Would David do it?
David Dean whistled a patriotic tune as he strolled up town from the park.
David Dean, without a remote control, had difficulty with the TV and these two old fogies were out surfing the net like a couple of Silicon Valley youngsters.
"If it isn't candidate David Dean," Fitzgerald said, not even trying to warm the ice in his voice.
David, six weeks ago I thought I might be pregnant!
Silly David Dean for thinking more time might be needed to put all these pesky details to rest.
Even David Dean, although he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut in front of his wife, was forced to cross every finger of both hands.
Cynthia wasn't finished, but now her sole audience was David Dean.
David, we talked about that.
"Why don't you just ask the boys, David?" his wife said.
"David Dean," he said.
It was the same when I was young, David thought.
David Dean was hanging patriotic bunting by dawn's early light when Cynthia finished setting out the usual assortment of pastries for the guests and joined her husband for the short walk to the Community Center.
I'm David Dean— but I guess you already know that.
After a switchback, they crossed the bridge over a deep gorge, the location of Ouray's now-melted ice climbing park where David Dean had almost lost his life the prior winter.
Either Cynthia's presence relaxed her or she'd decided David Dean was not a combatant from the enemy camp.
The women looked frightened, Faust actually ducked, and David Dean moved to the cover of a nearby boulder, pulling his wife along with him.
Dean was directed to spend all available weekend time on a door to door smiling and handshaking crusade, the first of many Fred had mapped out for his full-court press for making David Dean the sheriff of Ouray County, Colorado.
David was knee deep in a can't-put-down-able James Lee Burke mystery, while Cynthia plodded through her zillion-page saga, a real flower-presser in Dean's mind.
It was a shock for David Dean to see Fred O'Connor sitting on a wooden stool behind bars at the Ouray County jail.
David Dean harbored serious doubts about leaving Lydia Larkin's apartment without either contacting the police or calling an ambulance—or maybe a lawyer.
But as many times as David Dean considered picking up the telephone, it remained snuggled in its cradle unless Cynthia was answering it.
Then he smiled, no doubt remembering past times with David Dean—times he regretted similar words.
Just count your blessings he's out of the running and now you're a slam-dunk to become Sheriff David Dean.
Fred O'Connor and David Dean kept close tabs on the New Jersey nuptials via telephone.
Later, David Dean called Lydia—from bed after making love to his wife.
Officer David said in tones as sweet as they were bitter toward her.
"Officer David --" she began in earnest.
She paused near the end and turned back to see both Officer David and the woman watching her with disapproving looks and crossed arms.
Ms. Young, I'm David Kingsly, from Kingsly Enterprises.
"David," he said with another smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Detective David Dean sat in the Parkside Pennsylvania Police Headquarters with his feet in his lower desk drawer.
David Dean was 38 years old and the only unmarried detective.
Dean itched to ask her how she was so sure it wasn't Mr. David Dean who dropped her hubby into space but she began to sob anew, making any further conversation impossible.
By my read, all the police are doing is making a case against David Dean.
"Vote for David Dean, ace detective," Weller said with a grin as he pulled himself from the chair.
Might have Shipton faked the accident in some sick attempt to place the blame on David Dean whom he obviously despised?
Me and David here will have the place running as smooth as a Shanghai subway.
All these guys want to talk about is David Dean.
And what Cynthia Byrne might have become in a different century, under different circumstances, without a David Dean beside her.
A six-footer, like David Dean was a veritable giant from her reduced point of reference.
Not a bad haul for what David called a pile of junk!