Beneath a Weeping Sky

NINETEEN

Wednesday, May 8th

Day Shift

0909 hours

Detective John Tower tapped his pen against his knee. A half-cup of coffee, long cold, stood next to his open case file, but instead of looking at the contents of the file, Tower stared at the picture of Stephanie on the corner of his desk.

He wondered how he’d like it if it had been his girlfriend that had been attacked by the Rainy Day Rapist, only to have the case assigned to a complete moron like himself.

No, he corrected himself. Better yet, what if she were the next victim in line, relying on him to catch the guy before he was able to assault her?

Tower sighed. He dropped the pen on top of the case file and rubbed his eyes.

You can’t afford self-pity right now, John. Get your ass to work.

He opened his eyes again and paged through the case file. Nothing new jumped out at him on this, easily his hundredth time through the file contents.

Strike one.

None of the calls into the police tip line had resulted in anything of value, even though he’d run down anything remotely promising. They all just led down blind alleys, unfortunately. Most of the tips were the result of the Mr. Every Other White Guy composite that Lieutenant Crawford had released to the media. He’d spent countless hours contacting men who tipsters had been certain were “that guy on the news,” only to know within moments that it wasn’t the Rainy Day Rapist. Still, he had to interview each of them, get their alibi and then confirm it. That took time, but yielded no results.

Strike two.

On the scientific side of the house, there was nothing in the way of useful forensics that might help to identify the suspect.

Strike three.

There’d been no rapes or attempted rapes since the threats made against MacLeod a week and a half ago. While he was glad that was the case, there was a single positive to another criminal event — the potential for evidence.

Tower shook his head at his own morbidity. What kind of a sick bastard wished for a rape to happen just so he might have a shot at some additional evidence? It was stupid, anyway. This guy had been careful. There were no witnesses except the victims themselves and they didn’t see much that helped identify the bad guy.

On top of that, there hadn’t been a whisper of activity at MacLeod’s house during the surveillance by officers there. No appearances by the rapist there or anywhere while she was on patrol. Chisolm reported no suspicious activity at the hotel they were staying at, either. That led to amateur hour, with Lieutenant Crawford trying to convince him that the Rainy Day Rapist had hopped a train out of River City. He wanted to shut down the operation.

So what did that make it? Strike four? Five?

Tower decided to dump the baseball analogy. Instead, he imagined this to be a back-alley scrap. One with no rules other than the most basic rules of conflict — never give up and the last man standing wins.

He wasn’t going to quit. He was going to find the son of a bitch.

He reached for the small stack of tips and leafed through them. All were vague and unlikely candidates. He decided to pass them back to Crawford. The lieutenant would give them to Finch and Elias to run down, which was fine by Tower. Let those glory boy homicide dicks do a little work for someone else for a change, instead of the other way around.

Tower half-chuckled, half-snorted at his own thoughts.

Jeez, am I really turning into that big of an asshole?

Rather than study that question any further, he reached for the list of license plates that the surveillance officers had jotted down. At his request, they’d noted any cars that pulled onto Calispel during surveillance, as well as cars parked a block in either direction. It was a long shot, but at this point, he didn’t have much else.

Systematically, he began running the license plate numbers through the Department of Licensing computer. That gave him the registered owner. If it were a male, he’d run that male through the criminal database. He’d also run a history on the address and get any other male names from that, which he’d also run through the criminal database. Anyone with a criminal record would be a nice start, but he figured he should look hard at anyone whose car didn’t belong in the neighborhood by virtue of living there. Maybe the Rainy Day Rapist had driven by to case MacLeod’s house.

As he worked, he thought about the women who’d been victimized in this case. While his analytical mind worked on the license plate data, he let the unconscious part of his mind drift over the names.

Heather Torin.

Patricia Reno.

Maureen Hite.

Wendy Latah.

How were they different?

How were they the same?

How did he pick them? Was it coincidence or design?

Tower kept tapping information into the computer, reviewing the returns. Both sides of his brain whirred with activity, but the only thing that he knew for sure was that the Rainy Day Rapist was getting progressively more violent. Tower was pretty certain that if he didn’t find the suspect before he struck again, the news media was going to have to change his name to the Rainy Day Killer.

Graveyard Shift

2129 hours

“So?” Matt Westboard asked Katie as soon as they were clear of the basement of the police station.

“So what?” she replied from the passenger seat, but she knew what he was asking.

“How are you holding up?” Westboard asked.

Katie gave a long, irritated sigh. “Please, Matt. Not you, too, okay?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Katie watched the scenery of River City’s West Central neighborhood flit by. The smaller single-family homes were some of the older houses in the city. It was easy for Katie to tell which were owned and which were rentals, as the well-tended lawns and neatly painted homes alternated with the overgrown yards and houses with chipped, peeling walls. She greatly preferred working up in Hillyard instead, even though the scene there was much the same, just with homes from the 1950s instead of the 1920s. But since Westboard was driving, his choice as to where they’d patrol was pretty much the default. Maybe she’d suggest they give Hillyard a try later in the shift.

“How’s Putter doing?” she asked, changing the subject.

Westboard smiled knowingly. “Your cat’s doing fine. He likes to sleep on the recliner in my living room.”

“And you let him?”

Westboard snorted. “He’s a cat. Like I can tell him what to do.”

“I don’t let him sleep on the furniture,” Katie objected lightly.

“Yeah, well, he’s a guest, so he gets special privileges at my house.”

Katie shrugged. “Your call. I hate to see how spoiled your kids will be one day, though.”

Westboard didn’t answer. After a few moments of silence, he repeated his earlier question. “What’d you mean before?”

Katie turned her head, facing the other officer. There was no sense of guile about him. She felt momentarily guilty for including him with most of the others. While they didn’t hang out away from work, Westboard had proven to be a good friend on duty. He probably didn’t deserve any attitude.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” she said. “It’s just been a frustrating week.”

“Not enjoying your vacation with Chisolm?”

She shrugged. “That part isn’t so bad. Tom’s a nice guy. He gives me my space when I need it, but he’ll hang out with me if I’m in the mood. We’ve watched Jeopardy just about every night. He’s pretty good at it.”

“That comes with getting old,” Westboard joked. “Pretty soon, Alzheimer’s will kick in and that streak will end.”

“Maybe. But he’s been cool through all of this. I mean, I’m sure there’s someplace he’d rather be.”

Westboard grinned and said nothing.

Katie noticed the grin. “What?”

Westboard shrugged and shook his head. “Nothing.”

She figured it out then. “My God, Matt. You’re as bad as the others.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he protested.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t,” he repeated.

“You didn’t have to,” she repeated back. “You guys are all alike. So does everyone else think the same thing?” She imagined it were so, but had held out a futile hope that maybe, just maybe some of her co-workers would give her the benefit of the doubt. Or Chisolm, for that matter.

Westboard glanced over at her. “Oh, you mean does everyone think you and Chisolm are fooling around?”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. Duh.”

“I don’t know. Probably a few. That’s not what I meant, though.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not. Honest.”

Katie frowned at him. “Really?”

He gave her an emphatic nod. “Really.”

“What did you mean, then?”

Westboard turned on Nettleton Street, slowing to a crawl. He scanned the sidewalks as he drove. “All I meant was that I don’t think there’s anywhere else Chisolm would rather be than protecting you. That’s it.”

Katie narrowed her eyes, thinking. “That’s almost the same thing.”

“Not even close.”

“Saying that Tom and I are shacking up at the hotel and saying that there’s no place he’d rather be than shacking up is pretty much the same thing, Matt.”

“That would be,” Westboard agreed. “But that’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“Okay, then it’s not what I was referring to.”

“Then what?”

Westboard stopped for the stop sign at Boone. He turned to look at Katie before answering. “I’m just saying that the kind of guy Chisolm is, being on a protection detail for a platoon mate is probably his idea of heaven.”

“I doubt it.”

“Come on, Katie. That’s exactly what drives the guy. You ever hear him talk about anything away from work?”

“No, but neither do you.”

Westboard shook his head. “Sure, I’m private, but at least you know when I’ve gone to Mexico on vacation or seen a baseball game. I told you when I bought a new truck. Chisolm ever talk about something like that? Does he ever talk about anything?”

Katie considered. She had to concede that Westboard had a valid argument. Even in the ten days they’d spent in adjacent rooms at the hotel, Chisolm had shared little in the way of personal information. “You could have a point,” she admitted.

“I know,” he said, crossing Boone and cruising slowly. “And that point is what I meant.”

“Sorry, then.”

“Apology accepted. Now, answer the rest of the question.”

“I forgot the question.” She pointed at a house on the corner of Nettleton and Sinto. Two different insulation brand names were plastered across the unfinished outside of the structure. “That place has been waiting for siding for two years now.”

Westboard grunted that he knew, then gave her an impatient wave of his hand.

Katie sighed. “All right. It’s just that this last week has sucked. I’m holed up at the hotel on my off time. Then I have to ride with someone every day at work.”

“How has it been partnering up?”

Katie shrugged and glanced out the window. She saw a long-haired man in jeans and some kind of heavy metal T-shirt raking his small lawn under the harsh yellow porch light. He noticed the police car cruising by, stopped and stared. Katie raised her hand in a small wave. The man didn’t wave back, but continued to stare defiantly at them as the car rolled past.

“Nice to have your support,” Katie muttered to the closed window.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Katie said, turning away from the window. “Riding partners has been…interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

“Well, for starters, Battaglia hit on me all night long.”

Westboard’s eyebrows shot up. “No way.”

She nodded slowly. “Yep. That was ten hours of the married man waltz.”

“Ouch. I wouldn’t have figured that about him. Sully, too, then?”

“No. Actually, Sully went too far the other way, making sure that I didn’t take anything he said as a come on.”

Westboard’s face bore a surprised expression. “I wouldn’t have figured that, either.”

Katie laughed lightly. “It was kind of cute, but kind of annoying, too. And then when we ended up riding together two days in a row, it was even worse the second day.”

“Who would’ve known the twins were actually so different?”

Katie waved his comment away. “Ah, they were both pining away for the other by midnight, anyway.” She faked a deep voiced, Italian accent. “I wonder what Sully’s doing on that call. Let’s go see if he needs any help.”

Westboard laughed at her impression.

Katie shifted into a light, Irish lilt. “Let’s check up on Batts, lass. Just in case he needs some assistance.”

“That’s pretty good,” laughed Westboard. “I think you have them nailed.”

She shook her head in mock disgust. “It’s like they were going through withdrawals or something.”

“So how about Kahn?”

Katie wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Too much aftershave and too much bragging. All night long.”

“Figured that one. And Chisolm?”

“Chisolm was…Chisolm.”

“And now,” Westboard pronounced in a grand tone and a stately wave, “you have moi.”

Katie laughed at his pomp. “It’s not the company that sucks,” she said, although that wasn’t entirely true. Kahn’s braggadocio and not so subtle hints disgusted her as much as Battaglia’s flirting surprised her. But she was a big girl. She could deal with those things. “The part that bothers me is that I’m being treated like some kind of china doll. Like I have to be protected or I’ll break.”

Westboard shrugged. “Pretty big stuff that happened to you. And those threats…”

“Fine,” Katie conceded. “But I still don’t think they’d have gone to this extreme if I was a man.”

Westboard’s only reply was to continue rolling slowly forward through West Central. Finally, he asked her, “Does it matter?”

A warm spike of anger flared in Katie’s gut. “Of course it matters!”

“Why?”

“Would you like it if they treated you different”?

“No,” Westboard whispered. “I wouldn’t.”

“Neither do I,” Katie answered.

Afterward, they drove in silence for a long while, thinking.

Thursday, May 8th

Day Shift

1018 hours

Captain Michael Reott opened the office window. He reached out through the slanted opening and caught some of the cascading rain on his hands. Then he wiped the cool water on his face and the back of his neck.

“You should leave that open,” Lieutenant Crawford told him.

“Why’s that?”

“Get some fresh air in here,” Crawford said. “This office reeks of cigars. If the Chief ever comes in here — ”

“The Chief of Police doesn’t care if I smoke a cigar in my office. I’d be more worried if some smoking Nazi from City Hall came knocking.”

Crawford shrugged and stirred his coffee. “Leave it open, anyway, Mike. The cool air is nice.”

Reott agreed and left the window open. He sat down at his desk, reached into the drawer and removed a package of Rolaids. “Now I know why they pay us more than the line troops,” he said, holding up the antacids. “I bet I spend a thousand bucks a year on these little bastards.”

He removed two and popped them into his mouth.

Crawford chuckled. “That’s not why they pay us more, and you know it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Reott said, crushing the chalky tablets with his molars. “I guess they pay us because we’re the ones who have to make the tough decisions.”

“That’s some of it.”

“Some? What’s the rest, then?”

Crawford raised his eyebrows. “They didn’t teach you this at the FBI National Academy?”

Reott waved his comment away. “You want to tell me, then tell me. But don’t break my balls.”

“Fine. They do pay us more to make the tough decisions. But the thing is, most every one of those decisions will probably piss someone off, right?”

Reott half nodded, half shrugged in agreement.

“Of course it will,” Crawford continued. “It’ll piss off the citizens, or it’ll piss off the patrol cops. Or the detectives. It might even go the other direction and piss off your boss or God forbid, the Mayor. Point is, if it doesn’t piss somebody off, then it probably wasn’t such a tough decision.”

“Agreed. So what?”

“So,” Crawford continued, “if a good leader makes tough decisions and if making those tough decisions pisses people off, then pretty soon you’ll have pissed off enough people that pretty much no one will like you anymore.”

“You’re saying that we get a little more pay in case people start disliking us?”

“No,” Crawford corrected. “I’m saying that they inevitably will. And dislike is a weak word.”

“Oh?”

“The more accurate word is hate. They’ll end up hating you for it. As a leader, you’ll eventually become something of an outcast. When that social ostracizing happens, there’s only one thing left to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Drink.”

Reott blinked. “Drink?”

Crawford nodded. “Yep. What else are you going to do? Stop making those decisions? Start making decisions based on how popular it’ll make you?” He shook his head. “No. All you can do is say fuck it, and have a drink.”

Reott sighed. “You’re on quite a downer jag these days.”

“That’s life. You ought to be used to it, Captain.”

“I’m still trying to get my mind wrapped around your point,” Reott said, frowning. “The added pay is because I might become an alcoholic?”

“How’d you get to be a captain with that little brain?” Crawford asked, a roguish grin forming under his moustache.

“I took a Civil Service exam.”

“Ah, that explains a lot.”

“You made lieutenant the same way,” Reott reminded him.

“True, but at least I’ve figured out why it came with a pay raise.”

“So you can drink more?”

“No.” Crawford shook his head. “So that when you’re sitting alone at your house with no friends anywhere to be seen, crying in your cups, at least you can commiserate with a little bit finer brand of booze.”

Reott let out a long, knowing chuckle. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“It’s true.”

“I know,” Reott said, still laughing.

Crawford smiled and drank his coffee.

Reott allowed himself a few more quiet chuckles, thinking of the two bottles of seventeen year old Glengoyne single malt Scotch whisky at home in his cupboard. He’d dropped over a hundred bucks for the two of them right before Christmas last year, so maybe Crawford had a point.

His laughter tapered off. He resumed chewing his Rolaids and swallowed. When he’d finished, he leaned back in his chair. “So where are we on this rapist?”

“We’re nowhere,” Crawford replied.

“Aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine?”

Crawford shrugged. “It is what it is. Tower hasn’t come up with anything. The victims didn’t see anything. The forensics is a bust.”

“What about the composite sketch?”

“Tons of responses, just like I expected.”

“And?”

“And Tower ran them all down. Most of them, anyway. I’ve got Finch and Elias running down some of the others, along with the other dicks in Sexual Assault.”

“But no luck,” Reott concluded.

“No luck,” Crawford said.

“Which leaves us with what?”

“It leaves us with nothing,” Crawford said, the frustration in his voice apparent.

“We can’t keep MacLeod in limbo like this forever,” Reott said. “How long has it been?”

“Only a week and a half.”

“I’ll bet ‘only’ isn’t a word MacLeod would use to describe it.”

Crawford shrugged. “You want my take on this?”

“I didn’t ask you in here for your theories on police pay scales.”

Crawford ignored the jest. “I think he’s moved on.”

“You mean left River City?”

“Yes. I think that when things got too hot, he packed up and moved on.”

Reott looked at Crawford, appraising the Investigative Lieutenant’s words. Finally, he said, “The investigation part of this is your call. I don’t know if I agree with your theory, but it’s your call to make.”

“I know.”

“But I’m curious why you think this guy’s gone.”

“He was on a rampage, Mike. He couldn’t control himself. Then he almost gets caught. Now there hasn’t been a stranger rape for two weeks.”

“That’s not very long.”

“He raped two of them one day apart,” Crawford pointed out, shaking his head. “No, this guy is compulsive. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried.”

“What does Tower think?”

“All he cares about is catching the guy. He’s not going to admit the possibility that this suspect is out of his reach.”

“Did you talk to the Prosecutor?”

“Yes. Patrick Hinote said he doesn’t have an opinion on the matter. He’s more concerned that if we do find the guy, he gets a call right away. Unless the evidence in this case opens up, a conviction is going to be tough.”

“How about his team?” Reott asked. “They seemed pretty hard core during that meeting we had.”

“I don’t know. That’s Hinote’s problem and he said he’d handle it.”

Reott sighed. “Sounds like just about everyone is ready to give up. I don’t like that idea.”

“It’s not giving up, Mike.”

“What would you call it?”

“Re-allocating our assets,” Crawford replied immediately.

“Does that include the MacLeod detail?”

“They’re your people, but I’d say yes.”

Reott pursed his lips in thought. “What if this guy is just waiting for us to do exactly that? What if he’s been watching for that this entire time?”

Crawford met Reott’s eyes with his own steady gaze. “Well, if that’s the case, then it will still be true no matter when we pull the plug on this detail, won’t it?”

Reott thought about it for several long moments. He rose from his chair and walked back to the window. Reaching through the opening, he let the thick spring raindrops pepper his palms. Then he wiped the cool water on his face and neck again. “Is this one of those tough decisions we were talking about earlier?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else.

Crawford answered anyway.

“Only if you make the wrong one,” the lieutenant said.

1804 hours

Tower glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after six already, which put him an hour past quitting time.

He didn’t care.

Lieutenant Crawford informed him earlier that afternoon that both the surveillance and the protection details were being pulled. He took the news in stride, knowing that there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Moreover, he struggled to find fault with the decision. That didn’t stop him from being pissed off about it.

Listlessly, he flipped through the three most recent tips. He found nothing interesting, so he reached for another license plate and tapped the information into the computer. As he waited for the return, his telephone rang.

He snatched the receiver off the hook, hoping it was something helpful. “Tower,” he barked.

“John? It’s Stephanie.”

Disappointment settled into Tower’s chest. Was he ever going to catch a break?

“Oh. Hey.”

“Don’t sound so enthused,” she chided gently.

“Just busy, babe. What’s up?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering when you’d be home. I was thinking of cooking some steaks.”

Tower felt a pang of guilt. “I, uh, I don’t know exactly,” he said.

Stephanie was quiet on the other end of the line. Then she said, “John, just come home. We’ll have some steak and some wine and then I’ll take you to bed.”

“That sounds good,” Tower admitted. In fact, it sounded very good.

“Great,” she said. “Then I’ll see you soon?”

Tower looked at her picture on his desk, then at the open case file. The stack of license plates next to the case file were his best lead right now, probably his only lead. He should probably finish them before calling it a night. But that would take hours.

“Steph, I don’t know. I’ve got these license plates to check through — ”

“They’ll still be there in the morning, right?”

Tower sighed. “Give me a couple of hours and I’ll be home.”

Stephanie was silent a moment, then sighed herself. “Okay, John. Your couple of hours usually turns into all night, but okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” she said, and hung up.

He stared at the receiver for a few moments afterward, shaking his head to himself. What was he doing? He was going to screw things up with this woman if he didn’t pull things together pretty fast. Most women would have probably already called no joy and split.

Tower hung up the telephone and turned to back to his stack of license plates. The computer let out a soft ding. He took a look at the vehicle registration return.

Goodkind, Jeffrey A.

Tower suppressed a sigh. That certainly didn’t sound like a serial rapist to him, but he’d dig into Mr. Goodkind a little bit just the same, exactly like he had all the others.

Time for another trip down another blind alley.

“Working late, John?”

Tower turned toward the voice behind him. Ray Browning stood near his desk, a light jacket slung over his shoulder.

“Just trying to find the piece that breaks things open,” Tower said.

Browning nodded knowingly. He settled into the chair at the empty desk opposite Tower. “You want a little help?”

Tower shook his head. “Thanks, Ray, but no. Take off. You’ve got a family to get home to.”

“Don’t you have a Stephanie?”

“She’s a big girl,” Tower said. “She understands.”

Browning nodded again. He adjusted the small wire frames on his nose and observed in a quiet voice, “Be careful you don’t take advantage of that, you know?”

Tower cocked an eyebrow at him. “So what, you’re a relationship counselor now?”

“No,” Browning said. “Just someone who has gone before telling a fellow traveler about the dangers of the road ahead.”

“That sounds more like Buddha than a counselor,” Tower remarked dryly.

Browning let out a small chuckle. “Well, if it helps, I don’t care if it makes me sound like Bobcat Goldwhaite.”

“Point taken, Ray. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And the offer’s open, if you want the help.”

Tower shook his head again. “No, it’s all right. There’s nothing but grunt work here anyway.”

“I’ve done plenty of that.”

“Boring grunt work,” Tower corrected, then added, “that doesn’t net anything.”

“Done that, too.”

Tower smiled grimly. “I’ll bet you have. But really, I’m just going to run a few more of these registered owners and then I’ll head home.”

Browning nodded, but Tower could tell the older detective knew he was lying. He must have understood Tower’s angst, though, because he had the decency not to call him on the lie. Instead, he rose to leave.

“You should go home, too,” he told Tower. “Those plates will still be there in the morning.”

“That’s what Stephanie said.”

“She’s right. Besides,” Browning added, “if you leave them for tomorrow, you’ll be fresher when you look at them. Detail work like that, you don’t want to miss anything.”

Tower nodded, but made no move to leave.

Browning gave him a warm smile. He slipped his arms into his jacket. As he adjusted it around his shoulders, he said, “You know, John, when you find this guy, he’s not going to live up to your expectations.”

“I don’t have any expectations. I just want to stop him.”

Browning’s smile widened. “Don’t kid a kidder,” he said. “This guy has brutally raped at least four women. He assaulted a police officer. He’s gotten more violent every time out. Has the teacher come out of her coma yet?”

“No,” Tower whispered. “She’s still unresponsive.”

Browning raised his eyebrows and nodded. “And he’ll be even worse the next time.”

“Probably.”

“So when you find him, you’ll expect him to be some evil, maniacal genius. You already half-imagine him to be a man capable of sprouting horns on his head and spitting fire from a forked, demonic tongue.”

“That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

“Barely,” Browning said. He reached up and stroked his graying goatee. “But the point is that no matter how much you’ve built him up, you are going to be disappointed in the end. That’s because what you’ll discover is that he is a sad, sick, flawed, insecure, inadequate creature who figured out how to do one thing well in life. When you take that away from him, all the rest of the bravado falls. All that’s left is the weakness.”

Tower stared at Browning. A sarcastic reply of “profound” died on his lips. Instead, he swallowed and thought about Browning’s words. Then he asked, “Is that how it is with you? With the murderers you investigate?”

Browning nodded slowly. “Every single one of them.”

Tower glanced back down at his open case file, then at his picture of Stephanie. When he looked back up at Browning, the older detective was still staring at him. His warm brown eyes radiated empathy.

“He’s just a man, John,” he said. Then he reached out and squeezed Tower on the shoulder. “Just a sick, sad man.”

Tower nodded his thanks.

Browning turned and made his way out of the Sexual Assault Unit.

Tower thought about it a moment longer. Then he decided that Detective Ray Browning was pretty much the best cop he knew, so he should listen to the man. He pushed the PRINT button on the computer, getting a copy of Mr. Jeffrey A. Goodkind’s registration information so that he could start with that particular blind alley again in the morning. Then he reached for the phone.

Stephanie answered on the second ring.

“Babe?” Tower asked.

“Yeah?”

“Put on the steaks,” he said, “and pour the wine.”

2048 hours

Graveyard Shift

Katie MacLeod laced up her patrol boots, cinching down the knot. She reached for her duty belt, strapping it around her waist. She slipped the thin leather belt keepers under her regular belt and around her duty belt to secure the two together. After a quick glance in the mirror to make sure she was presentable, she grabbed her patrol bag and left the locker room.

In the hallway that led down to the sally port in the basement, she dropped her bag. She’d pick it up after roll call on the way downstairs. She made her way toward the briefing room, but was intercepted by Lieutenant Saylor.

“MacLeod?” he said. “I need to see you for a second.”

Katie gave him a professional nod, but inside she suppressed a sigh.

What is it now? I’m going into the Witness Protection Program?

The two stepped into the conference room next to the sergeant’s office. Even after being on the job for five years, going into the so-called “spanking room” with a sergeant or lieutenant gave her a sense of unease in the pit of her stomach.

Saylor closed the door. He turned to face her. Up close, Katie could see the hard lines of his face. He always reminded her of a paradoxical cross between a kindly grandfather and a Marine drill instructor.

“It’s been a bit of a rough ride this last couple of weeks, hasn’t it?” he asked her.

“It’s been fine, sir,” Katie answered. Unconsciously, she found herself standing as straight as she could.

Saylor smiled slightly. “My experience has been that room service is only good for about a day or so. Usually less than that.”

Katie flashed to the tasteless sandwiches and soggy fries that she’d been subsisting on at the hotel. He’d hit the nail on the head. “It hasn’t been gourmet,” she admitted.

“Well, I’ve got some good news,” Saylor told her. “It’s over.”

“Over?”

Saylor nodded. “That’s the word from above.”

“Did they catch the guy?”

“No.”

Katie narrowed her eyes in thought. She wondered why this change of heart had occurred. “So I can check out of the hotel and go home?”

“Yes.”

“And I don’t have to ride with anyone tonight?”

Saylor shrugged. “I suppose that’s between you and Sergeant Shen. But there’s no directive from the Captain that says you have to.”

Katie stood in the small conference room, a mixture of emotions rushing through her. There was an overwhelming sense of relief and exhilaration at the situation ending and at returning to something akin to normal. At the same time, she experienced some hesitation and gnawing concern. “I wonder why now?” she asked aloud, more rhetorically than not.

Saylor answered anyway. “I think they figured he’d moved on.”

“You mean left River City?”

“Maybe. Or just emotionally. There’s been no sign of him these last two weeks, right?”

Katie shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then that’d be my guess.”

Katie wondered briefly why the Captain wouldn’t have explained things to Saylor in greater detail, but she long ago gave up trying to figure out how the Byzantine world of the brass functioned. Instead, she wondered if ‘they’ meant Detective Tower or if it meant the Captain and Lieutenant Crawford. Whoever it was, she wondered if ‘they’ were right.

“Are you all right, MacLeod?” Saylor asked.

Katie broke away from her contemplation. She nodded. “I’m fine, sir. Just happy to be back to normal.”