Fuzzy Navel

9:08 P.M.
HERB

“WHERE IN THE HELL is your partner?”

Herb stares at Blake Crouch, Chicago ’s deputy chief, and says, “I don’t know.”

Crouch resembles a mole, with a long, sharp nose and tiny black eyes. Came from out of state, so he didn’t rise up through the ranks like much of the brass. Because of this, Herb suspects, Crouch thought he had to be a hard-ass to gain respect. Hence his nickname, Deputy Grouch. Someone needed to lecture this man about flies and honey and vinegar. Someone other than Herb, who spent an hour getting stitches in his leg and then even longer tap dancing with the Grouch in the ER, waiting for Jack to return.

Herb had called Jack on her cell and at home, several times each. No answer. Which worries him. Jack is the poster girl for being responsible. Being incommunicado isn’t like her at all.

“I’m going to send a team to the lieutenant’s apartment,” the Grouch says. “If I find out she’s deliberately hiding something…”

Herb shakes his head, his jowls wiggling.

“She’s not hiding anything, sir. It went down like I said.”

“I still need her statement. There’s blood in the water, and the sharks are circling the wagons.”

Herb has no idea what that means, and he guesses the Grouch doesn’t either. But he can’t let the deputy chief find out that Jack lives outside the city.

“She’s not at her apartment,” Herb says. “She’s with her mother. Her elderly, sickly mother.”

“Her mother is sick?” the Grouch asks.

“Very sick.”

“Which hospital is she in? I can meet-”

“She’s sick in the head,” Herb says.

“Is it pyromania?” the Grouch asks.

“Huh?”

“I had an aunt with pyromania. She’d knit sweaters, then set them on fire.”

Herb tries to judge if the Grouch is being funny, but he sees a tear in the corner of the man’s eye.

“I think she’s just failing mentally,” Herb says. “Jack ran out to the suburbs to check on her.”

“Do you know where?”

Herb shakes his head. The Grouch gets in close, so close his pointy nose almost touches Herb’s. Herb rears back slightly, afraid he’ll lose an eye.

“I will bring your partner before a disciplinary committee if I don’t hear from her within the hour. So if you have any clue where she might be, Sergeant, I suggest you find her.”

“Jack saved lives today,” Herb says, his voice steady.

“I don’t care if she saved the mayor’s daughter from being eaten by sharks…”

What is with this guy and sharks?

“… I want her debriefed right now. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Herb says.

The Grouch backs off a few feet.

“Good. Now I’ve got to talk to the media. They’re having a field day with their cockamamie theories.”

“Are they jumping the shark?” Herb asks innocently.

The Grouch doesn’t respond, already walking away from Herb’s hospital bed. Herb looks for nurses, then discreetly picks up his cell phone, which isn’t allowed in the ER. He can’t reach Jack at either number.

Herb knows his partner well. If Jack’s phones are off, that means something really serious is happening, something so serious it is making Jack neglect her responsibility here. Though Herb made up the story about Jack’s mother failing mentally, he knows she has some health problems. Could that be what’s taking Jack so long?

Herb tries the two hospitals nearest to Jack’s suburban home. Neither has admitted Mary Streng, or any elderly Jane Doe. He calls Dispatch, has them check suburban 911 calls. While he’s on hold, he digs into his pocket stock and eats a power bar. For energy. He considers drinking the bag full of bran-fortified breakfast shake, but dismisses the idea. Dispatch comes back, informs Herb there haven’t been any calls from Jack’s house.

The Novocain numbness makes it difficult to put his pants back on because he can’t feel if his leg is in the hole, and he can’t really see it either, thanks to a belly forged by de cades of poor dietary choices. But he manages, and then he straps on his empty holster – IA took his gun to rule out friendly fire from the crime scene – and puts his jacket on.

Then Sergeant Herb Benedict heads to the suburbs to find his partner.