she was neither alone nor wearing flannel

It wasn't his phone that woke him, and it wasn't his bed. It was the voice of Joey Kowalczyk that started to pull things into focus for Littlegirlcop. He was Joseph around the DA's office, Joe to his friends. He didn't look like someone many people called Joey. A balding bullish head sitting on big shoulders, no neck to speak of, a barrel chest and a small belly, his mustache looked like it was out of the late 1800's. In court it gave the 37 year old the look and authority of someone's grandfather. Murphy just liked the way it felt. 

"Yeah... yup... yeah... Any idea who it was?... Anyone see it?... OK... fifteen minutes." He pushed the end-call button and put down his phone. "some geek got himself murdered near Sixth Street, you want to ride along?"

"Yeah," Murphy said, still a bit groggy, shaking off the sleep. He didn't make a habit of sleeping with married men, let alone accompanying them to crime screens, but he'd known Joey a long time, and the Kowalczyk's arrangement was know. They had three rule. Don't ask don't tell. Only when the other was out of town. Not with anyone in their social circle. Joey's wife Denise was back in New York for some business and some theater, so most likely she was neither alone nor wearing anything flannel.

The two men got up, bumped into each other around the toilet peeing, then sorted through the scattered clothes, dressing as they went, each looking for about the same thing in about the same size. They located their watches, keys and phones and headed out the door, down the stairs to Joey's green Landrover. On the drive across town, Murphy took advantage of the red light on Mission and Seventh for one last mustached kiss.