His nights were cold, even in the California climate. His Aerie was empty and gray, vaguely illuminated by the mercury vapor lights of Sacramento reflecting off the low hanging clouds and through the dirty, iron-framed windows.
An old wooden door and a well-used gymnastics mat covered with a scratchy wool blanket served as a bed. At its foot stood his empty crime board, all the pictures and notes taken down and burned.
It wasn't so much that the world was cold. It was his existence that was cold.
One day Red John would be dead. Then his existence would change.
His nights were warm, lovely as California could produce. Their apartment together was full of bright art, photos of friends, even a tropical fish tank. They had a cleaning lady who came because law enforcement kept them away from home for long stretches at a time.
It kept them away together, however. They were chasing regular criminals now; ones that didn't plant spies or kill friends. Making friends became easier, too; they made many. A pre-natal class, dinner with neighbors, an evening out with just the two of them.
Red John was dead. His life had changed to the better.