Chapter 2

"…then she started asking me about my piles. I mean, who rightfully asks their son-in-law such a personal question? Do I ask her about her varicose veins?"

"God, I hope not," I replied as I stared into the vast emptiness of an empty Minnie Mouse thermos. "Fuck. I'm out. How long are we planning to wait for your contact to show up, Mack?"

"We've been here literally ten minutes, Jackson," my partner replied. "Maybe buy a bigger thermos that will carry the gallons of dark roast your addiction requires."

"Nope, I got this one at Disneyland two years ago when I took Leo. He picked it out. It's perfectly serviceable."

"Whatever. So, back to my piles," my partner said.

"Must we?"

"Yeah, because this is going somewhere. So, I asked Elena, after we cleared the table, if that was normal. Her family members being so into the personal lives and ailments of their new son-in-law, and she was like, ‘oh, honey, you don't even know.' So I asked her why in God's sweet temperament she even told her mother that I had anal issues."

"Mack, honestly, this is past bordering on too fucking much information," I grunted, wiggled up, and tried to straighten my legs. "This car sucks."

"Don't talk that way about Penelope." He rubbed the steering wheel of the tiny ten-year-old Honda Civic as if it were his wife's breasts. "It's not her fault you're the same height as Shaq."

"Okay, no, I am not. Shaq is seven-one, and I'm only six-five." My back popped as I moved to try to get some feeling back into my lower extremities. "And you hate this car as much as I do. You admitted it just two weeks ago when you'd had that one extra beer after work. So why not trade it in for something that's not a fucking clown car so anyone over Hobbit-size might have some fucking leg room?"

He stared at me with those cornflower-blue eyes of his. "You are incredibly pissy today. I mean even more pissy than your usual pissy, which is, you know, damn pissy."

"We've been sitting here in the sun for over two hours waiting for this Twiggy dude to show up with some information. I'm out of coffee. And my fucking nicotine patch wore off."

"It's been ten minutes. Ten. Minutes."

"Whatever."

"Just an FYI, they don't wear off an hour after you—where the hell are you going?! Don't get out of the car. You'll stand out like a bull pecker, to quote my dear departed ma."

I flung the door open, unfolded my legs, and exited. I'd been Cormack Graham's partner for over two years, and in all that time, I'd never ceased to be amazed at the litany of inventive ways the Scots could describe things. His mother must have been a pistol.

"I need to get more coffee. I'm just going to the corner store right there," I explained before I closed the door on his protest. As if my getting out of the car was going to draw attention to us when a red-haired, pale-as-cottage-cheese goofball talking at full volume about his damn hemorrhoids hadn't already pulled the eyeballs of every damn soul on the street. We were on this busy street in Watts, sitting in a sunflower-yellow Honda Civic with Barbie bumper stickers that his lovely new bride had insisted be applied. And since Mack could deny Elena nothing… yeah. But it was me who would scare off Twiggy the rat.

I crossed the street at the light, stepped into the corner store, blinked at the change of bright to dark, then headed for the coffee pots sitting beside the slices of pizza in a case. The patrons and owner eyeballed me as I filled my Minnie Mouse thermos, then ambled to the cash register. I waited behind an elderly woman buying lottery tickets and began picking at the patch on my biceps as I held the thermos to my chest with my left arm.

"You want anything else?" the middle-aged man behind the register asked.

"Yeah, pack of Newports," I replied and pulled down my sleeve.

The guy stared up at me. "You know you ain't supposed to smoke while wearing a patch, right?"

"Your point?"

"Whatever." He tossed a pack of smokes at me, rang me up, and watched me leave. The sun was bright and hot as I made my way back to the totally inconspicuous banana-yellow Honda with the Barbie stickers. Mack waved at me as I neared, his freckled face tight with worry. I hurried to hide the cigarette pack in my pocket.

"I thought you were getting coffee." I raised my full thermos. "And what the hell is that cigarette pack-shaped bulge in your front pocket?"

"That's a sign of how much I fucking love you," I countered, pulling the passenger door open, then with a sigh of misery, cramming myself back into the passenger seat.

"Leo will be so disappointed."

"Him and all my exes."

"Call came from dispatch. There's been a mugging at the clinic over in Highland."

"And this concerns us how? Patrol will deal with it."

"Seems the victim has been having trouble with some of the local gangs in the neighborhood. Dispatch tagged us on it when the name Ivan Baladin was mentioned."

That made me look up from removing the patch. Ivan Baladin was a mid-level racketeering goon we'd been trying to nail for well over a year. He was just smart enough to ensure that those under him always took the fall for his crimes, but not quite smart enough to keep his pushed-in face completely off the radar—like his bosses and their bosses did.

"Okay, let's go talk to the doctor and see what he can tell us. Inform patrol that we'll be taking over the scene. Lock it down until we get there. Any suspects apprehended?"

"Nope, but there was a witness who saw the offender up close and personal." He cranked the engine over, and Penelope rolled to life.

"Have them hold on to the witness, then do a neighborhood sweep. We'll want to question him. How's the victim? Can we get to him today?"

"On his way to the ER."

"Shit, okay. We'll get to him later."

I juggled my coffee while trying to open a pack of cigarettes, as we rolled through Watts at a goodly clip. We both had smaller portable radios on our person, but since I was fully occupied, Mack relayed that we were on our way to the scene, then added my directions. While Mack was the senior officer in our pairing—by two years—he tended to allow me to lead quite often. We were both pretty green in comparison to some of the homicide detectives in our precinct. Hell, we were babes compared to Mason and Berke, the elder goats in Organized Crimes. Our department was extremely short-staffed. Homicide used to have more teams but despite lots of murders happened in the City of Angels, now we had only ten cops to investigate all those cases landing in our district.

Of course, compared to Mason and Berke, anyone under the age of fifty was an infant, as they were both ready to retire within a year. Which would boost me and Mack to the top of the ladder in our department. Getting new blood into law enforcement was a hard sell nowadays. Lots of people couldn't hack it. Being a cop was not all glamour and witty repartee as it was on TV, which some cadets quickly learned, then dropped out. Lots of people just did not belong in a position of power that having a badge provided, and they were weeded out as well. Sadly, some slipped through the cracks.

So yeah, lots of reasons to cite as to why it was harder than a bull pecker, to quote Mother Graham, to get young people interested in being cops. It was easy to say we should defund the police, but when that resulted in budget cuts that decimated the ranks of those who were serving and protecting, the sheep stomach was boiled, also to quote Ma Graham. Mm, haggis. My gut growled. I should have grabbed a slice or two of the pizza to go with my coffee.

But hey, it was all good. Working a dozen cases at once was grand. Not as though me or my fellow officers needed a private life. Downtime was overrated. And sleep. Pfft.

Sleep was for sissies.

* * *

Mack pulledup behind a shiny Ducati that made us both gape in wonderment.

"Is Tom Cruise filming a movie here or something?" Mack asked as the Honda sputtered into a stall, which was almost as good as a stop in my book. "Not a common make in these parts."

I glanced around the neighborhood but saw no signs of movie-making. One never knew when one lived in the land of movie stars. I'd seen my fair share of the bright and shiny people who glittered out here in Tinsel Town. Some were incredibly nice; some were flaming assholes. Like the rest of the population.

I exited the car with a moan, circled the expensive bike, then threw my partner a look as he worked at putting his tie back around his thick neck. I'd opted for cool today and had ditched a jacket and gone with khaki pants, a white shirt, and a tie I suspected had been doused with guacamole the last time I had worn it. It smelled like guac when the sun hit it.

Stretching to work out the kinks, I checked to make sure my weapon was secured in my holster, my badge was on my belt, and my thermos was in my hand.

"I hate ties," Mack grumbled as we entered the front of the clinic.

"Cap likes them," I replied, taking in the usual aura of upset following a crime. People white with fear, some crying, some pacing nervously, and some sitting in the waiting room with tension radiating off them. Two uniformed officers met us as we entered, both younger cops.

"Thanks for securing the scene. Are all of these people potential witnesses to the mugging?" I enquired and got two firm nods. Christ. There must be twenty people here. "Okay, cool. Any chance you've taken statements?"

A baby started to cry in the corner. The mother, a young Latina, bounced the bundle in the blue blanket, her dark eyes drifting shut despite her attempts to keep them open. I could relate. Not to the parenting thing. Gods, no. My sister was the Winwood who had kids. Just one, Leo, with my ex-brother-in-law, who… well, we'd not go into her reasoning for choosing Bryce back in the day. She'd been young. He'd had a guitar. You know how it goes. I'd disliked Bryce for a long time, for many reasons, but, as of late, we'd been working things out. Mostly for Leo's sake, as my nephew adored his dad.

But seeing as Court was newly married to a forest ranger named Tony, I suspected another addition to the family within a year or two. I, on the other hand, had trouble keeping the lone orchid Mack's wife had insisted I own alive, let alone a kid. Not that I didn't want kids someday, but I had zero time to date, let alone plan for offspring in some unforeseeable future.

We had a quick chat with the patrol officers about the people being detained. Many had seen little more than a man dashing through the waiting room. Those, we turned loose after taking a brief statement and reminding them to contact us if they remembered anything.

While Mack started taking statements from the staff—from the reception attendant named Lazlo Richter to an older woman, Heloise Grant, the bookkeeper, who just happened to be there to pick up paperwork—I found the room where the crime had taken place. An office belonging to the doctor in charge, one Joseph "Joe" Baxter, an ex-military medic who had returned from a few tours in the Middle East to open the Haven of Hope Clinic. A solid guy, do-gooder type, I assumed, which was commendable. God knows the poor areas of this city could use more help in every way, shape, or form. The room had been taped off by the patrol officers, so I ducked under the tape, careful to step over the spilled coffee and papers scattered about. Along the far wall were pictures of Joe the Medic with family, friends, and fellow Marines, as well as a few diplomas and a smudge of blood leading to a rather large puddle on the floor. According to the staff who had attended the victim, the head wound had been superficial. Head wounds were always messy. Mack and I would head to Holy Trinity Hospital after we were done here to see if the victim was able to speak to us.

Mack joined me to work on the preliminary documentation and evaluation of the scene. There had been way too many people in here to please me, but it was what it was. The responding officers had done a good job of taking care of the witnesses and bystanders who'd been secured and separated. I moved around the area another time, documenting as much information as possible while ensuring that scene integrity was in place, and all evidence was safe and uncontaminated.

Certain protocols had to be followed from the first arrival of the patrol officers to the scene debriefing team's final survey.

An hour later, we left Joe the Medic's office with not much to go on, other than that this was no botched robbery. This looked to be a warning of sorts, and according to the initial interviews, the name of a certain crime lord had been heard as the offender fled.

Then we split, Mack sitting down with the rest of the office staff to finish statements, while I sat down in an exam room with one Oliver "Cowboy" Cowan, defenseman for the LA Storm. I knew Oliver by sight and name, obviously. He would show up on occasion to help coach the youth teams that the Storm sponsored. My nephew was on such a team.

"Imagine seeing you here," I commented as the big D-man eyeballed me for the longest time, his sharp eyes moving over me, head to toe, as he tried to recall who I was, other than a gangly ass with a gun, a badge, and a Minnie Mouse thermos. "I'm Bryce's ex-brother-in-law. Jack Winwood, LAPD Organized Crimes Unit."

Nothing. Then the name hit him and some of the tension left his face. A handsome face that showed some life.

"Oh right, Michael Zhang's boyfriend. Sorry. I should have recalled his name sooner. It's been a day," he said, then stood. I waved him back to the chair he'd been sitting in and took a seat beside him. The room was decorated with duck and chicken decals for the little ones.

"So I heard." I settled down into my chair, my sight flickering to the tidy cabinets over a shiny sink. "Want to tell me about what happened?"

"I already told the other cops," he said, as I knew he would. "I'd really like to get to the ER to check on Joe."

"I know you spoke to the uniformed officers, but now I'd like you to tell me in your own words what happened." My sight flickered from Oliver to the room in a quick sweep. The cabinets were untouched, the shelves holding glass jars of swabs, cotton balls, and tongue depressors. So the offender had not rushed in, wired for dope, and started ransacking random rooms. The offender knew just where to go. Interesting.

"Organized Crimes?" That always got them once it sank in. His eyebrows knotted. "Why are you here? It was just a junkie looking for drugs, I assumed."

I gently unscrewed the cracked cup off the top of my thermos. The AC kicked in. Ollie the Cowboy smelled damn good. Much nicer than stale guac and drying blood.

"We're not sure exactly what the offender was after. Can you start from the beginning, please?" I asked in my most polite cop tone. Considering I'd not had a chance to even light a cigarette yet, Ollie was indeed being blessed with all my charm. I placed my phone on the exam table, taking note that the paper covering was pristine. Yeah, random junkie my ass. "I'm going to record your statement, if that's okay with you?"

"Sure, yeah." He studied me closely with dark eyes. Christ, he was a good-looking beast of a man. Burly, yet toned, with short hair and neat scruff, both peppered with silver. I'd always enjoyed a good tumble with an older lover. We were of equal size and weight, although he might have a few pounds on me. Yeah, I could get down with going down on this man. "I just… can I call my kids' school to let them know that I'm going to be late picking them up?"

Well, shit. Shit on a rancid stick. Kids. So, he was taken. Probably had a hockey wife at home waiting for his return. I didn't know the Storm players or their personal lives, but being Leo's uncle meant I skated on the periphery of the team's activities.

"Sure. Go ahead." I leaned up, paused the recording, and sat back to nurse my now tepid coffee while Oliver took care of his kids. He spoke softly for such a big man. I wagered he would be a gentle lover, unless a man asked him to be rough, then?—

For fuckin' fuck's sake, stop. The guy is straight. Man, we need to get laid.

Yep. We did need to get laid. Soon.

Oliver glanced at me, his gaze as weary as my body was.

"Sorry, that was… I didn't think I would be here this long. The girls are going to be worried about me not showing up."

"Feel free to call your wife to go get them."

Oh. Oh, Jackson, that was lame. So lame. So obvious.

"My wife died two years ago."

Fuck. I inhaled, then let it out slowly. "Sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Detective. Can we get on with this?"

"Yes, of course." I dove into procedure to help bury the tremendous shame that overwhelmed me at that moment. Drooling over a widower with two daughters at a crime scene.

Yeah, I was heading to the nearest gay bar as soon as my shift was over.