the branches. Dzinski sat on the third floor balcony, drinking beer, and watched the people below shake off their eight months of hibernation.
He’d closed a case that morning, found the husband who’d run off, and had enough money to not worry for a few days. As long as he ducked the landlord. So he sat outside, his collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled and the sun shining down on his face and felt damn good for once.