Detective David Dean had been seeing Attorney Ethel Rosewater three or four times a month for more than two years.
Small talk progressed to let's-go-someplace-else and before Dean knew it, he was between Ethel Rosewater's white silk sheets.
If Dean had been entirely honest with himself, he would have admitted he considered Ethel Rosewater a social-climbing, ambulance-chasing bitch.
But in spite of her lack of beauty, Ethel Rosewater was hell on wheels in bed.
He felt like a packaged pound of dog meat after slightly less than three hours sandwiched in his warm and comfortable bed between Ethel Rosewater's last frenzied spasm of pleasure and the screaming alarm clock.