David Gould. Used to be an FBI agent, but claimed he'd been in the market for a less stressful job. Translation: an easier job.
And while she wasn't into gossip like so many others in the police department, she liked to know who was watching her back. All she knew about Gould was that he'd been shipped down from Cleveland, Ohio, where he hadn't been all that long.
And she was beginning to suspect they'd been glad to unload him.
Chapter 3
David Gould had run five miles with another five to go when his pager went off. He didn't check it.
When he'd started out, the streets had been dark and deserted, with fog clinging to rolling lawns and areas of dense vegetation. Now it was light. The storm had moved on to Atlanta, and traffic was getting heavy. Sidewalks were littered with shredded leaves and crushed blossoms. In a couple of areas, he'd spotted some downed trees.
Helluva storm.
He should probably run with a cell phone, but that would have been a pain in the ass. Besides, the purpose of the run was to get away from everything for a while. Time to empty his mind and let himself fall into that semihypnotic state, lulled by the rhythmic pounding of jogging shoes.
His pace was even; the only thing that ever changed was the intensity of the pounding, varying upon the surface he traversed. The soft, hollow thud of earth was interrupted by the more solid connection of asphalt, which in turn gave way to cement and the crunch of gravel.
Gravel was his least favorite because the sound wasn't as clean.
His head was always full of clutter that served no purpose other than to confuse him and complicate his thought processes. Running helped. Running for him was the equivalent of defragmenting his hard drive. By the end of the day, he usually felt pretty level, pretty good about things, but with each morning came a fresh wave of clutter and the desperate need to purge himself.