Fertility

I find Witkowski leaning against the wall outside Pico di Bono, looking green.

"What's going on, Witkowski?" I ask.

"Clomid," she says. "I had to draw the lucky ticket and get not only the mood swings but the butterflies."

I frown. My sister took it once. She'd called me a couple times on crying jags so as not to take it out on her husband. It drove her batty but at least she had the twins to show for it.

"But you and Phil?" I ask.

"It's still a trial separation, Clark. There's hope. But stay or go, I'm fucking thirty-seven," she says. "My mother had the change at forty. Phil and I were trying for a couple of years. I'm kind of thinking it's now or never. The damn thing keeps ticking, so I have to pay my money and take my chances, with Phil or without him."

"Damn," I say. "What happened with Phil? Are you really going to give him another chance?" Valentina Witkowski wasn't someone I knew as a forgiving type if you damned well shouldn't have done wrong in the first place.

"You know, Clark," she says. "Something came between us. I didn't think about it at the time, but some good P.I. work might be able to clear away the clouds. Or confirm them."

"Tell me about it," I say.

"Not here," she says. "Not now. I gotta check the cruiser back in and wind up my shift. Meet me...no, drop you at your place and I'll meet you there?"

My unruly partner twitches in my pants. Down, boy. "Okay," I say.