abalone-shell wings cast splintered rainbows as they flutter uncontrollably/don’t bother to record the morse code/jagged metal whistles through the air/sings past needle-pricked skin/you wonder, can butterflies feel pain?/or do they find half-rimmed contentment in apathy and ignorance?/mechanical whirring of iridescent wings/turns unsteady and faint/how similar it sounds to jaundiced breaths/is there a point when desperate voices stop crying for help?/the tsunami of pity threatens to break past your stone dam/so weak, so small, so insignificant/glimmering jewels no longer glint in the sun/they ring opaque and hollow in your eardrums/aim for the abdomen so you can preserve the wings/useless, but once pretty, between pages of mildewed journals/and pretend you don’t hear/the thud of the knife.

I’ve been happily married for nearly four years now, happily together for nearly eleven.

When you’re single, you resent happy couples, and I get that; however, when you’re a couple, you get tired of listening to single people whine as well.

The most vexing comment we often hear is, “Oh, you two are so lucky.”

Lucky?

Is that what you think?

Was it luck that both of us spent most of our lives focused on our own personal development, goals, careers, and sense of self/center before we ventured forth to find a prospective partner?

Was it luck that both of us spent hours - I don’t even want to recount - plugging away at online dating site questionnaires, reading profiles, messaging sometimes for nothing, blocking unwanted advances, and sifting through potential partners like finding a needle in a haystack?

Was it luck that we put ourselves out there on dates, bad and good, trying to make a connection multiple times until we finally did?

Was it luck that we spent our first year together miserable and fighting, putting in so much energy just to make it that we barely held together?

Was it luck that we continue to spend hours talking things out, arguing, making up, compromising, and acknowledging that our lives are no longer our own?

Oh, sweet lonely fools - if you think romance is all about luck or even some twist of fickle fate, then I would have to say you’re doing it wrong.

Love is work. Love is committment. Love is hard.

The only part luck has to play in it is finding someone else who agrees on those points, when the world likes to think we’re just magical Oreo cookies looking for our missing halves to make us whole. Even in this, your results in finding someone can only be as good as the effort you put into looking.

There are over 9 billion souls on this planet. The chances of not being able to get along with just one of them seem statistically ridiculous. The chance that one will fall on your lap if you don’t go out trying to meet them are also statistically ridiculous.

So if I was given a soap box to lecture on here’s what I’d say:

Pro Tip 1: You need to be a whole person before you go trying someone else on. If you think you need someone to complete you, fix you, or heal you, you’re probably doomed to disappointment. Only you can do those things. A partner is meant to provide balance/support, not life-sustaining mana.

Pro Tip 2: Ask. People. Out. Learn to accept rejection without taking it personally. I don’t care what gender you are either. You know those geeky characters like Howard from the Big Bang Theory, who try and fail so many times trying to flirt/pick someone up? Guess what they get right - they keep trying. As the motivational poster goes, “100% of the shots you don’t take don’t go in.”

Pro Tip 3: Relationships are meant to have disagreements. Your partner is not a picture perfect doormat ready to bow to your whims; they’re another intelligent, unique individual raised differently than you with different quirks, dislikes, vices, and pet peeves. The same goes for you. Learn to compromise and stop looking for “perfect” - instead, try looking for “persistent” and possibly “patient” as these hold up better over time.

These are just the rantings of a “lucky” old married soul, though. Take or leave them as you will.

But if you ever come around me and my spouse muttering the words “lucky”, just know that we have spent ten years as verbal sparring partners - and you have very little chance to survive us when we tag team.

Given the waning west wind would only increase, the way it always does in August out here, I feel no pressure but to sit and write more while listening to the waves churning into gargatuan frosted tipped whitecaps mulling the shoreline down the stairs that lead there. If you didn't know any better, you might be so inclined to think that magic is real when you see one of the sailboats traveling was into the wind, all the while its sails somehow (magically) going against the grain of the winds' momentum.

And maybe it is. Not one to speculate beyond the confines of the laptop sitting right in front of me, the written words leading me...somewhere, 'spose. Yet look at them go, cruising quickly into the protected waters of Sandy Cove off in the distance where, at night, all you can see are the lights atop all those masts jutting the horizon. An inclination that life is also there. A miniscule suggestion of an aquatic city sparkling and shimmering in the night, different from all those cottage lights dotting the shore.

It's not at all relatable to those floating marvels down off North Eluethra. Not one bit. Sitting on the balcony on the upper story of the rented pink house, I'd been drinking all evening by myself, thinking thoughts of how in the hell I could manage to live here and not back in Canada. Second trip was just like the first, except more lonely, more isolated, more of the same old running and hiding from what was waitin' for me back home, a meer 3 hour flight north.

Still, I'd been full of piss, ate spaghetti, watched the entire Carribean descend under a blanket of stars, and there...right there off the beach on the horizon was a city that hadn't been there before, as if goddamn Atlantis itself had risen again from myth into reality. Yes, my jaw dropped. Save for the fact that for a few brief moments what I was seeing, the image my eyes tried desperately to relay back to my brain, drunk, wasn't commuting, I thought maybe, just maybe, I'd witnessed magic.

Then, to the surprise of every single soul that I'd imagined to be standing in awe around me, pointing, exclaiming, staring in various states of incomprehensible marvelling at the great lost city risen once more, it starts to sink. The horizon swallows Atlantis once more, and she is gone forever again. I plant my ass in the sand, a land crap ducks into an overturned row boat on the shore, while I stare and think "you drunk son of a bitch."

Moments later It dawns on me that it was a cruiseliner on it's way west, maybe to the Florida coast, maybe not. But also dawning on me is that I'm too drunk, too unstable, too much of a wreck to be out this late on an island where I'm a guest, so I stumble back home up at the top of Tenth, and turn in.

Those mast lights stay put all night though. I watch them, the lowest stars in the sky never moving but always posing, poised for departure right before the sun rises and greets another day here in come-here-to-retire country.

I wish I was a girl

who could pull off

the lipstick shade

lady danger

I wish I was a girl

who could wear lipstick

and exude confidence,

having men for breakfast

leaving nothing but a trace

of that red deliciousness

I wish there was a makeup

that speaks about me

more than it pretends -

a truth,

not a mask

making dangerous assumptions

about who I am

“I’m dying.”

“We all are.”

He shakes his thin brown locks that don’t curl no matter how tangled and windswept they get, “You don’t get it.”

“Okay,” I toss loose pebbles down the low crested hill, “explain it to me.”

“You’re helping erosion by doing that,” he comments, gesturing to the small pile of rocks that have accumulated beneath us.

“And you’re getting grass stains on white jeans.”

Normally, he would stand up immediately and request we leave. Normally, he would chatsize me for distracting his train of thought. Normally, he would at least roll his eyes. Not this time.

“I’m dying.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Why don’t you care?”

“You’re not in a hospital, are you?” I ask a rhetorical question, he hates those. “And your hair isn’t falling out. And you’re only sixteen. And you don’t have any preexisting conditions. I’d assume you’re just over-exaggerating.”

“I’m not, I’m serious.”

Instantly, the mood changes. My fingers freeze over a medium sized gray rock with shiny minerals woven in. He doesn’t stop looking at my tennis shoes, blue vans with flowers that are stained with my blood from long ago. I focus on the rising sun. The clouds are lapis, cerulean almost. It’s a picturesque scene, the perfect backdrop for an ugly conversation.

“What happened?”

He doesn’t breathe for a moment, chest huddled in between sharp collarbones.

“I don’t like living.”

I want to laugh, say “welcome to the club,” and hear him join in with an easy smile. I don’t.

“Why not?”

“What’s the point?” He’s got that look in his eye that means he’s upset and has too many thoughts to communicate in one sentence. “Corona will never go away, school starts today, and I don’t wanna go back. The world government is in shambles according to a media that I don’t even know if I can trust anymore. My mom hasn’t spoken to me in two weeks, my dad wants me to be quiet, my sister locks herself in her room and watches Youtube videos she shouldn’t, and I haven’t seen my grandfather in a whole week.”

His voice dies off. With only one real grandparent left, he cherished the last few years they had left together. Being away from his grandfather would shatter him inside.

I expected him to continue, but he stopped.

“I get it.”

“Not really,” he scoffs.

“Stop.” I demand. “You need-”

He makes eye contact with me finally, to yell, “Don’t you dare tell me what I need!”

Tears prickle in my eyes. He almost looks sad before his stiff demeanor returns, guarding his real feelings. The bridge of his nose is crookedly pointed, aristocratic, Jane Austen would say. He’s got dandruff, but nobody would be able to tell in the golden glow of sunrise that makes everything seem perfectly imperfect in the best of ways.

“You’re doing it again,” he mutters, and I know what he means.

“Can’t help it, I have to make everything a story.”

I learned in sixth grade when I fought with my English teacher about proper grammar. She was always wrong, but who was I to argue with a superior? I wrote my own stories about horrific monsters who murdered schoolchildren with hanging participles and Oxford commas that will always be necessary to me. I wrote about Pluto and his strife with Jupiter, his struggle to be recognized. I learned that year to keep things to yourself like torn notebook paper and pencils shoved in Converse with stories flowing out of them. Pencils break at the hands of hatred. I made that up myself.

“Write me a story about a dying boy.”

“Writing about it makes it real. You’re not dying.”

It comes out harsher than intended, his wince proof of my carelessness. My fault.

“My mother denies it too,” he breathes slowly, in and out like afternoon waves, tide reaching back out, leaving me behind, “she’s scared.”

“People are scared of things like that.”

“I’m not afraid.”

He’s right. Never once have I seen him fearful or timid. Stubborn, annoying, practical, meticulous, whatever the opposite of wasteful is are all things I associate with him. But not fear.

“It’s a choice,” I try.

He rejects my attempt, “I’ve run out of choices.”

“When in doubt, pick C,” comedy has never been my strong suit.

“What if I ran out of questions?”

“Then erase a few and try again.”

“What if I ran out of time?”

“You’ve got as much time as you need.”

His shoulders hunch over again, like trees that bend and tug and pull with the wind but never break. Someday, I think he will. Not today.

I don’t have a watch, and my phone is in my bag. I assume it’s close to eight. I think we should leave, but I don’t want to. Neither does he.

“School starts today,” I comment offhandedly, still picking up pebbles but never dropping them.

I hear a sharp sigh, “Yeah, I’ve heard that three hundred times already.”

“Nervous?”

“Always.”

“Me too.”

“I have insomnia.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Me either.”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“Me either,” I express carefully, trying to keep both of us calm, “but the show’s never been bad enough to leave.”

“Sometimes, I want to leave the theater and give someone else my seat,” we talk in metaphors, a habit acquired from a year of writing slam poetry.

“But there’s still popcorn left in the bowl.”

“And the film’s not over,” he adds.

“And throwing away half a blue raspberry slushie is practically blasphemy.”

“And I spent two hours in there already, why would I leave now?”

“Oh, the woes of life,” we smile together, both painful and solemn like a reverend giving a sermon but childish and lopsided like in the excitement of the moment, we forgot to heave the other corner of our mouth up.

The sky is painted in pink hues with orange interlaced. The clouds are outlined in charcoal, and for a minute, I think I could touch them. For a minute, I want to fly. I want to bring him with me, so we could escape together like Icarus. But Icarus fell and something tells me that we would too. Oh, the woes of life.

To tell the truth,

I am a liar.

and liars lie

even when they tell the truth.

I am real

but I’m also fake

because

this is me

but the facts aren’t straight.

I tell the truth

often through lies

but it’s up to you

to read between the lines.

The wistful winter

all drunk in purple sherbet,

with choked tart of frozen larva

Awaiting on the brink of the sea coast

like the tea bag dipped in tea

for the evening’s supper and sundry toast.

Whisked in dull archaic thoughts,

under loose fit sweaters

and crafted home of hearth

with nut filled cake

and homemade rusk

loafed over the wooden plank.

The breeze of ocean

Or the wallow winter wind

knitting swiftly

through my coat and pores of iced face;

turning mangoes into grapes

and smoke into fog;

And with handful of idled inertia

I doze half-filled on rusk and toast.

\\

The Squad Room – 7:27 a.m.

The Twenty-Second Precinct was usually a roadmap of sights and sounds. Old men grumbling, a couple drunks protesting, someone always yelling for a lawyer, and others crying, “I didn’t do it!”

This morning, a pin could have dropped and would have been heard above all the noise. A special meeting was being held, by Captain Raymond Todd.

Usually, the standard meeting would be held by Rodgers or Satchell on a Sunday, but this morning was very different.

No morning cups of coffee being sipped; no doughnuts or other pastries would be wolfed down.

Captain Todd looked around the room, and he saw dozens of faces with a look of anger, rage, sadness, and desperation on their faces.

“Listen up. As you all know, not less than six hours ago, two of our own were brutally murdered while on duty. As of right now, we do not have any concrete evidence as to who the shooter or shooters are. What we do have is the type of round used. According to the ME, it appears to be a 7.62 mm; commonly referred to as NATO. The bullet fires at a range of two-hundred feet per second.”

Rodgers raised his hand. Captain Todd acknowledged him.

“Those types of rounds are more commonly used, or were used in the military with the AKA 47’s, weren’t they? Lightweight to carry, and there are drum magazines for them that can hold about a hundred rounds, I believe. It’s been said it can fire 600 rounds a minute.”

“You’re pretty much right. Total weight with a clip is roughly nine pounds. Being gas chambered and lightweight, it makes it a weapon easy to carry around. They’ve been used for years by many different countries. Makes me believe we are dealing with ex-military, and professionals with a serious hate for us.

“I’ve put out a feeler to all military installations to check and see if anything like this has been reported missing.” Todd scanned every face in the room.

“I know some of you were friends of Howarth and Ingstrum; this is why I’m issuing this order. If you come into contact with the shooter or shooters, do not try to apprehend them on your own. Follow SOP and call for immediate backup. Maintain your position. No one plays cowboy. Is that understood?”

He looked around the room and most everyone nodded their head in agreement.

“The FBI has offered their assistance. Our new Mayor, Brian Larson, has already been on the phone with the Governor, and has informed me that if necessary, we can use the National Guard to cordon off the entire city if need be.

“We will not let this son-of-a-bitch get away. Do I make myself clear? Any questions?”

Silence.

He looked over at Baker.

“You take it from here.”

Baker stood and walked to the front of the room.

“I am reassigning all of you. I don’t want any arguments on this. This will be on a rotating twenty-four-hour schedule. We mix up your routes, this may throw the shooter or shooters off. Expect until this is over, to have a new route every day.

“Lowery and McNeil, you’re on the south end. Klugston and Clausen, west end. Evans and Klugston, north end. Devon and Horton, east end. Prescott and Malloy, you take the malls. Lawson and Savage patrol the apartment buildings, churches, fire departments and such. Manning and Hinkle, I want you both to cover all the hotels and motels from here to Stanhouse, including those in Breckenridge, Elsmere, and Denton counties as well. Rodgers and Andrews, cruise the neighborhoods. The rest of you run your route. But don’t get too comfortable with it. It will change.

“Run your routes all day. Take a bag lunch with you. You only stop for bathroom breaks, a gas up, or a situation. Otherwise, the only time you get out of your car is when you get back to the station house and no other time.

“To back up what the Captain told you; do not play hero. If you do, your name could be on that plaque out in the main entrance with all the other men and women who gave their lives to serve, protect and defend our city, our neighbors, and our friends. And, each other.

“Now go out there and stay safe and keep our streets safe.”

The Captain spoke briefly as the meeting was breaking up.

“As to the rest of you, check your inbox’s that weren’t reassigned. You will find a special duty roster for each of you to follow for the next several weeks.”

As everyone was walking out of the briefing, Ed pressed himself toward Baker.

“Do you mind telling me why you broke the best damn team on the force apart?”

She looked up at him, not smiling.

“It’s for the betterment of the force, Ed. In case the shooter or shooters may have an inside handle on us. For all we know, they may know where we live, where we shop for groceries. Or, where two people go out on dinner dates.”

“You never cease to amaze me; you know that? So, tell me, who’s your new partner until this is over? This is temporary, right?”

“Yes, it’s temporary. I’m not throwing you out on the street or anything like that.”

They both started to walk out of the room together. As they approached the exit door, Ed asked again.

“Well? Who’s your new partner?”

“No one.”

She flipped the off switch and the room blanketed itself in darkness, as she shut the door behind them and went about their business.

Sunday Evening – 9:00 p.m.

It is such a shame you forced me to walk into your home, your private and personal space, and destroy all that which you hold above the rest of humanity.

Who the FUCK did you think you were? Certainly not God’s gift to women that’s for sure. Just because you have money, you think you can buy what you want, when you want? Did you really believe that no one knew about your shoddy escapades?

You are a pathetic fat little prick. But, you won’t any longer, buy the price of flesh as you have in the past. But, so you know, those you did buy from; they are at the door in hell waiting for you.

No longer will any young girl fear your touch, your sickening, loathsome kisses, your fat greedy hands touching them, and that mass of flesh pressing against them. Your days are finished.

Look at you; your eyes bulging from the fear of what I did to you. Your flesh gutted like a deer after a kill.

And you want to know something? I enjoyed this. I truly did. It has been far too long since I have destroyed what I consider pure evil.

Now, excuse me, but before I leave, I must get a note off to sweet Janis.

It’s important to me she knows I haven’t forgotten her.

But, how could I?

I consider her to be my greatest triumph of all time.

At least now, she can rest easier knowing one case has finally been solved, but of course, she has others.

Many others.

St. Peter’s Church – 10:41 p.m.

“Good evening, my son. And how may I help you tonight?”

“Cut the goody-goody crap, already. It’s me again.”

Silence.

“Did you not hear me? You suddenly go deaf on me? Answer me, dammit!”

“I can hear you just fine. Why are you back here after all this time?”

“What? You thought I left town or something? Wrong. Hell, padre, I’ve been in church with you every Sunday for over a year, man. I’m surprised you didn’t see me. Then again, I look different when not dressed properly for church.”

“If I could see you now, perhaps next Sunday, I will.”

“That’s not going to happen tonight, padre.”

“Then why did you come back?”

“I’m giving you another chance to grant me absolution and forgiveness, padre.”

“Did you go out and kill ... again?”

“Correcto-rumba! Very good! You’re catching on. Of course, I killed someone. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. But there is another thing.

“I need you to deliver something for me. I’m leaving a letter on the seat in here, and I want to make sure our little buddy, Lieutenant Baker, gets it.”

“Why don’t you just hand it to her yourself?”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you? Just walk up to her and say, ‘Hi, Janice, I’ve missed you. Here I am. I give up. Now, LET’S FUCK BITCH!’ Oh hell yes, what an opening sentiment of my sins that would be. You are out of your fucking mind, padre. Just give her the fucking letter.”

The door opened, then banged closed, echoing throughout the empty halls of the church.

Foreword

In this continuing saga, part three begins with summer about to arrive, and things are about to heat up. Lives will change. People will die. Love grows, and life as you know it will change.

Baker, Ed, and the Twenty-Second run into a slew of problems. Cop killers have entered Montie.

To make matters worse, Freddy is on a mission of revealing truths and a message.

Stevie returns, and by unexpected events; that change both his life and Baker’s.

Welcome to Montie.

Excerpt

As Bishop Ekerson was thumbing through his Bible, looking for specific passages for part of this Sunday’s sermon, he will call: Cleanse Your Soul through the Holy Spirit; he paused a few moments as he listened to Tchaikovsky: Symphony Number Six.

The elevated passion of his work stood out; the resonant tremors of cymbals when they clashed, the timbre of the horn section as if warding off evil.

This is something he was all too familiar with, for the last thirty-five years of his life, Peter Ekerson’s sole duty, through God, the Father, and his son, Jesus, and through the Divinity of the Holy Catholic Church, was to ward off and destroy evil.

But he didn’t have that power to destroy. His true power was to forgive.

It was also his penitence for his past misgivings. A vow he made that he would atone for his sins through God.

A dark secret is still carried within him, one that changed lives as well as his own. It was about the money and nothing more. Money that didn’t even come close to paying for what he did.

When she called, asking him if he knew anyone named Uri; he broke a commandment from God.

He lied. It wasn’t a big lie. Just one word. No. He also knew, be it one word or a thousand, a lie remains a lie.

He reasoned with himself that it couldn’t be him. He would have known, wouldn’t he?

It had been years since he last saw him.

**********

The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.

Hyperion Book ii

They tell the prophets, “Don’t tell us what is right.

Tell us nice things. Tell us lies.”

Job: 30 – 10

We all lie at some point; it is human nature.

You live with it until you die.

And I’m more than happy to make that happen.

Freddy

************

Baker’s Townhouse

Saturday – May 12th - 4:35 p.m.

“It’s all settled, Bub. The last week of June into the first two weeks of July.”

“Way cool, mom. I was just checking. I know how things can change there.”

“True, but my vacation time won’t include work; but it will include you. We’ll go places and do lots of fun stuff together.”

“I hope so, mom. I’m looking forward to being back there with you again.”

“Me too, Stevie. So, how are the studies going?”

“Straight A’s just like last semester. I don’t think the teachers want to teach us the hard stuff. I hope that changes when I get into the tenth grade this fall. I sound like a nerd, but I feel I need to be challenged more. All the teachers know I have a high I.Q., but they can’t keep up with me.”

Kindergarten yesterday. High school tomorrow. What next. He’s growing leaps and bounds.

“Stevie, you aren’t at fault for having your parent’s genes. School will just have to work around you.”

“Hold on, mom. Dad wants to talk to you. I’ll see you in about six weeks. I love you, mom. Bye!”

“Love you, Stevie. Be careful out there.”

“He’s always careful, Jan, you know that.”

“Hi, Mark. Well, he’s my; our son, and I worry; what can I say. Stevie said you wanted to talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

“Not too much. Just that Donnie and I decided this time we’ll drive Stevie out to see you; spend a few days doing the ‘to-rista’ thing in New York before. Donnie’s never been there. After which, we’ll tour the interesting parts of the state; maybe jump over to Boston for a little bit. I can pretty much time things where we can be back when your vacation time is over with him, and pick up Stevie, and head home.

“I promise, other than our first night there, not to cut into your time with Stevie.”

“I appreciate that, Mark. You and Donald can stay at my place for a few days if you like. You’re both more than welcome.”

“Is your place all put back together since your last fiasco?”

Baker grimaced, remembering Claire lying on the kitchen floor, eyes open, eyes missing, and a Bowie knife planted in her face, with blood everywhere, and her front door, a complete shambles.

“It looks better than ever. New security alarm, with cameras this time for the front and rear of the house. There is a steel reinforced door, with six inside master-panel locks. The door was even tested to withstand; get this, six .357 magnum shots before the lock would burst from the steel framing.”

“Impressive. Where can I get one of those?”

“Your local federal government.”

“Never mind. They would charge me too much.”

Baker looked at her watch. Almost six.

“Mark, if there isn’t anything else, I have to go.”

“I understand. Police work calls at such odd hours.”

“More like dinner this time.”

A brief silence came from Mark’s end before he responded.

“Sounds more like a date, maybe.”

“If you must know, it is.”

Silence from Baker’s end, before she continued.

“I’ve been seeing someone almost four months.”

“Must be serious then.”

“Yes, and no. I really like the guy, and we get along well, but I’m having commitment issues. You know him, too.”

“Commitment issues after four months? That’s odd. You would think after that much time, you would know if you loved the guy or not.

“So, who is this that I should know him?”

“Ed Manning.”

“Oh, for hell’s sake, Jan. Go figure. Makes sense. Why not drag another cop into your life? Isn’t that what they call, added danger? And of all people. Outside of being a cop, he has lousy people skills. You could do much better.”

“Stop it, Mark. And for your information, years ago, I thought I did do much better, but obviously I was wrong. I have to go. Give my love to Stevie for me again.”

Without waiting for a reply, she shut down her phone and finished getting ready to meet Ed for dinner.

Saturday – May 12 – 8:25 p.m.

“Dinner was just delicious, Ed. Thank you very much.”

“Glad you enjoyed. It’s not too often I get to wine and dine you.”

“Well, burgers at Mickey D’s, or maybe a trip to Taco Bell would have done the trick, too. I’m a cheap date with high morals.”

“Jan tonight just isn’t any night.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is this.”

Ed reached down into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small box, opened it, and peered inside for a bit. Then his eyes raised to hers.

“We’ve been partners it seems, forever. We’ve always watched out for each other’s back. Hell, we’ve even taken a hit for each other.”

Baker remembered back when they were newly partnered, when they went on a joint drug bust when Stevie was barely two. They, along with twenty other cops, stormed through a house, arresting one person after another. One man, overly huge, large beard, and eyes it seemed, the color of fire, raised his glock and fired point-blank at her. Ed shoved her out of the way, firing as he did so, and took a hit in the right shoulder as his bullets tore through the savage man.

Baker’s thoughts left her as she continued listening to Ed talk.

“Then there was that time I was grappling with Sorrenson in the Eastgate Building. He damn near threw me out a window on the twenty-third floor and would have if it weren’t for you. Instead, he took that long fall, and you hauled my ass back up in the room.”

“Oh, my god, Ed. Is that … are you … are you,”

“Don’t say it, Jan. I’m the one who is supposed to ask, not you.”

With that, Ed reached out with his right hand and grabbed her left hand and turned the box around, so she could see the engagement ring.

“I’m not very good at this, but would you do me the honor of accepting this ring, and becoming my partner?”

They both broke out in laughter.

Other patrons in the restaurant looked over at them, smiling.

Then Ed became serious.

“Honestly, Jan. I’m asking that you just not become my partner, but my best friend; someone you can lean on for support, just as I will. Someone you can tell your troubles to; someone you can trust for as long as you live. Be my wife, Jan.”

Baker looked at the ring.

A single tear formed in the corner of her left eye, welled, and slowly took a stroll down her cheek, and then it fell away and landed quietly on her forearm. She never felt it.

She tilted her head to the side, smiled somewhat; held the box in both hands, staring at its true beauty. A half-carat with three pinpoint diamonds on each side. White gold. It was perfect in every way.

“Ed, I, I, don’t know what to say. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting this tonight.”

“You can always say yes. Then I can order dessert for us.” Ed smiled.

She took the ring from the box and looked it over, both inside and out. Then she looked at Ed and smiled again. Then she put the ring back in the box.

Ed’s happiness suddenly dried up on his face.

“Don’t look so forlorn, Ed. I can’t say yes right now. I’m not saying no either. I need some time to think this over. Plus, I need to tell Stevie before we just up and spring it on him, as well as everyone else. I want him to be prepared in advance. It’s important. I hope you can understand.”

Ed smiled warmly as he took the box and hid it away in his coat pocket and said, “I guess not getting a no means there’s still hope. As to Stevie, I do understand. I know you two have a very close bond, and not just because your mother and son.”

She reached across the table, and held one of Ed’s hands, smiled and said, “Stevie will be back here near the end of June. Mark and Donald are driving him out this time. Then, Mark and Donald will go on their own little holiday jaunt, then come back for him after my vacation time with Stevie is finished. I’ll tell him then. Can you hold off for that long?”

“Hold out that long for a yes; yes! For a no, I don’t think I have much of a choice, huh?”

“Ed, I’m sorry. Really I am.”

“Don’t sweat it, Jan. We have, as a team, been through so much crap, that this is just a walk in the park. If the verdict comes back as a no, I can deal with it. Trust me. I can.”

“Honest?”

“Cross my heart and hope to eat dessert. What’ll you have?”

The rest of the evening went by with no more talk of marriage, but by the end of the night, and after three hours at a nightclub, dancing, both were complaining about sore feet.

Sunday Morning – May 13th – 1:16 a.m.

Thomas Howarth and Ralph Ingstrum had pulled up to a Dunkin Donut’s shop on Melrose and Fisher.

Both men had been patrolling the streets for better than three hours and they had only two minor disturbances all night. One was a public intox. The guy was just lying on the sidewalk passed out practically from one too many drinks. They took him to the station and processed him in for the night. Come Monday morning, the judge would deal with him.

The other was a noise disturbance. A couple kids were playing their music too loud for the neighbors and a complaint was called in. Come to find out, the parents wouldn’t be home until Sunday afternoon, and the kids were just having their own fun time. They turned the music down and that was that.

Now it was time for a break. Coffee and donuts.

Howarth walked inside, ordered two large coffees, one black, the other cream and sugar, three chocolate glazed, and three strawberry filled donuts. He then paid the old man at the register and walked back outside to the car.

Seeing Ralph still sitting behind the wheel, he took a quick look around the parking lot, and stopped next to the driver’s side.

As he started to hand Ralph his coffee and donuts, there came a sudden whistle of two quiet pings.

The first ping exploded face first into Ralph’s brain. The second ping took out the right side of Howarth’s head as he dropped the bag and started to twist around, his gun already in hand.

They were both dead before the coffee and donuts hit the ground.

1:51 a.m.

As the crime scene was being sectioned off, several witnesses were explaining what they saw, or what they thought they saw.

“I saw two white puffs of smoke come from over there,” a man said pointing to the MaxMillian Building.

“I was just walking out from the store when it happened.”

Another older man said, “I was inside having my coffee, and I noticed the officer leaving to go back to his squad car. All I saw was him falling, but then I noticed something across the street like some kind of smoke drifting off from the top of the building. I can’t swear for sure, but I think I might have seen someone moving around up there.”

The fire department arrived, and it was a hook and ladder they used to get to the top of the building as three other officers with high-powered flashlights combed the entire rooftop.

“Larry?”

“Yeah, Phil.”

“Over here.”

Phil’s flashlight centered on the door that leads to the roof or down, depending on how you look at it.

“The inside lock’s been sheared away.”

Larry got on his radio.

“Be advised. The building has been broken into. We are going downstairs. The shooter may still be in the building. Cover all exits. I repeat, cover all exits.”

Larry, Phil and the third man, Ted, and those on the street knew that that was extremely doubtful, but a cop-killer was out there somewhere, and no one was taking any chances.

Several officers had their cars directly across the corner from the front doors with the headlights glaring on the building and their guns drawn, prepared for any eventuality.

By the time, the three men finished searching inside the building, floor by floor, they had found one thing. The outside door’s glass had been cut with a circular glass cutter.

Whoever these guys were, they were smart enough to take it along with them. There wasn’t a trace of shattered or splintered glass to be found.

The crime scene would prove to last a long time.

Five of Carl’s best men from the F-Team were on hand. They would spend the next two hours mapping the distance from where the shooter, or shooters were, based on the downward angle of the bullets that struck each officer. They would search and hope to find any trace of evidence such as shoe or boot prints, any fingerprint markings, shell casings, though the type of bullet used would come out at the actual autopsies. Their toughest job would be taking photographs and chalking out the area where the bodies were at the time of death. It never failed to clutch at their emotions.

But they searched and searched throughout the night. When it was all said and done, they had nothing.