Third Time’s the Charm

By D. Outhouse

Here comes Thanksgiving and with it more hilarious chaos of the O’Mailey variety.

Cait struggles to locate a missing mother whose children were instructed to seek out the PI in the event of an emergency. Cait is doubtful as to her own parenting abilities; she can’t even keep a fern healthy. She’s afraid the boys may end up withered and broken by the time the mom-napped Molly is rescued.
A murder in Brunswick has left a prosecutor looking more than just a little shady and Detective Trace Falon is put on the case. The evidence is disheartening and the Evening News broadcasts seem to be more informed than the police. As if that wasn’t enough of a headache, Trace is beginning to suspect there may be a bad apple walking about with a badge.
Is there a dirty cop in their midst, or is this an impersonator?
It’s up to Trace to sniff out the killer before the streets of Arbrick suffer cataclysmic consequences.

Cait and Trace blunder through the difficulties of shopping as responsible parents, dealing with bad guys who keep unusual pets, cooking Thanksgiving dinner, and solving their cases without:
a) getting killed,
b) getting maimed, and
c) falling head of heels for each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665577847

D. Outhouse

Born Danielle Reneigh Outhouse. Eldest of six raised by Dr. Alan and Sarah Outhouse Mother to the beautiful artist Mercy, my pride, joy, and inspiration. Favorite hobby is - obviously- writing.

Book preview

DEDICATION

For my parents: Alan and Sarah Outhouse.

I’m not a doctor.

And it’s not your fault.

You did everything imaginable to set me up for life.

You tried your damnedest to give me the perfect childhood:

Tap dancing, ballet, violin, summer camp,

(Even as I fought you every step of the way.)

You paid a lot of money to get me into the prestigious Ashley River

for the highest quality of education

only to have the principal invite us to leave within the first semester:

Your child isn’t quite at our level of blah-blah-blah ...

Honestly, I believe it all worked out for the best.

I would have made a HORRIBLE doctor guys.

We all know it.

People would have died.

But thanks for trying.

PS: Could be worse; I could be writing my books

in a prison cell rather than a closet.

Let’s be grateful, yeah?

THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM

[Case #03 from the O’Mailey Files]

D.OUTHOUSE

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2022 D.Outhouse. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  12/09/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-7785-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-7784-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022922818

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Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

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expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

CHAPTER 1

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Cait boffed. She barely avoided spraying water across the table and into Trace Falon’s leering features. You’re a barkin’ loon! She accused, failing to conceal her amusement at his outrageousness.

Trace slouched comfortably on the opposite bench. He flicked his nostril with a thumb and took a long drag of his soda before answering. "You know you were thinkin’ it. Hell, everybody in the department is thinkin’ it." He was dark-eyed, dark-haired, and thick-jawed. A slight hump high on the bridge of his nose (from an untended breakage in his youth) gave his face character while also warning of a dangerous inner beast always lurking just below the surface. The scent of grilling fajita stuffings accompanied by the sounds of sizzling spice-brushed beef was almost enough to pull his attentions from the woman before him. Almost.

Cait shook her head and countered "I’m certain Myers isn’t."

Trace leaned forward and dropped his voice: "I’d bet my house that especially Myers is thinkin’ it."

Cait gagged on a Cajun-seasoned potato wedge. She covered her mouth, shaking her head enthusiastically. Trace straightened with a slow nod and a crooked grin. It never ceased to amaze him how Cait O’Mailey could steal his breath with that rare-snorting laugh of hers.

Ready for those pies yet? Molly Monroe approached the stall. Her light pastel waitressing dress swayed about her knees. She held a pitcher of iced water in one hand and soda in the other. Her strawberry blond locks were pulled into a high ponytail. Her pleasant face was flushed from labor.

Cait smiled up at the woman, eyes still twinkling with jocularity. What kind?

Molly snickered. Does it really matter?

Cait’s cheeks pinkened. Molly had a point. Not once since Molly’s opening had the self-made PI entered the diner and not topped off her meal with the ‘pie of the day’. No it doesn’t. All of your food is amazing Molly- Just like everything else you’ve done with this place.

The diner had once been a two-bit deli. It had offered mediocre sandwiches and an even less enjoyable atmosphere. Back then Molly had just been an employee. After coming into a sizable lump of cash she bought the sub shop. She had since transformed it into a restaurant with color, life, and taste. Especially taste. Everything from the simple-yet-fantastic grilled cheese and tomato soup to dishes as fancy as shiner-block ribs were served at Molly’s; most of which were her own recipes. Molly’s Diner became an instant favorite locale. Business was booming; even more so lately with Thanksgiving just around the corner.

You must really be raking it in. Trace commented with a glance across the crowded floor. The main room was small; segregated by a long counter behind which the cook, Jeff, could be seen preparing meals in the rear kitchen area. The place wasn’t elaborate by any means yet nearly every table was occupied. More lined the stools to watch Jeff at work.

Molly shrugged nonchalantly though her demeanor was obviously pleased. I make due. She admitted. She refilled the pair’s cups.

The door to the diner swung open and two young boys rushed in from the outside. Hey Jeff! They called simultaneously whilst skirting tables, chairs, and people on a path toward their mother. Molly’s eleven-year-old son, Billy, looked just like his mom: same fair hair; same curved nose; same perceptive eyes. He was the first to notice her warning expression and stuck a hand out slowing his younger brother as he himself reduced to one-quarter impulse. No running in the diner. Billy reprimanded Mark as they reached the table where Molly stood waiting on Trace and Cait.

Mark’s face scrunched. "You were running first." He whined.

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

Molly’s eyes rolled heavenward.

Hey boys. How’s it goin’? Trace injected. Molly shot him a grateful smile.

Goin’ great cop. You?

Billy. Molly hissed, What have I told you about calling policemen ‘cops’?

Don’t take offence Molly; I don’t. Trace winked at Billy and they exchanged some sort of man-shake.

I see that tooth is finally coming in. Cait commented to Mark.

He opened his mouth wide to give Cait a better look. Mom says it’s gonna be man-size when it’s done growin’. He stated proudly with his mouth still gaping, Just like me.

Molly, you seen my helpers? Jeff boomed over the ruckus of mingled conversations. ‘Bout yea high; kinda loud? I’m in need of some taste-testers for somethin’ new. Jeff was a skinny man, long limbed and frail-looking; but his deep voice could carry a mile.

Here we are! The boy’s cried in unison. They dashed away, ducking the fold-over countertop with minimal effort.

Molly sighed heavily as they flowed into the kitchen like the rapids of a broken dam. I love them but I have to be honest: She turned to Trace with a wistful smile, I’m counting down the days until school starts back.

They’ve really taken to Jeff huh? noted Trace, sounding just a touch jealous.

Cait caught the tell-tale glint in Molly’s eyes as the woman watched Jeff herd her children into the far recesses of the kitchen. We all have. She turned back to the table and cleared her throat. They need a good role model- oh! Not that you-

Trace feigned hurt feelings and bleated "Well hell Molly, what am I? Chopped liver?"

I bet even chopped liver tastes good once Molly is done with it. Countered Cait. She shot Trace a ‘cut-it-out’ glower.

You know what I mean detective. Molly asserted. Someone who’s around more often than an hour every Tuesday for the lunch special.

He knows exactly what you mean. Don’t let him play you. Cait resisted the urge to kick Trace beneath the table.

He threw Cait a wicked grin and slaunched forward to retally: "If I let Molly here cook me up, would you eat me then?"

Molly giggled and pivoted with flair. This time Cait did kick the detective.

Ow! He protested with a chuckle. Damn Mailey; that hurt.

Well what do you think my teeth would feel like? She growled.

His lustful smirk accompanied by the slight darkening of his eyes won a second field goal. He exhaled a satisfying oath. He looked at his watch. His countenance dropped. Gotta go. He withdrew his wallet.

What time do the proceedings start back? Cait asked referencing her own timepiece.

Three. Doubt I’ll be up today but I’m required to be in attendance. You know how it is. Trace counted bills and left them on the tabletop.

Cait protested. Stop paying for my meals Falon.

He fought the impulse to plant a kiss on the top of her head. He’d taken to kissing Cait O’Mailey before- it hadn’t gone so well. No, that’s wasn’t exactly accurate. Kissing her produced the kind of heat that led to feverish sex against walls. Kissing her was fan-fucking-tastic… Unfortunately it had left her looking like a woman about to run for the hills in terror. Experiencing a moment of panic himself in which he was convinced she really was on the verge of a full tactical retreat he’d made the absurd promise not to do it again- at least not until she initiated. Days like today made that promise especially hard to keep. She was all smiles. Her dazzling green eyes sparkled with good humor. She wore her wild-fire curls in a sloppy knot on her crown. She was soft-toned, small-boned, and (contrary to all appearances) she was perfectly capable of taking the light-heavy weight detective to the floor in a fight– which would be damned embarrassing in front of all these patrons.

Cait scooted out of her own booth. She accompanied Trace to the door, motioning to Molly that she wasn’t done with her meal just yet.

An escort? Trace straightened and slowed to a strut looking to Cait very much like a peacock impressed with his own feathers. I’m makin’ progress.

Cait scoffed and wacked his shoulder playfully (though not without force). "You can’t be too careful these days Falon. I mean this is- She dropped her voice as they reached the exit, This is Ricky Boitano."

Ooooo. Trace pretended to quiver as he held the entry for Cait to pass through.

Very funny. She grumbled.

Trace smirked. He followed her into the icy outside world. Molly didn’t have a parking lot of her own so her customers were forced to fend for themselves when it came to finding a safe place to leave their wheels while they dined. The sky was gray with overcast. The sidewalk was damp and spotted with half-frozen puddles left from last night’s rain. Vehicles zoomed in both directions on the two-laned street.

Molly’s Diner sat in Riverside. It was one of Arbrick’s less ritzy zones. Most of the quarter was composed of moderate businesses, a lot of warehouses, and of course the docks. It sat just above the city-wide average on the crime scale. Riverside was actually comprised of two districts: East and West. They ran along the Schuylkill and Delaware banks. Molly’s was smack dab between the halves. It was the perfect location as it gave the men somewhere to spend their lunch hour that wasn’t a pub – which satisfied both their stomachs and their wives. Most of her clientele were honest laborers with low incomes and big families.

Trace jerked the collar of his coat a little higher. I’m a good seven blocks down. He advised.

Cait sucked her teeth. No you’re not. I’ve seen you turn on the siren just so you could cut in line at a drive-thru.

Trace laughed and draped an arm over her shoulder. Just wanted to know if you’d walk that far – to keep me safe.

Cait eyed his hand and then threw him a skeptical look.

What? He shrugged, drawing her nearer as they traveled. You were looking cold.

I was not.

"Was too." He said imitating Mark’s persistence.

Cait shook her head and snorted- still, she couldn’t help smiling. She crossed her arms over her chest and sank her fingers into her armpits to keep them warm. You aren’t really seven blocks away are you? She asked with a terrible attempt to cover any dismay.

Trace belted a laugh that turned heads on the other side of the street. The pair rounded a corner and Cait was relieved to see the amazon green Tahoe parked at the end of the block. Tires squealed on distant asphalt as somebody somewhere braked hard. The shriek of shredding rubber made Cait jump.

Trace chuckled and cuddled her more tightly. Really worried about me aren’t you?

Cait scowled and elbowed him. Of course I am. Boitano is dangerous. He has connections.

Trace hmphed. He dug in his pocket for his keys. He WAS. But now he’s going away. He can’t off everybody set to testify against him- not without incriminating himself. Besides, I doubt the man gives a rat’s ass about little ol’ me right now. If I were Boitano, I’d spend all my efforts going after the bigger fish.

You mean Walker?

Trace nodded. "Yep. But even that wouldn’t get him very far. We’d get a new prosecutor overnight. Man’s going down for good. His ‘connections’ Trace mimicked Cait’s concern when he said the word, know it. Nobody’s coming to his rescue this time; they all know he’s done. Trace hit the fob unlocking the Chevy. So as flattering as it is to have you wringing your hands over me, He smiled down at her, there’s no need for you to worry."

Cait hesitated at the curb. Trace knew she was going to pull away. He silently willed her to look up at him. Kiss him. Or spit back that she wasn’t really worried… Anything other than pulling away.

Be careful Trace. She did look up at him and the apprehension in her eyes made him want to throw his hands up in defeat and shove her against the truck with a kiss that would curl her toes. But he didn’t. Instead he grinned and winked. And she pulled away.

Almost makes me feel like you might not believe I can take care of myself… I think I’m insulted.

Ugh! She rolled her eyes. Get stuffed Falon. And don’t start the car yet. She retreated a few exaggerated steps. "Let me get out of fireball range."

Trace chortled and climbed behind the wheel. He fastened his belt- then found himself actually faltering when he brought the key to the ignition. How the hell had she gotten him spooked when he’d done all the talking? He glanced out the window. Mailey was now leering at him. He cursed quietly and turned the ignition without further hesitation.

Satisfied that the vehicle wasn’t going to blow sky high, Cait started back toward the diner. Her thoughts revolved around Boitano. Ricky Boitano was a very connected and very dangerous man, no matter what Falon said. Apart from trafficking enslaved immigrants, Boitano had also made millions marketing heroin up and down the Eastern coast for the last fifteen years. His success might have gone on for another fifteen if Boitano hadn’t gotten greedy. He’d tried (and failed, fortunately) to push his product westward across the river. His entire enterprise collapsed around him during the attempt.

APD was able to apprehend the criminal mastermind despite his efforts to self-sabotage the Arbrick branch of his operation when he felt authorities moving in. He’d even gone so far as to torch his home to get rid of evidence. In doing so, Boitano had killed the dozen unprocessed women and even youth trapped in his basement. Trace Falon was the homicide detective assigned the case(s) when charred bodies began appearing in various locations all over the city- Boitano’s ill-conceived attempt to make the ones in his own home seem less suspicious. Money and lawyers had kept Boitano out of the electric chair for damned near two years- but not out of prison. Now there was nothing the kingpin could do but follow through with one final appeal. With all the evidence Falon had compiled there wasn’t a juror out there that wouldn’t finally fry the rat. That is, assuming the trial made it to fruition, thought Cait with a shiver. Boitano was smart. For a criminal. She found it hard to believe that his bag of tricks was empty just yet.

Cait’s attention was drawn to a low growl from behind. She glanced over her shoulder to see the Tahoe crawling down the street at her tail. A line of irritated drivers stretched out behind it. She shook her head with a wan smile. She pulled out her cell and dialed his number with purple fingers. No more connections hm? ‘No threat’ you say…

Trace answered on the first ring: Yeah?

Why are you trailing me like some creepy stalker?

Trace gave a sarcastic gasp. You mean you can see me?! What gave me away?

As if cued a horn honked behind the Tahoe; others joined in chorus.

Cait disconnected to keep him from hearing her giggles. So annoying- and yet the man was also just a squick endearing. She and Falon were thrown together as partners when she’d moved to Arbrick nearly a decade earlier. Though she was no longer employed by the fine city and he was, they continued to have each other’s backs. At the time, Captain Myers’s plan had been to drive Cait out of his department as fast as possible by paring her with the most uncooperative, hard-headed, self-serving patrolman Myers had. In the bigoted Captain’s eyes it was two birds with one stone: Get rid of the girl and then fire Falon for whatever screw-ups they’d suffered. Not only had Cait stuck around, but she’d also excelled. In addition, Trace had aged into the best detective Arbrick currently had on payroll.

Cait turned the corner arriving back on the main stretch and the Tahoe sped away. Falon was apparently satisfied that she could at least survive the ten steps to Molly’s entrance without a bodyguard. Cait took her seat in the booth and found her pie waiting. She commenced eating. And watching. She watched groups of men come and go. Watched the boys in the back with Jeff- who appeared every bit as good with children as he was with food. She watched Molly and her single helper calmly yet quickly take orders, deliver plates, refill glasses, clean tables, and do it all over again.

A buzzer in the kitchen sounded. Jeff sent Billy to the rear exit. When the boy opened the door, Cait caught a glimpse of a man in a white-and-navy striped shirt, the lighter bits filthy with sweat stains.

He’s here mom.

Molly turned to see to whom her son referred. Her face tightened when she spotted the delivery man. She collected menus from the table she was waiting and promised to return shortly with their drinks. The woman crossed the bar and slipped past Jeff (with a subtle caress along his back Cait noticed). Molly deserved a good man in her life. The boys’ father had died in a bad way and Molly had been forced to raise them thus far on her own. She had no other family. No close friends she could lean on. No partner to watch out for her. Nothing but her children to keep her going. Cait couldn’t help but admire the woman’s strength and pure determination. So Jeff was possibly becoming more than just a cook hm? The independent PI made a note to do a little background on the man – nothing TOO invasive of course… Just a wee peek- For Molly’s sake and that of her boys.

Cait’s curiosity was drawn again to the kitchen when Molly’s murmur rose to a scolding. The man was difficult to see through the haze of pots, pans, heat waves, and Molly herself. Molly shook her head determinedly. Jeff turned from his grill and began wiping hands on his apron. He was apparently ready to step into some sort of confrontation. Points for Jeff. Cait leaned out of the stall for a better view. She just barely caught sight of a very tall, thick-shouldered brunette before the alley door slammed shut.

Molly turned and leaned against the exit with one hand on her hip and the other on her forehead. She and Jeff eyed each other silently for a long beat. Then Jeff gave her a barely perceptible nod. Molly returned it with a faint grin.

Everything okay Molly? Cait asked when the waitress came around with a pitcher to refill her water.

Molly blinked, and then realization softened her features. That’s right: the PI thing. Molly gave a wan nod. Yes everything is fine. I’ve been ordering meat from this little butcher shop; he’s proven unreliable time and again. He’s always late and twice now Jeff has found bad steaks in the packages. I just informed the lazy ass that I’ve found another supplier. He wasn’t very happy about it. Molly filled Cait’s cup and said offhandedly, It’s too bad he gave up; Jeff was about to show you something worth watching.

Cait eyed Jeff and raised a brow, Really?

Molly nodded. He might not look like much of a wrestler but that man is some kind of strong.

Cait added another few inches to her brow, That so? Molly Monroe how would you know that? Molly blushed a pretty shade of red. Cait stood with a wide smile. I see.

Molly cleared her throat and located her boys before she let the next words slip out: "Some kind of strong. She repeated with emphasis and a fist pump. Cait laughed out loud and Molly chuckled with her. When Cait bid her farewell Molly replied: Drive safe Kate. Weather’s supposed to take a turn for the worst this afternoon."

Cait shook her head. "I have a little old woman in my complex that can predict the weather more accurately than Doppler and she says: we won’t be seeing snow until December. Cait indicated her knuckles and explained, Arthritis."

Molly looked out the large glass front skeptically. I don’t know, you might want to have her recheck her joints.

Cait shook her head as she started toward the exit, Ms. Barnaby’s never wrong. At least not about the weather. There were other subjects however where Ms. Barnaby couldn’t get her facts straight for a million dollars. She was convinced for instance that Elvis was alive and well- he’d just gone into hiding when Dean Martin and the rest of the Rat Pack threatened to ‘whack him’. She was dead certain that Martians were after her pigmy goat Daisy – whom she housed on the flat top of their four-story apartment building. And Ms. Barnaby thought the world of Cait, but she also believed that the PI was really a high-class hooker incognito. Melinda Barnaby had the body of a loving grandmother addicted to Zumba. She was also a product of the Woodstock era and therefore not always completely with the program.

Cait hugged her coat more tightly as she made her way to the ’67 Impala parked five vehicles down from Molly’s entrance. The car door opened with a loud protest and Cait quietly apologized to her baby for any discomfort caused when she pulled the door shut. Like Ms. Barnaby, the Impala suffered rumatoid arthritis. Cait twisted the key in the ignition and willed the turn-over. The heirloom coughed and wheezed, then went back to sleep. Two more attempts produced the same results. Cait patted the dash and gave the car a pep-talk, then tried once more. The Impala roared to life. Cait sighed relief and shifted into drive. A huge black cloud of soot erupted from her tail pipe and engulfed a group of men passing on the sidewalk. She hunched low and pulled away quickly, not daring to look in her rearview until she’d rounded the curb.

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A car turned into the unvented alley. Its headlights momentarily chased the night from every corner before they flicked off and the engine fell silent. Jessie stirred; awakened by the flash of brilliance. She peeked through the rusted hole in the dumpster’s side. She always slept positioned where she could see through the cavity – that was probably one of the most valuable tips she’d picked up in her months on the street. Above all was to never be without an escape of course; but the second most important was to never get blindsided. Jessie had seen what became of women who had been snuck up on- and they were full grown.

The driver door opened and a hefty man pulled himself lumberously from behind the wheel. Jessie wrapped her frail arms more tightly about her thin body. The shadows concealed all but his shape and the other guy was in the way-

Holy cow… Where had that one come from? He was standing between Jessie’s dumpster and the car. He had to have come in while she was passed out. She must have been sleeping heavy tonight – an effect of the cold.

Jessie quietly shrank deeper beneath the garbage bags that acted as mattress, cover, camouflage, and protection. The heavy duty sacks were ballooned to capacity with papers, old clothing, single shoes and the likes that Tiger regarded as useless. From the smell of things, Tiger might have slipped a few beer cans into the ‘clean’ trash; the stench of which occasionally recalled memories Jessie preferred to block. She’d have to have another talk with him. They were supposed to have a deal: fifty bucks every two weeks and Tiger didn’t spring for dump pickup. Plus he was supposed to keep his food and rottables separate. It was a good deal- when Tiger held up his end of the bargain. Her shoes brushed the interior backside. She shifted until her feet found the crevasse in the rear panel; then further still. Her tennis scraped the rough-edged, frost-layered brick of the alley’s dead-ending barrier.

Rule#1: Always have an escape.

Secure in the knowledge that she could easily make a hasty departure if the need arose, she put her full attention back on the events unfolding just outside her little cubby.

Rule#6: Don’t be nosy; it gets people killed.

But Jessie couldn’t bring herself to slip away just yet. It was cold in the bin which meant it would be even colder outside. Hell, it wasn’t like the men were setting up tents or anything. They’d probably leave themselves pretty soon. No reason to go losing all her stored heat for nothing right? The one that hadn’t come in the car was tall and lean. Judging by the way the dim street lighting glistened off his crisp suit: he probably had deep pockets.

You said it was urgent.

He shifted and Jessie lifted brows at the fact that the vehicle was a police car. The hefty man sidestepped Richie Rich and moved deeper into the shadows of the inlet. Toward the dumpster. I got some valuable information for you. Stuff you need to know before tomorrow’s proceedings. They think they’re gonna blindside you…

The policeman’s uniform shirt was wrinkled, his tie crooked. A gun sat in his holster – but he was drawing another from under his belly. Jessie’s breath caught. She covered her mouth holding in any sounds of shock.

Oh crap: a dirty cop. He was gonna kill the rich man! Jessie could see the set up but the tall one didn’t see it. He was walking right into-

Get out of here girl; Denise’s voice in Jessie’s head, what are you still doing here?!

The officer spun with the gun in hand. As he did his features were revealed- only for a split second, but it was enough. Three shots rang. There was a surprised cry of alarm. The thud of a body collapsing against cold cement. Jessie couldn’t take her eyes from the scene. She didn’t want to watch anymore, didn’t want to see the life bleeding out of the poor sap. Only moments before that had been a living, breathing human being…

Rule #2 kicked in like muscle-memory. Never get blindsided.

Jessie glanced at the cop- and found him glaring at the dumpster! Only then did she realize it hadn’t been the dead guy who’d yelled out. The scream had come from her! The cop took two quick steps forward. Jessie was already shimmied through the back hatch. He stepped onto the grip lock and sank his arm into the bin searching for something living to pull up. Five more shots echoed into the night.

Jessie squeezed her lips together and smothered them with both hands. She crouched frozen in fear in the narrow gap between the dumpster and the wall. Loud pings ensued; bullets ricocheting off the interior seemingly right against her ear. Then all was quiet again. She wanted desperately to slip through the crater in the brick and be far away before the cop realized she was still alive- but she was paralyzed. Pure terror had her frozen in place.

Yeah; yeah it’s done. He’s dead.

Jessie unintentionally registered the one-sided conversation; incapable of taking any other action at the moment. She was petrified in a low squat. The exaggerated rat hole was right there. RIGHT THERE. She just had to move a little to be through it- but she just couldn’t.

Had a little bump – someone might have seen somethin’ but it’s taken care of… I’m sure. His words faded. Footsteps traveled away. A car door opened and closed. Suddenly the entire world was awash in a brilliant glow. Headlights.

Jessie snapped out of her daze. She had a half second to slip partly through the hole in the cement before her stomach lurched. She heaved her supper onto the pavement. She gagged; covered her mouth to muffle the sounds- even as the spew poured out of her. Heart racing, Jessie scrambled the rest of the way through the escape. She trembled so violently that she bloodied her knees tripping over her own feet. She fled, unaware and uncaring that streams of urine were freezing onto her legs in the icy night’s air.

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Trace groaned and rolled. His hand searched for the bed stand from whence the incessant ringing emitted. He felt the boxy alarm clock. Without cognitive thought he gripped the machine and hurled it into the dark. It hit a wall and clamored to the floor. When the ringing continued, he realized with an exhausted curse that it was his cell phone and not the alarm blaring for attention. Trace opened bloodshot eyes. He squinted at the up-side-down numbers glowing red from across the room. 5:05 am. Trace felt for the cell, found it, and answered groggily: Yeah?

Detective Falon. Kyle here… Captain wants you to meet him on May Street ASAP sir.

Trace rubbed his temple. What the hell is Myers doing on May St. at 5 in the morning?

Can’t say any more than that he wants you here ASAP. Kyle loved dispatch for one reason and one reason alone: Kyle was obsessed with knowing everything. Not only did Kyle know everything, but Kyle considered it his civic duty to make sure every member of 2nd Division Precinct was as well informed as he. If Kyle wasn’t at liberty to say something it was because he had someone breathing down his neck listening to every word coming out of his mouth.

Captain Myers confirmed Trace’s suspicion when his voice came on the line and he could be heard shoving Kyle aside. Falon. What part of ‘as-soon-as-possible’ had you confused?

That’d be the ‘ass’, sir; but everything’s cleared up now. After a moment of groggy contemplation he recalled May Street was in Brunswick. That was the 14th’s jurisdiction. They had their own detectives. Can I ask why we’re jumping circuit?

Just get here Falon. And I mean now.

Trace huffed. Yeah alright. Be there in 30.

Make it fi-

Trace disconnected. He laid a moment longer spread eagle under the thick covers. The house was cold because Trace didn’t have the money to turn the thermostat up even one notch. He’d had a fire going in the living room heath- but that had died sometime after he’d fallen asleep the first time. He’d woken around 2 am to move from the couch to the bedroom. He lived in a single story 2-bed /1-bath surrounded by a neighborhood of converted duplexes. Most of the other houses had become two-family rentals but as Trace made his payments on time every time his home remained his own – even if he couldn’t afford to heat it. Three more years and it was his for good. Then he could drop every cent of the eight hundred dollar payments into heating and cooling. He