Tuesday, 13 March

0017 hours

“5106, in your area. 339 George Street, the Seaton House. Male going berserk, attacking staff with a chair. Units to back up 5106? Time, 0017.”

Jack’s hands twitched on the steering wheel as the dispatcher voiced the hotshot. The urge to hit the lights and turn the scout car around was almost too strong to ignore. He took a deep breath and forced his hands to relax.

“Doesn’t get any easier, does it?”

Jack glanced at the officer in the passenger seat and shook his head. “You’d think after three months up here I’d be used to it. Guess in my heart I’m still a 51 copper.” He snorted. “Might be easier to forget I’m no longer down there if there was more going on up here.”

His escort laughed but not without sympathy. “Welcome to 53 Division, Jack: the Sleepy Hollow of Toronto. Give it time, you’ll get used to it.” Brett Douglas spoke from experience, having transferred to the mid-city division after spending fourteen years in the shithole that was 14 Division. The two divisions, 51 and 14, were similar in nature: drugs and violence, and they bracketed 52 Division, the business and entertainment core of Toronto. As such, they were frequently referred to as the city’s armpits.

Jack eased the car to a stop at the red light at Yonge Street and Eglinton Avenue. “How long did it take you to get used to the pace up here?”

“’Bout a year.”

Jack groaned.

The light changed and Jack continued their slow crawl up Yonge Street. It was the first mild day after a cold winter and despite the hour, the streets and sidewalks were busy with people relishing the much-needed touch of spring. The snow still piled everywhere and the warmth had dropped from the air with the setting sun. The city could be dumped back into a deep-freeze tomorrow, but for tonight winter was in retreat and every club and pub was in full celebration mode. Jack even saw the odd open patio; he thought that was taking positive thinking to a new level of drunkenness.

Jack Warren, originally of 32 Division, lately of 51 and Officer of the Year, was bored out of his bloody mind. After spending the first six years of his career in the north-central part of the city writing traffic tickets and dealing with shoplifters, he had transferred to 51, affectionately known as the toilet, armpit and asshole of the city. In three brief months he had learned, painfully at times, the immense difference between being a police officer and being a street cop. And tragedy had scarred his life. His partner murdered, his wife taken hostage, himself seriously wounded at the hands of his partner’s killer. But Jack had triumphed, avenging his partner and saving his wife. 51 had forged him in blood and fire and laid claim to his soul.

Now, half a year later, he was on his way to break up a house party. Oh . . . bloody . . . joy.

“Actually, Jack, I’ve never understood how you ended up here. After all the shit you went through, I’d’ve thought you would have had your pick of the squads. If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here?”

Jack laughed and even to his ears it sounded bitter. Why, indeed. “It was a compromise. I wanted to stay in 51 and my wife, Karen, wanted me to quit policing altogether. When I told her 53 had no housing projects and was pretty much a dead spot, she agreed to let me work here.”

“Agreed to let you?” Brett’s voice held an amused note.

“It was either that or a divorce,” Jack snapped.

“Hey, no offence meant,” Brett pleaded, his hands held up in appeasement. “I’m all too familiar with an unpleasant home life.”

“Sorry, Brett, I’m just so fucking bored here.”

“That explains why you keep sliding down into 51 to help out with calls. Let me guess: your wife doesn’t know that 53 borders the top end of 51 or that the divisions share the same radio band.”

Jack smiled impishly. “I may have forgotten to mention that.”

“But it was an honest mistake,” Brett suggested.

“Absolutely,” Jack agreed and they both laughed.

“Well,” Brett proclaimed, “while 51 fights the good fight, we are on our way to rescue a poor teenager from his own stupidity.”

“Speaking of that: it’s gotta be a typo, right? One hundred unwanted guests? I can see one, or ten, but a hundred?”

“Nope, it happens a lot up here but more often at the end of the school year. Some kid’s parents plan to go away for the weekend and Junior decides to invite a few friends over. By the time the weekend rolls around, word of the party has spread through the whole school and that little get-together becomes one big-ass party. By the time the house is getting trashed and there’s an orgy on the parents’ bed, Junior panics and calls us.”

“Better call the ETF,” Jack said dryly.

“Hey, you never know. We might get lucky and there could be some — dare I say it? — marijuana.”

“Marijuana and drunk teenagers? I don’t know if I can take the excitement.”

“Hey, you have to take what excitement you can find in 53.”

Jack goosed the car through a yellow light at Blythwood Road. “Why did you leave 14? It’s like 51, isn’t it? But with a different cultural makeup?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brett agreed. “Drugs and all the shit that goes with them.” He was silent for a moment, reflecting. “I guess I left because I didn’t like the person I was turning into.”

Jack looked at him. Brett didn’t elaborate. “Meaning?”

“It’s a story for another day.” Brett sighed. “Let’s just say that, after spending fourteen years among the shit of humanity, it starts to wear off on you.” He was quiet again, then perked up. “But it’s always nice to have that 14 or 51 copper inside you ’cause every once in a while he gets to come out and play and it scares the shit out of the pukes who have only dealt with spineless 53 coppers.”

“Don’t I know it.” In the two and a half months Jack had spent on the road in his new division, he had actually seen cops back down or walk away from a confrontation. Not often and definitely not every cop, but even once was too many. “I still think you’re right and they should go back to training divisions. Everyone should start in a shithole.”

Brett nodded. “Certainly can learn a lot more than in a quiet place like this.”

Jack enjoyed working with Brett. They were kindred spirits and had very similar views about policing. In particular, they weren’t in favour of the touchy-feely style of community policing some of the brass were flaunting as the new direction for the Toronto Police Service. Hell, it wasn’t all that long ago that it had been a force, not a service. But, of course, force had sounded too military, so the Toronto Police Service had been born.

Not that Jack and Brett were Neanderthals with badges, opting for brawn over brains. Not likely. Working in a shithole hammered home one lesson perfectly, and frequently: in a fight, anyone could get hurt. And lesson number two: whenever a cop got into a fight, there was at least one gun present. Why risk tangling with some guy and letting him get within reach of your gun if you could talk him into cuffs?

But, given the nature of the job, there were times when some knob just wouldn’t listen to reason and it was off with the kid gloves and on with the leather ones lined with Kevlar. Sometimes brute force has a style all its own.

Jack turned onto Lawrence Crescent. The streets between Yonge Street and Mount Pleasant Avenue were lined with older, expensive homes and the neighbourhood oozed money. The division had too many neighbourhoods that oozed that way.

It wasn’t hard to find the house. On a street where most people had already settled in for the night, one home was ablaze with lights. Cars crammed the driveway and overflowed onto the street. One ingenious driver had opted to park on the front lawn but had only made it halfway over the snowbank lining one side of the driveway.

Wonder if he was pissed before or after parking?

Jack stopped on the street in front of the house, clogging the last bit of clear roadway. It was either that, or park more than two blocks away and Jack wanted the scout car close by; he had a feeling someone could be leaving the party with them. Brett didn’t comment on the parking.

They got out of the car and headed for the house. On the road, broken glass crunched underfoot and Brett had to step around a steaming puddle of vomit on the sidewalk. Standing at the bottom of the driveway, they surveyed the street. Cans and bottles, mostly beer but the odd wine bottle, littered the snow-covered front yards of several houses on both sides of the party house. Next door a youth was staggering barefoot in the snow, a beer can clutched in one hand and a queasy look on his face. If he’s old enough to drive, I’ll volunteer to clean up the street; two guesses whose puke Brett stepped around.

“I’d say we have enough grounds to shut down this party right now even if the complainant doesn’t want to.” Brett didn’t sound impressed with what he was seeing.

“Absolutely.” Neither did Jack.

There was another scout car parked in a neighbour’s driveway, but there were no cops in sight. Jack and Brett headed up the driveway. The front walk looked like it hadn’t been shovelled at all during the winter. They made their way down the side of the house, following a path of packed snow, to where a wood fence separated the driveway from the backyard. Three teens stood by a gate, beers in hand and none too steady.

And, of course, one decided to be an idiot.

“Sorry, officers, but this is a private party.” He was smiling the type of shit-eating grin only a head full of booze can produce. “No pigs — I mean cops — allowed.”

He was a big kid, but Brett was bigger. Standing six foot six and weighing a solid three hundred, Brett was bigger than most people. Only idiots or drunks would try to stop him from going where he wanted to.

Brett shoved the kid aside without stopping. The kid landed in a pile of slushy snow — warm weather and salt, just his luck — and struggled to get up, a look of indignant anger on his face.

Jack stopped in front of him. Jack was eight inches shorter and a hundred pounds or so lighter than Brett, but his words, delivered in an emotionless voice, didn’t need size to back them up. “Is it worth spending the night in the hospital?”

The kid stayed in the snow. He wasn’t as drunk as he looked.

Jack gave him and his buddies some advice. “I’d find someplace else to be. This party’s about to be shut down.”

He joined Brett by the gate. The big cop had a scowl on his face and his words matched. “I hate it when these little shits think they can do whatever they want ’cause Mommy and Daddy have money.”

“Yeah, but it gives you a reason to introduce them to the 14 side of you.”

The gate opened onto a large backyard, not so uncommon in a neighbourhood as established as this, and they found the party. Or at least the outside portion of it. The house had two floors; a single-storey sunroom jutted out at the back. The roof of this sunroom was a walk-out patio; Jack thought it would be a pleasant place to laze away the afternoons. That evening it was packed railing to railing with happy revellers. Jack had a fleeting concern the patio would end up in the sunroom. Not that it would have slowed anyone down, judging from the amount of alcohol in hand up there.

Brett must have come to the same conclusion. “Man, I’m getting buzzed just looking at all that booze.”

Jack nodded and pointed to the back door. The two missing coppers from the other cruiser were knocking ineffectively on the door. They were a pair of older guys from the evening shift. If 53 had a quarter-century club like 51 had, for officers who had lasted twenty-five straight years in the division, these two would be founding members.

Only after it was obvious — painfully obvious in Jack’s opinion — that no one was going to answer the door, or could even hear the knocking over the music blaring inside, one of the cops backed up a few steps to holler up at the patio. “Who’s Eric? He called the police. We need to speak with him.”

The officer’s request was met with a chorus of abuse. A number of voices, most sounding drunk and all very loud, told the officers where they could go and what they could do with Eric when they got there.

The officers stepped back from the house as if they were being pelted with more than just words. They shared a look, shrugging in a unison that spoke of a long partnership, and gave their backs to the house. Jeers and more abuse rained down on them as they walked away. They passed Jack and Brett without making eye contact or saying a word.

It was the younger cops’ turn to share a look.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Jack said.

Brett was in full agreement. “No fucking way.”

They approached the sunroom and Jack called out for Eric, the poor underage son of a bitch who was going to have a shitload of explaining to do when his parents got home.

Bolstered by their successful repulsion of the first attack on their party, the crowd atop the sunroom — a goodly mix of high schoolers and university types, Jack thought — grew bolder still. Jack and Brett were assailed by shouts of “Fuck you!” “Fuck off!” and the catchy “Fuck you, you fucking pig fucks!” A few brave souls from deep within the mob and well out of sight tossed empty and not so empty plastic cups at them. The cups clacked jauntily against the paving stones.

Jack looked at Brett and saw his rising anger mirrored in the big man’s eyes.

The verbal assault was growing louder but not much more imaginative until a beer bottle shattered on the ground next to Jack. A shocked silence dropped on the crowd after the sudden, shrill explosion. The partiers waited anxiously to see what the reaction would be. Playtime was very definitely over.

In the quivering silence, Brett asked Jack, “Do you want to kick in the door, or shall I?”

Jack extended his hand. Be my guest.

From what Jack could see through a window, the back door led to a kitchen. Brett yanked open the screen door, then found that the inner one was locked. Word from the patio — the cops are going to kick down the door! — must have sped to the kitchen; as Brett raised a fist to pound on the wood, locks clacked and the door snapped open.

But, not surprisingly, the police were not greeted with heartfelt hospitality. The doorway was blocked by a university-aged kid dressed in boxer shorts, T-shirt and socks. He had a mean scowl on his face, but Jack thought, It’s hard to be intimidating when you’re wearing just your undies.

“You Eric?” Brett growled.

The scowl became a sneer. “No.”

“Then get him.”

Brett’s growl was better than the kid’s sneer, but Jack gave the kid marks for balls; he didn’t back down.

“He’s busy. He says you can go away.”

It wasn’t often Brett had to look up when talking to someone. That must have been why the kid had been appointed door guardian. Again, Jack gave the kid points for balls. But balls without brains will only get you hurt. Ask the beer-drinking moron in the driveway. Door Guardian might have been taller than Brett, but Jack doubted he was half Brett’s weight.

“Move,” Brett said, stepping forward.

That’s when Door Guardian went from ballsy and stupid to just plain stupid. “You can’t come in here,” he declared and straight-armed Brett in the chest. He might as well have punched an oak tree. A moving oak tree.

Brett kept going forward and when he shoved, the kid flew a good three feet. The only reason he didn’t go farther was that he hit a wall. He hit hard enough to rattle the shelves above him, then slid to his butt, a dazed, what-the-hell-just-happened expression on his face.

Brett stepped into the kitchen and Jack was right behind him, giving Door Guardian a cautionary “Stay down” as he walked past.

The kitchen was a crowded mess. Pizza boxes and empty bottles littered every available surface: table, countertops, island. Someone had put a lot of money into upgrading the kitchen and was going to be royally pissed when he or she saw it. One cupboard door had a fist-sized hole in it and another two were hanging from broken hinges. The stainless-steel fridge sported several dents in its door and the pot rack that should have been hanging above the island was a metallic garbage pile on the floor.

Brett stopped in the middle of the room, commanding the attention of the dozen or so teens present. Most of them looked nervous and darted glances at Door Guardian, who had yet to regain his feet. Brett didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to. The party was still in full stride outside the kitchen, but in here it was dead and everyone knew it.

“I want Eric in front of me in the next ten seconds. I won’t ask twice.”

Two kids bolted from the room and another took a more direct approach. He leaned into the next room and yelled, “Eric! Someone get Eric in here, right fucking now!”

Moments later — it might have been more than ten seconds but not by much — a very frightened yet relieved-looking Eric scampered into the kitchen. His sock feet slid in a puddle of something and he would have ended up planting his ass in the puddle had Brett not grabbed him by the arm. Brett hauled him upright, none too gently and planted him on his feet.

Eric was the type of person who had “Kick Me” permanently taped to his back. Small, scrawny and pimpled, wearing glasses, he was natural bully fodder.

Could this kid be any more of a stereotypical geek? Jack felt pity, remembering his pudgy high school years.

“Are you Eric?” Brett asked, fixing the trembling teen with a steeled stare.

The kid gulped audibly. “Yes, sir.”

The music cut off in mid-blare and its sudden absence left a hollow feeling in the air. It was as if the party was sitting on the electric chair, waiting to see if the last-minute reprieve would come through.

“Did you call the police, Eric?”

“Yes, sir.” Strike one.

“Did you invite all these people into your house?”

“No, sir.” Strike two.

Brett lifted his gaze to take in everyone in the kitchen or peering in from the living room. “And do you want us to remove all these people?”

Eric hesitated, no doubt weighing the wrath of his parents against the ostracism he would face at school. He glanced at the group behind him, then at Brett. He licked dry lips. “Yes, sir.” Strike three. Throw the switch, boys.

“Good call.”

Brett and Jack waded into the living room, the crowd parting before them almost magically. The living room had fared better than the kitchen, but the carpet was shot to hell. No amount of steam cleaning would remove the spilled drinks, mashed food and mud from what Jack was willing to bet had previously been a pristine white carpet.

“Listen up!” Brett announced. “This party is over. Put your drinks down and leave by the front door. And I mean now.”

There were quiet grumbles and protests, but soon a reluctant but steady stream of kids snaked out the front door.

Once the crowd was moving, Jack headed for the stairs to flush out the second floor. He rousted two couples out of bedrooms then made his way to the master bedroom. The parents’ — the soon to be very surprised parents’ — bedroom was a grand affair dominated by a huge four-poster bed. Sliding glass doors, one of them cracked — Jack was willing to bet the damage was pretty damn recent — led to the rooftop patio. He didn’t have to open the doors; one of them was already wide open and letting in one hell of a draft. Next heating bill’s going to be a bitch. He stepped onto the deck.

“Party’s over, everyone. Get out.”

“Fuck that, we don’t have to leave.”

Jack was startled by the voice behind him but tried not to let it show as he looked over his shoulder. A guy definitely too old to be in high school was coming into the bedroom, buttoning his fly.

Didn’t check the bathroom, Jack. Getting sloppy.

The newcomer was wearing a University of Toronto leather jacket open over a bare chest. The muscle on display and the perfected swagger screamed jock; the graduation date on the jacket sleeve was from two years earlier and suggested either a grad still hanging out with the university crowd or an idiot who didn’t spend enough time studying. Jack was willing to bet on the idiot explanation.

“Sorry, bud, the party’s over and everyone has to leave. You first.” Jack pointed to the door.

Jockhead screwed his face up and dismissed Jack with a flick of the fingers as he brushed by.

Jack clamped a hand onto his right arm and pulled him back. “I said, you have to —”

Jockhead ripped his arm free and then proved how stupid he really was: he spat in Jack’s face. “Fuck you, pig!” He turned to the partygoers while giving Jack the finger.

Jack’s anger blazed hot and sudden. Better had the kid just punched Jack: assaulting a cop got you arrested, spitting on one landed you in the hospital. Jack reached for Jockhead, the rest of the party people forgotten.

“All right, fuckhead, you’re under —”

The jock spun and Jack saw the fist coming. He jerked his head at the last instant and took a glancing blow to the cheek. Jockhead was cocking his right arm for a haymaker when Jack dug his hands into the jacket collar and pulled the kid forward into a crushing head butt. Jack’s forehead smashed squarely into Jockhead’s nose. Bone cracked, blood erupted.

The watching crowd oohed at the brutal impact and gasped as Jockhead fell limp in Jack’s hands. Jack looked into Jockhead’s unfocusing eyes. “You’re under arrest.”

Satisfied he wasn’t going to get any immediate resistance from his prisoner, Jack faced the crowd. “Get out. Now.”

He stood impassively as the partiers, considerably sobered up after what they had witnessed, scurried past him. Some even mumbled apologies. It wasn’t long before the patio belonged to Jack and the still-dazed Jockhead.

Brett came into the bedroom, glancing back as the last of the partiers hurried down the stairs. Then he looked at the bloodied man sagging in Jack’s grip. Unfazed, he simply said, “I bet that’s going to be a complaint.”

“I’ll say that’s going to be a complaint,” Manny laughed, munching on a cookie then washing it down with hot chocolate. “Lawsuit, too, probably.”

“Gee, thanks for the support.”

“C’mon, dude. This just proves what I’ve been saying since you started up here: putting a 51 copper in 53 is like putting a shark in the guppy tank.”

Jack snickered. “I don’t think it’s quite that bad.”

The scout cars were parked driver’s side to driver’s side — the universal position for a police coffee meet — in the Loblaws parking lot at the top of the Bayview Avenue hill, just a stone’s throw inside 53 Division.

“The man has a point, Jack. You belong in 51.” Paul Townsend was one of the biggest and blackest men in 51.

“Ah, the sleeping giant awakes.”

“Had court all day, Jack. Have to get my beauty sleep sometime. Might as well get paid for it.” Paul stretched massively muscular arms — although wrapped in the bulky uniform parka they simply seemed massive — and cracked his neck from side to side.

“I don’t think anyone will blame you for napping all of ten minutes, dude. Did you get any sleep after court?”

Paul shook his head and flashed an amazingly white smile at the same time. “Was gonna, but the old lady wanted to have some fun. If you know what I mean.” He playfully nudged Manny and knocked him into the driver’s door. Paul was an inch shorter than Brett and had a physique most professional bodybuilders would kill for. He was also stupidly strong, as Manny could attest to.

Manny slowly straightened up, rubbing his left shoulder. “Easy, dude, I need that arm to shoot.”

“Baby,” Paul scoffed.

Jack grinned at the banter. God, how he missed working with these guys. Paul was one of the nicest people to ever wear the uniform and could quiet a room just by walking into it. If he and Brett paired up, they’d be their own two-man riot squad.

At six feet, Manny carried his own share of muscle but disguised it beneath good eating. As he explained it, he had washboard abs like Paul but had a load of towels in the wash. His shaved head disguised a retreating hairline; his non-regulation goatee was made legal by a thin strip of hair along his jaw. Manny was not your average-looking cop. But then, he was a unique individual.

Manny — William Armsman to most supervisors — was an excitable puppy on a leash. He and Jack had shared a strong partnership until Jack ended up in snoozeville, a.k.a. 53 Division. They hadn’t worked together long but had gone through some definite shit and Jack knew he could always trust Manny to have his back. Manny had a huge heart and a huge mouth — the mouth seemed to get him in the sergeants’ sights too often when it worked without consulting his brain — and threw himself into the job with a childlike enthusiasm.

“You okay, Brett? Did I get your coffee wrong?” Manny asked Jack’s passenger.

Brett started as if Manny had roused him from a deep sleep. “Um, no. Sorry. Coffee’s fine.”

“Cool. Just checking.”

“Is there a SOCO on the air in 51?”

The call came over the radio and Manny promptly snatched up the mike. “5105, talk to me,” he said, using his best film noir voice.

“I need you at a B and E for prints and photos.”

“10-4, on the way. Dispatch, could you put us on that call?” Manny revved the engine then dropped the car into drive. “Sorry, dudes. Duty calls. I’m off to solve another crime. Later.”

Watching the tail lights disappear down Bayview, Brett asked, “How can a guy that hyper stay still long enough to dust for fingerprints?”

“I’ve often wondered that myself.” Jack started up the car. “Well, it’s four a.m. in 53. Do you want to cruise the quiet neighbourhoods or the quiet commercial areas?”

Once the bars closed for the night, all activity in 53 generally vanished. Jack sighed. This had always been his favourite time in 51: except for the odd one or two, radio calls were pretty much done for the night and it would be time to play. And playtime in 51 meant chasing the drug dealers. In 53, the second half of any night shift was a struggle to stay awake.

“I miss 51,” he muttered as he pulled out of the lot.

“How you holding up, hon?” Karen eased in beside Jack and he slipped an arm around her waist.

Smiling for the other guests, he turned to her and whispered in her ear, “I’m freaking dying.”

From one house party to another. And this one was nowhere near as fun as the one he and Brett had broken up the night before.

No, this morning. Today, I think. It’s still Tuesday, right? Ah, the joys of shift work.

After busting up the party and leaving poor Eric to clean up as best he could while contemplating his future — if it had been a teenaged Jack and his dad, death would have been a definite possibility — they had taken Jockhead, also known as Matthew Covingston, to the station. After a stopover at Sunnybrook Hospital, that was. Jockhead’s nose had indeed been broken and by the time he was released from the station hours later, he had two beautiful shiners bracketing his nose splint.

As he had left the station, Jockhead had sworn revenge, screaming an all too familiar refrain in 53 Division: “I’ll sue your ass! My mom’s a lawyer!”

Jack rarely slept well on night shift anymore. Seven years ago, as a squeaky-clean rookie, he was able to sleep anywhere, anytime, but not anymore. Now, after a poor day’s sleep, he was at his in-laws’ house in Stouffville pretending to enjoy himself while all he wanted was to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Karen’s dad, good old George Hawthorn Sr. — Oops, forgot the Doctor, sorry, George — had published yet another book and was throwing a Congratulations to Me party. He and the missus, Evelyn Hawthorn — no pretentious “doctor” or “senior” attached to her name — had invited several dozen of their closest friends to help Hawthorn stroke his ego. At least that’s how Jack saw it.

Hawthorn taught political science at the University of Toronto and his most recent book of six was yet another tome on the post-economic, socially destructive mating habits of the rich and egotistical. Or something like that. Jack’s eyes glazed over while Hawthorn was regaling his captive audience with his book’s incredible insights. Jack had to admit, Hawthorn was intelligent and no doubt his writing would be beyond Jack’s comprehension, but why that didn’t excuse him from this fabulous shindig, Jack couldn’t say.

But that was sheer bullshit, wasn’t it? Jack knew perfectly well why he was here.

Hawthorn resented that his only daughter was married to someone as common as Jack, someone who had not even finished university and was a public servant and, yes, stress the servant part. There was an older son, George Jr., and he was off somewhere adding letters after his name and no doubt Hawthorn had expected his daughter to marry someone of equal education. All through their dating, engagement and marriage, Jack’s in-laws slapped him down at every chance. And not just good old Dad but both of them, for Evelyn could be just as condescending toward Jack as her husband, although she disguised it as a mother’s natural belief that no man was good enough for her daughter. His upbringing, his education, his job, his salary — none of it was good enough for their daughter.

At first, Jack had hoped they would grow to accept him as they realized his presence in Karen’s life was more than just temporary. But that had been foolish thinking. If anything, their dislike of the future son-in-law had grown in direct proportion to the relationship. In time, it had become a mutual dislike and distrust, especially with Hawthorn. By the time Jack and Karen were married — on Hawthorn’s bill, of course. Can’t let the useless son-in-law forget that, can we? — Evelyn had become a side player in the game and the game was simple: every chance he got, Hawthorn reminded Jack that he was unworthy of his daughter and Jack would grin and take it, refusing to respond to the demeaning questions, comments and oh so subtle displays of wealth and breeding.

And why did Jack take it? Why did he tolerate being Hawthorn’s punching bag? Because he loved Karen, who idolized her father. She was aware of the tension between the two men in her life and did her best to soothe both of them. For her father, she continued her education despite working full time as a public-school teacher and attended his social functions, smiling and chatting politely with the eligible suitors he paraded before her. Soothing Jack was much easier and considerably more fun. He often wondered what Hawthorn would say if he found out just how uninhibited his special little girl could be.

Jack smiled and sipped his cider. He had developed a liking for it after Manny introduced him to it at a beach party the previous year and now he always brought his own supply to any function of Hawthorn’s. Savouring the tart taste, he let his free hand slide down from Karen’s waist. He knew she was wearing stockings and a garter belt under her little black dress; she had shown him outside their SUV before the long trek up the driveway. A down payment on the reward he would receive later for enduring the party and he liked to remind himself by feel every so often.

For the moment, Jack was chatting with a couple closer to his age — twenty-nine in a few months, closing in on the big three-oh — than most of the other guests. Whether it was the age or that Scott was the only other guy Jack had seen not wearing a tie didn’t matter. Age and an aversion to ties were about the only things they had in common, but they tried.

“Play any tennis, Jack?” Scott asked.

“No. Played some rugby in university. You?”

“Sorry. Do you sail?”

“Some canoeing in the summer.”

The small talk fell into a lull and both men filled the gap by taking a drink, Jack his bottled cider and Scott something straight over ice. They were standing by the fireplace, enjoying the warmth and sound as the flames licked the real logs. No gas fireplace for Hawthorn. Jack found it slightly annoying that he agreed with his father-in-law on this one thing. But then again, Hawthorn had had the brick painted and Jack thought anyone who covered up brick or stone with paint was an idiot.

“Your parents have a beautiful home, Karen.” Scott resorted to gesturing with his drink hand.

“It is, isn’t it?” Karen gave Scott a stunning smile and Jack noticed Scott’s wife’s eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. “Mom and Dad just moved in, although they bought it some time ago. It took a while for the contractors to get everything done.”

Trust Hawthorn to buy a fixer-upper, a freaking huge fixer-upper, then hire someone else to do all the work. His idea of do-it-yourself was writing the cheques. The house was a turn-of-the-century estate and Jack had to admit Hawthorn’s money had been well spent; the old home was magnificent. Jack’s only problem with the place, other than the painted fireplace, was its location. Stouffville was a beautiful historic town just north of Toronto and far too close for his liking. Jack would have preferred it if Karen’s parents had moved somewhere a touch farther away. Alaska, for instance.

Scott was a likable enough fellow, but, like the rest of the high-end guest list, he was unwilling to ask about Jack’s work. No doubt they all knew the story, Hawthorn’s version at least, of how Jack had witnessed his partner’s murder then shot the killer to death inside Jack’s home after his wife, Hawthorn’s only precious daughter, had been taken hostage. Jack wasn’t quite sure what spin his father-in-law put on the story when he told it but was sure it was not favourable to him. It was as if they all saw Jack as some savage animal or barbarian, only marginally tamed and totally unpredictable.

Don’t ask him about work, my dear, you may provoke him and there’s no telling what he’ll do. Did you know he killed a man? And right in front of George’s poor daughter. Poor George, having such a brute for a son-in-law.

Lillian, Scott’s wife, was a very beautiful Asian woman with a slinky red dress that seemed a touch too risqué for a cocktail party, but then maybe she was enjoying the slightly annoyed and peeved looks the other wives were shooting her way. Jack wondered if she had shown her husband what underwear she was, or wasn’t, wearing before coming to the party. She stepped in to save the two floundering men.

“Do the two of you have children?” she asked, her voice no more than a breathy whisper.

Jack let Karen field that question; it was one of her favourites. She shook her head, tumbling her long blonde hair about her shoulders. Jack cast a quick look between the women, eyebrow raised curiously. He couldn’t detect any hostility, but if that little hair manoeuvre wasn’t some kind of challenge he’d sit down and gladly read Hawthorn’s book cover to cover.

“We don’t have any children yet,” Karen replied, her voice soft and not dangerous at all. “We hope to start a family soon, though. And you?”

Lillian smiled, a mere baring of teeth. “We haven’t decided yet, but that doesn’t stop us from practising.” She curled herself seductively around Scott’s arm.

Jack had seen guys get in territorial pissing contests and outright fights, but this was the first time he’d been ringside to an alpha-female scrap.

Scott must have figured something was up as well, for he was quick to add, “Any dogs, Jack? We have two French bulldogs.”

“I’d love to have a dog,” Jack said as he felt the tension ease in Karen. Ease, but not disappear. “But Karen wants to wait until after we have kids.”

Scott wanted to know why. Lillian was content to remain quiet, smiling sweetly at Karen every now and then.

“I think it’s best to wait until the children are older,” Karen explained. “It’s safer that way.”

“Nonsense,” Scott scoffed. “Dogs and babies get along just fine.”

“That’s what I keep telling her,” Jack said. “I grew up with black Labs. Hell, my dad’s dog was considered the firstborn son.”

“Oh, no,” Karen disagreed, shaking her head, and this time there was nothing flirtatious or subtle about it. “My parents had a dog when they were first married and they had to get rid of it when my brother was born. Isn’t that right, Dad?”

Hawthorn had obviously decided to see what the barbarian was up to and had casually sidled over to the small group. Jack saw with petty satisfaction that, as he approached, Hawthorn noticed Jack’s hand resting on the curve of Karen’s buttock. He tried to keep his face pleasant, but a tightening around the good doctor’s eyes gave him away. Jack hugged his wife a touch closer.

“Is what right, sweetheart?” Hawthorn had a deep, rolling voice that must have sounded impressive in lecture halls. Jack bet he practised it before going to bed at night.

“You had to get rid of your dog when George was born.”

Hawthorn nodded solemnly. Jack groaned inwardly. All Hawthorn needed was a tweed jacket and pipe to complete his Serious Professor look. But Jack had to admit his father-in-law was a good-looking man. A full head of hair, black but greying — distinguishingly, mind you — and a clean-shaven, strong jaw gave him an enviable look. Despite being an avid runner, like his daughter, he was starting to develop a bit of a paunch, Jack noted. Again, with petty satisfaction.

“Dogs and babies just don’t socialize that well,” Hawthorn explicated for those less knowledgeable and experienced than he. “Canines will commonly grow jealous of the newborn, seeing the baby as an intrusion into the family pack. Unfortunately, this jealousy can at times result in attacks on the infant.”

A few other guests had joined the group with Hawthorn. To Jack they were nothing more than parasites, weak social feeders trailing in Hawthorn’s wake hoping to improve their status by sheer proximity to the professor. They were nodding wisely in agreement. Normally, Jack wouldn’t have bothered to contradict his father-in-law in public; Hawthorn was a natural debater adept at twisting an argument to his advantage, not caring if his opinion was correct, but this was something too close to Jack’s heart to ignore.

“Or,” Jack offered, “if the parents are responsible enough, they don’t ignore the dog. They make him part of the baby’s world. My parents said Shamrock slept under my crib and was very protective of me.”

“I’m surprised your parents valued . . . Shamrock, was it? . . . so much that they would be willing to risk their son for the sake of a dog.” Hawthorn smiled to take the sting out of his words. Not that he was criticizing Jack’s upbringing . . . again. “Evelyn and I weren’t prepared to needlessly endanger George Jr. or Karen. Anyone who truly loved Karen would never even entertain the notion.” Hawthorn smiled slyly as he rammed the barb home.

Karen slipped a calming hand over Jack’s and Jack drew a calming breath, his angry words held in check. Typical of Hawthorn to turn every topic into an attack on Jack. As if it was his fault that Anthony Charles had invaded their home and threatened to kill Karen and Jack. And no need to mention that it was because of Jack that Karen was alive today.

A stillness befell the little group, as though they sensed the abrupt and sinister change in the conversation. The bottom feeders were watching their idol closely, adoring faces canted so as not to miss Hawthorn’s obliteration of his clearly inferior son-in-law. Jack was aware of the attentive silence, Karen’s hand holding, almost clutching, his against her hip, a soundless plea for civility, the fire popping at his back as a knot exploded. Lillian’s eyes were fixed on him, watching hungrily, wetting her lips in anticipation of a fight. All this Jack saw and felt in the space of two heartbeats. His thoughts were clear, much as they were whenever he got into a fight on the streets. And what had Hawthorn’s snipe been other than an opening jab?

“A parent’s first concern should be his child, don’t you think so, Jack?” Hawthorn smiled pleasantly, but his stare was challenging. He sipped his drink, the ice clinking loudly in the silence.

“Of course,” Jack agreed, hoping to turn this reasoning against Hawthorn. “And any loving pet owner would extend the same consideration to the animal or, at the very least, ensure the pet went to a good home.”

“Who did you give the dog to, Dad? I can’t remember,” Karen said innocently.

Hawthorn favoured his daughter with what Jack thought was a very indulgent smile, as if she had made a poor assumption. “We didn’t, dear. He wasn’t a pup any longer and a change of ownership would have been just too traumatic on the poor fellow. We had him put down. It was the humane thing to do.”

“You what?” Jack hissed. “How old was he?” He already knew in his heart what Hawthorn would say but prayed even he couldn’t be that uncaring.

“I can’t exactly recall, Jack,” Hawthorn said with a hint of hesitation in his voice. If no one else in the group had heard the tightness in Jack’s words, Hawthorn certainly had.

And Jack wasn’t about to let this go. “How old? Five, ten, twelve?”

“Evelyn and I had had him only a short while,” Hawthorn mused, eyeing Jack warily. “No more than four, I’d say.”

Jack was speechless but not for long. He pulled his hand free of Karen’s — desperate, Karen tried to keep hold of his, but he would not be restrained — and turned to face Hawthorn. “Four years old and you put him down?”

“Of — of course,” Hawthorn stammered, obviously wondering what he had said to upset his barbaric son-in-law.

“You lazy, uncaring asshole.”

“Jack!” Karen reproached, shocked by her husband’s sudden anger.

But Jack didn’t hear her or didn’t care. He was too enraged to see or hear anyone in the room other than Hawthorn. “You could have found him a home,” he snarled. “Or a rescue society or the pound. Anywhere he could have been adopted. But that would have been too much effort for you, wouldn’t it? And it was just a dog after all. You lazy, selfish . . .” Jack’s words trailed off, consumed by his hate.

“Now, listen to me —”

“How typical of you, Hawthorn.” Jack’s voice was almost a whisper, but it quivered with anger. “To kill an innocent animal — a pet, no less! — out of ignorance. No, it wasn’t ignorance, was it, Hawthorn? That would suggest you’d not known any better and we both know the truth, don’t we? The dog was nothing but a possession, right? Bought to project that wholesome family image until you and the missus could upgrade to a child. And when an object’s usefulness has come to an end? Why, simply dispose of it. You make me sick, Hawthorn.”

Jack’s hands were curled into fists, the knuckles of the hand still clasping the bottle of cider white with strain. God, how he wanted to smash Hawthorn. To drive his fists into that self-righteous, snobbish face and feel bones break beneath his knuckles.

Slowly, the red haze receded. Jack became aware of the shocked silence in the room. The silence had weight, an anticipatory feel, as if those watching were waiting breathlessly for Jack to act on his unspoken threat of violence. Hawthorn had taken a step back, his drink clutched to his chest, his free hand raised somewhat defensively. His followers had moved back as well, eyeing Jack cautiously.

Then Karen was there, whispering his name, concern and fear in her voice. Jack forced himself to relax, to back away from that mindless rage. He eased open his fists, felt the joints creak with the release. The tension that had gripped him dissipated, vanished as quickly as it had seized him.

Had he almost hit Hawthorn? Jack knew he had wanted to, but how close had he come to an actual assault? Judging from the shocked faces turned toward him, it had been too close.

Muttering a quick “Excuse me,” Jack strode from the room, too proud and embarrassed to hurry in front of Hawthorn and his peers.

“Jack.” Karen reached for him as he pulled away, then started to follow him.

Her father laid a restraining hand, gentle but firm, on her shoulder. “Don’t, honey. It’s not safe. Can’t you see what he is?”

“Not now, Dad.” Red eyed, she pulled free of his hand much as Jack had pulled away from hers.

Hawthorn watched her go, at a rare loss for words. How do you tell your only daughter that the man she married is dangerously unstable? He had always suspected Jack was capable of violence, long before Jack had transferred downtown. Karen believed the atmosphere of the division, the daily exposure to the dregs of humanity, had darkened her husband’s soul, his mind. But Hawthorn knew better. The division hadn’t changed Jack, it had freed what had already been inside him and what was now loose, could never be caged again, regardless of where he worked.

Jack’s true nature had shown itself the previous fall when Hawthorn and Evelyn had agreed to help Karen confront Jack about his descent into barbarism. When faced with rational, logical arguments, Jack had responded with anger — rage, even — and threats of violence. Hawthorn was man enough to admit his son-in-law had frightened him that evening, standing over him, fists clenched, his eyes devoid of any sane, lucid reasoning.

From the first time Karen had brought him home, Hawthorn had recognized Jack for what he was. A savage, pure and simple.

“That was rather unsettling,” Scott commented from beside Hawthorn. “Jack seems . . . unhinged, I’d say. I can now completely understand your concern for your daughter.”

Hawthorn glanced at Scott, a junior professor at the university who was rumoured to “grade” female students behind closed doors. Perhaps that was why his wife — Lillian, was it? — was staring after Jack in such a predatory way.

Savages, the lot of them. Hawthorn only hoped he had time to save Karen before she became one of them or fell victim to his son-in-law’s brutality.

Karen caught up to Jack on the circular driveway, the crushed gravel grinding loudly under her steps in the cold air. He was standing in front of the fountain — lifeless and sad as it waited, frozen, for spring — with his back to the house. He hadn’t bothered with his coat; he had his hands jammed in the pockets of his sports jacket. As Karen neared him, she couldn’t help but notice, with his shoulders hunched against the cold and his hands pulling down on the jacket, the rust-coloured material was strained across his back, emphasizing its width.

Karen had always admired his dedication to a fit lifestyle and had spent many pleasurable hours exploring his hard body, muscular yet not freakishly huge like that Schwarzenegger whose movies Jack enjoyed. When he had paired up with Simon, he had spent more time lifting weights than running and had started to grow before her eyes. She thought it would be a temporary indulgence, a way of integrating himself into the new division’s social culture. But it wasn’t temporary. One kitchen cabinet was devoted to protein powders, amino acids and an array of vitamin and mineral supplements. Bodybuilding magazines appeared in the house. Karen had flipped through one, repulsed yet oddly enthralled by the grotesque physiques. She asked Jack if that was his goal: to be so muscular that he resembled a cartoon superhero. He laughed and assured her, no, he only wanted to get a bit larger and besides, he didn’t have the genetic makeup to get that big. To get to superhero size, he’d have to go the steroid route and she didn’t have to worry about that.

Now as Karen approached, wrapped tight in her fur coat — a present from her parents the previous Christmas — with his trench coat in her arms, she wondered again about steroids. As soon as Jack had recovered from his gunshot wound — God, how she hated thinking about that — he had been back in the gym, more obsessed than ever. He had been off work until the end of the year and had spent six days a week at the gym, sometimes close to their home, sometimes driving into the city to work out with Manny.

It was as if Jack was physically punishing himself for Sy’s death, or the attack on her, or both. Perhaps he was running away from a guilty conscience or hoping to hide in dreamless sleep after exhausting himself physically. His nightmares had become less frequent in the past few weeks. Immediately following the incident — a word Karen preferred over “attack” or “home invasion” — Jack had been plagued with horrific dreams and had repeatedly screamed himself awake. He refused to talk about the nightmares, saying only that they were almost gone now, so infrequent to be of no consequence.

Then he had gone back to work. Although Karen hated the thought of him wearing that uniform, she was at least comforted by knowing he was out of 51 and stationed in a much safer part of the city. She hoped he would come to realize policing was not the career path for him. He was so intelligent and dedicated, he could work just about anywhere, in any field that interested him. And if he wanted to go back to school to get his degree, something that would please her — she never told him, but the fact that he had never finished university still bothered her — she was more than willing to handle the additional financial burden. And they could always borrow money from her parents.

As she slipped the coat over his shoulders, his ever-widening shoulders, she wondered if Jack would ever give up being a cop. And she worried about steroids. The new muscle, the shorter temper, unexplained and inappropriate outbursts . . .

He turned his face to her and smiled. A sad, weary smile. “Sorry, hon. I don’t know what came over me.”

She laid her chin on his shoulder. With her in heels and him hunched over, it was easy for her to do. “That’s all right. Why don’t we just go home?”

The wipers beat a slow rhythm on the windshield, intermittently swiping away snowflakes. Spring was close, close enough to feel in the afternoon sunshine, but with the sun banished winter still held sway. It wasn’t late, not yet ten o’clock, but the sky, heavy with swollen, pregnant clouds, was as dark as the deepest of night. The Honda’s headlights cut a hazy path on the road. Jack could have taken the highway, the faster route home, but chose the less travelled rural roads. Open farmland, still blanketed in snow, alternated with swaths of evergreen forest and suited his current frame of mind. He grinned to himself, the grin sardonic in its bitterness. He was definitely in no mood to deal with speeding, aggressive drivers.

“That’s a sad smile, hon,” Karen observed from the passenger seat.

“Yeah,” he muttered, then more openly, “sorry again for ruining the evening, Kare. I don’t know what happened. One minute I was enjoying the party and the next . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I guess I just lost it.”

It was Karen’s turn to smile. “Come on, Jack. You never enjoy yourself at my parents’ parties.”

“Okay, you got me there,” he laughed.

“That’s better. I don’t like seeing you all tense and . . .”

“Ugly?” Jack suggested.

“No,” she rebuked gently. “I was going to say troubled.” She placed a comforting hand on the back of his neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shrugged. “Not much to say, really. When your dad said he put the dog down . . . I guess it just hit a nerve, that’s all.” He gave her a sheepish smile; he knew how weak it sounded.

“You really have a soft spot for dogs, don’t you? Maybe you should get one.”

Jack glanced quickly at Karen to see if she was joking. “I thought you wanted to wait until we had kids.”

It was her turn to shrug. “Maybe we should think about it. Just so long as it isn’t too big.”

He grinned again, happily this time. “No more than a hundred pounds, I swear.”

“I said a dog, not a horse.” She tweaked his ear playfully, then went back to stroking his neck. “How are you feeling, Jack? Really? The nightmares haven’t come back, have they?”

He looked at her, puzzled. “No. Why do you ask?”

“You’re restless at night sometimes. Not like you used to be.” She shuddered, remembering the nights Jack screamed himself awake. He never described the dreams in detail, but he said enough for her to know the nightmares involved someone dying. Sy, her or himself. “Do you think you should see Dr. David again?”

“Don’t think so,” he said, casually dismissing the idea. Dr. Michael David was the psychiatrist Jack had seen following the home invasion and shooting. The weekly sessions had been suggested, very strongly suggested, by the service’s medical bureau. Jack had gone to them but without much conviction. Dr. David — call me Mikey — was a decent guy who had understood Jack wasn’t there by choice and he had dealt with enough reluctant coppers to know not to push. Their sessions had usually followed the same script each week.

How was Jack sleeping?

Better all the time. Getting close to eight hours each night.

Were the nightmares still bad?

Nightmares are always bad, that’s why they’re called nightmares. But getting less and less frequent.

How was Jack’s energy? Concentration? Mood?

And so on and so on.

All that Jack had taken away from his time in Dr. David’s comfortable — and damned expensive, Jack was willing to bet — office was that nightmares and bad dreams were to be expected; a sense of guilt, as long as it wasn’t overwhelming and persistent, was also to be expected. By mid-December, the good doctor had declared that Jack would be fit to return to work in the new year. No sense going back until after the Christmas party season, he had explained with a wink.

So what if Jack had not been completely honest with the shrink? Especially a shrink who insisted on being called Mikey? Who the fuck wanted to be called Mikey? Jack didn’t want Mikey to think he was some kind of nut just because he was afraid to go to sleep some nights, afraid of what he would see in his dreams.

And sure, he felt guilty. He hadn’t been able to save his partner. What cop wouldn’t feel guilty about that? What he didn’t feel guilty about was putting another two rounds into Charles after the murdering fuck had surrendered. As far as Jack saw it, all he had done was hand out the justice deserved. In his nightmares, Charles kept advancing no matter how many times Jack shot him. Those were the worst dreams, for Karen always died in them.

Jack hadn’t discussed his dreams or his feelings of guilt with anyone. Not Karen, no one. He figured they would fade in time and they were fading. Although recently, the dreams had picked up again. Jack figured going back to work had dredged up some old memories and feelings. As Mikey had repeatedly said, “These, too, shall pass.”

“I guess I’m just having a bit of trouble getting used to the shift work again,” Jack said. “I got spoiled sleeping like a regular person all those months.”

“It was good having you beside me every night. I miss that.” She was quiet for a moment. “Were you really having a good time at the party?”

“Well . . . Scott and Lillian seemed nice.”

“I saw the way you were looking at her in her flimsy dress. I never knew you had a thing for Asian women,” Karen joked.

“She is good looking, that’s for sure. Exotic,” he said, a little grin teasing his mouth.

“Oh? And what does she have that I don’t?”

Had Karen’s words carried any frost, Jack would have been in trouble, but her voice was that low, sultry tone he loved. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “Maybe I need a reminder.”

“A reminder?” Her hand left his neck, trailed across the shoulder of his jacket. “Aren’t you cold without your trench coat?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I know you like it warm in the car. I’d be baking if I had the coat on. Actually, I’m a little too warm as it is.”

“Really?” She leaned forward, changing the radio station from classic rock to something more mellow. “Maybe I can give you that reminder and heat you up at the same time.”

At first, Karen was a touch annoyed when Jack decided to take the slower back roads home, but she understood he needed time to cool down after blowing up at her father. Rather needlessly, she thought. It was just a dog, for heaven’s sake, and it happened long before she was even born. But she would never say that to Jack. He had a soft spot for animals, dogs especially, and Karen supposed it was from growing up an only child. The closest he’d had to a sibling was the family dog.

Yet his fondness for animals didn’t explain or justify his outburst. She’d been having such a good time at the party. She knew Jack and her father didn’t get along. But the two men had kept their distance from each other after the initial greeting. Then Jack had gone and ruined a wonderful evening by snapping at her father. Perhaps her dad had been needling Jack some, but still it didn’t warrant his reaction.

If only the two men in her life could get along. Karen was tired of being the peacekeeper. She knew her dad didn’t approve of Jack, never had, and he couldn’t, or more likely wouldn’t, see the wonderful qualities that had made her fall in love with him. And Jack couldn’t understand that all her father wanted was for her to be secure in life; unfortunately, that wasn’t possible on a police salary. At least not in George Hawthorn’s eyes.

So Karen was trapped between them, always trying to bridge the chasm separating husband and father, doing her best to please them both. For her father, she was continually furthering her education, building her credentials. She knew he still dreamed of her teaching at a university, preferably following and then succeeding him at the University of Toronto.

Keeping Jack happy was so much easier and more pleasurable. He was an amazing lover and she never grew tired of his touch. There had been that time, for almost two months, when he had lost his sex drive. That had been a dark time, shortly after the incident in their home. Nightmares had plagued him every time he slept and the pitiful sleep he had managed to get did little to ease his stress. His mood at the time grew bleak and his temper unpredictably short. She feared he was suffering from depression. But he assured her, often with a strained smile, that the psychiatrist told him what he was experiencing was to be expected, typical even, and would pass in time.

And it had. Christmas had been a magical time. Even the ever-present tension between her two men had been buried beneath good friends, parties and presents. And after the holidays, Jack had gone back to work but not to that horrible 51 area. Karen had wanted him to quit altogether, use this time as a spring board to a new career, but he had insisted, rather stubbornly, that he was a cop and that it was all he knew how to do. They had finally compromised on 53 Division, which Jack guaranteed was the quietest in the city. Her friend Barb, an officer from Jack’s original division and the one who had introduced them, had confirmed 53’s status for her.

Everything had been great. Jack, though still a cop, was working someplace safe, his nightmares had faded and with more restful sleep his mood and temper had improved. Until tonight. His overreaction scared her, churning up old memories of the night he had not come home. He said he had spent the night at a beach party with his shift and she believed him; Jack was not the type to cheat. But he mentioned a female officer — PWs they were called — he occasionally chatted with. Barb had done some checking for Karen. What she had learned — all too quickly and easily — did not sit well with Karen. The PW, Jenny, had quite the reputation as a party girl and had, by the sound of it, slept with most of the married officers in the station.

Karen trusted Jack completely, but there was no harm in him staying away from such a woman.

She wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow. No doubt Dad would call, wanting to have the conversation she had rudely escaped by going after Jack. But she could worry about her father’s lecture later. Right now she had to take care of her husband, thank him — the term “reward” never crossed her mind — for going to the party. She wanted to make sure he didn’t dwell on the spat with Dad. Jack had a tendency to keep things inside, letting them fester and bloat until they erupted at inappropriate times and places.

And if, in thanking Jack, she had another chance at fulfilling her own dream — Don’t you mean agenda? a little voice asked from deep in her conscience, but she brushed it aside — then what was the harm?

While Jack was looking at her with a mischievous grin, Karen unclipped her seat belt and reclined the seat slightly. Not so far that her man would have to turn his head too much to see her but enough to give her some room to play.

“And what kind of reminder would that be?” he asked, sharing his attention between her and the road.

Again, she was happy they weren’t on the highway. Playing in the car on the highway was a risky game. Not that she was worried about being seen by other drivers, far from it, but high speeds and foreplay just weren’t a safe mixture.

“I could tell you, but I’d rather show you.” She let the fur coat fall open, exposing the little black dress Jack loved so much. Slowly, she inched the dress up her thighs to reveal the tops of her stockings. “Did you like it when I showed you my stockings before we went in to the party?”

“Oh, yeah. Did you like showing me?”

“I did,” she whispered and she had. Jack loved to be teased and she loved to tease him, so after he had parked the SUV at her dad’s house she had hiked up her dress, displaying the stockings and garter belt. If she hadn’t been wearing the coat, she would have turned slowly to let him see the matching thong. The brief exhibition had him touching her constantly throughout the party, building the sexual tension between them. And now it was time to let it loose.

Karen had intended to give Jack a bit of a show until he could find a secluded place to stop, but now she wanted more. She ran her hands up the insides of her thighs and pulled her thong aside. Stroking herself, she breathed, “Stop somewhere, Jack. Hurry.”

“I’m looking, hon, I’m looking.”

Her fingers played and the pleasure built. “Do you know what I want to do in this coat?” she whispered and Jack grunted a quick no. “I want to go downtown one evening wearing only the coat and high heels. Nothing on under it. Would you like that?”

“Oh, God, yes.” He spared her a tortured look then resumed searching for a side street. Frantically.

Soon she was lost in the fantasy and was only dimly aware of the car bumping over rough ground. Then Jack was kissing her, whispering in her ear as his hand teased her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. “Don’t stop, Kare, don’t stop.”

And she couldn’t. The pleasure, the intensity, was building too quickly, too powerfully, to be stopped or even delayed. The orgasm seized her and thundered through her body, arching her back in ecstasy. Her hips thrust convulsively against her fingers as she consumed Jack’s mouth with hers.

In time — a shivering forever gone too soon — her body quieted, quivering as the last few ripples of pleasure ran through her, miniature aftershocks following a massive quake. “Sorry, Jack. I couldn’t wait.”

He kissed her, tenderly, passionately. “Don’t apologize. I love watching you come.”

She smiled up at him. A wicked grin her father would never have thought possible from her. “Your turn.”

His hand ran down her body to the sensitive area her fingers had just left. She gasped as his fingers slid into her wetness.

“If it wasn’t so cold, I’d take you outside and bend you over the hood,” he told her as his fingers began a new rhythm.

“I think we can manage something.” She stilled his hand. “Come around to my side.”

Leaving the SUV running and the heater on high, he climbed carefully out of the driver’s seat while Karen freed herself from her coat. Jack had found them an empty field with mounds of dirt. The Honda’s tracks — Jack had backed in between piles — came in along a rough road, no more than a wide path, really. There were no street lights in sight, but she was able to see more earthen knolls stretching across the field. Farmland designated for housing? Whatever they were, the hillocks made the perfect spot for a secluded interlude.

Jack opened the passenger door and she met him with a kiss. Her hands dropped to his pants and within seconds she had them around his knees. She twisted in the seat, lowered her booted right foot to the ground, propped her left foot on the SUV’s frame and leaned across the seat, thrusting her buttocks into the cold. She wanted Jack to fuck her. And quickly, but not because of the temperature.

Jack pushed her dress up to her waist while she pulled her thong aside. She felt him position himself, then push forward, filling her in one wonderful motion. He withdrew almost completely, then eased forward. Back and forward, building slowly, but she would have none of that.

“Fuck me, Jack. Fuck me now.”

And he did. She laughed joyfully as he rode her, thrusting into her with ever-increasing speed and power. She could feel the tension gripping him, feel the urgency needing release.

“That’s it, baby. Give it to me. Give it to me!”

Jack cried out as he came in her.

Spent and utterly happy, Jack pulled out of Karen. “Sorry, hon, no time for being polite; my ass is freezing.” He yanked up his pants as she pulled her leg into the car and rearranged her dress. Belted up, he closed her door and stepped carefully around the truck.

The snow wasn’t deep but the footing was treacherous. The evening had turned ugly thanks to Karen’s dad and Jack had scared himself with the sudden rage he had felt, but Karen had known just what he needed to feel better. The last thing he wanted to do was slip and fall or twist an ankle. His anger was lessened for now. Not gone — he could feel it coiled inside him, waiting — but banished from his thoughts by Karen’s love.

“Breaking an ankle would be a shitty way to end the night,” he muttered as he gained the driver’s side. He reached for the door and his feet went out from under him. He landed on his ass with a cracking splat.

Karen opened the driver’s door. “Jack! Are you okay?” She was leaning across from the passenger side, her arms braced on the driver’s seat.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he told her. “I slipped on some ice beneath the snow and —” He stopped, not wanting to believe what his nose was telling him.

“And what? What’s wrong?”

He took another whiff and confirmed what he already knew, laughing at the absurdity. “I broke through the ice and now my ass is sitting in semi-frozen cow shit.”

Karen was trying to look mortified but her giggles betrayed her look. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as cow shit stinks,” he said and threw back his head and laughed.

“All right, maybe you can answer this,” Jack’s escort surmised over coffee. “No one I’ve asked knows. Why are the portable radios called mitres? I thought a mitre is the hat the Pope wore.”

“As far as I know, it’s an old type of radio or something. I don’t —”

“Stand by for the hotshot,” the dispatcher announced, cutting Jack off.

Jack grimaced. Like it’s coming our way.

Hotshots — radio calls that needed immediate attention — were more of a rarity in 53 than downtown. He just hadn’t realized how infrequent they were in midtown until he was sitting in a scout car wishing something exciting would happen. He could listen to all the fun calls going to the 51 cars. Oh, sure, 53 got its share of hotshots: medical calls, domestics, the odd bank robbery and more medical calls, but nothing like the seemingly endless and sometimes overwhelming deluge of priority calls down in the city’s toilet.

Jack sighed. He missed working in the toilet.

“43 Eglinton Avenue East, apartment 1802. Male threatening suicide. Has a history of depression. No means indicated. Ted McManus, age 27. Time 2349.”

“He lives on the eighteenth floor, dispatch,” Jack muttered into his tea. “Three guesses on how he’ll do it.”

“5306, that last hotshot is yours,” the dispatcher snapped, sounding vaguely pissed. Had she heard Jack’s comment? He quickly checked for an open carrier but the mike was closed. Man, he hated when the mike was stuck open. There was nothing more embarrassing than having what you assumed was a private chat get broadcast over the air for everyone’s entertainment. And, of course, no one ever bothers to inform you of the open mike at the start of the conversation.

Jack grinned. Last summer a copper on another platoon had been dating a PW from the same shift, which is generally not a good idea. Cops from the same station dating could be considered an office romance; dating someone on the same shift was like dating the person you shared a cubicle with. And if you wound up in the same car . . . well, you had to hope the relationship was going smoothly. The copper had met the PW for coffee and in stereotypical pig fashion had broken up with her while parked next to her — it had been too hot to get out of the air-conditioned car — in the parking lot next to the Beer Store at Gerrard and Ontario. Very scenic. Very classy. No wonder cops had shitty reputations when it came to dating.

Everybody working that day, in 51 and air band–sharing 53, immediately learned about the rather nasty break-up firsthand since the control button on his mike had been stuck open and every word had been transmitted to all the cars, portable radios, the two stations and the dispatcher. And to his wife, who just happened to be a copper in 53. Rumour had it his keys hadn’t worked when he got home that evening.

“What’s the smile for, Jacky?” Juliet Larson asked as she tapped the Accept Detail button.

“Just something that happened down in 51.” He drained the last of his tea and slipped the paper cup behind his seat. “Remind me to toss that out later.”

“We get a call for a guy who might take a swan dive onto the sidewalk and it reminds you of something funny? Jeez, you 51 guys are warped.”

Juliet had a couple of years on the job and was a nice enough kid but so inexperienced it was like working with a rookie straight out of the college. Two years in 53 taught new officers next to nothing beyond medical complaints and alarm calls. Brett was right the other week when he said that the service needed to get back to training divisions.

But then again 51 would eat Juliet alive; the assholes down there and in any shithole division could spot rookies as easily as seasoned cops could spot assholes. And to add to the whole Officer Friendly image, she was cute. Her hair was done up tight to her head at least, not hanging down in a ponytail some piece of scum could use as a handhold while he pounded her face to mush. But it was so blonde it gleamed when she was in the sunlight. Not as brightly as her perfectly white teeth, though. Jack figured she should be on a billboard or in a magazine ad for toothpaste or soap or some wholesome, not-cop-related product.

But if he had to be bored in a scout car for ten hours a day, he could ask for a lot worse in company than Juliet. As long as he didn’t call her Julie. He had made that mistake once and she had damn near bitten his head off. For a cute little thing, she had one hell of a temper. He admired that.

Whenever she wanted to needle him, out came “Jacky.” At least she had used the phrase “Jackeo and Juliet” only once. Over the air. Jack had responded by threatening to leave her in 51, unarmed, the next time he jumped on a call down there.

As Jack was pulling away from the curb, a unit from 51 spoke up. “CIT 01 to radio. We’re clear. Do you want us to head up to that threaten suicide in 53?”

“10-4, CIT, I’d appreciate the help. I’ll put the call on your screen. 5306, are you aware the CIT unit will be attending your call?”

Juliet snagged the mike. “10-4, dispatch,” she quipped rather perkily. “We’re just around the corner. We’ll be on scene in a minute or so, and we’ll advise.”

Jack suddenly realized he had parked at Yonge Street and Eglinton Avenue after hitting the Tim Hortons. He hadn’t even thought about it. This always amazed him: coppers in 53 regularly sat on busy corners when they were not on calls. In 51, if you got a quiet moment for coffee, the last thing you wanted to do was sit where the public could find you.

So now, not only was he parking like them, he was getting used to being able to grab a tea without having to do a call first. Crap, I’m turning into a 53 cop.

Aloud, Jack asked, “What is this CIT I keep hearing on the air?”

“Crisis Intervention Team,” Juliet explained as Jack waited to turn left onto Eglinton. The intersection, bordered by towering office and condo buildings, was heavy with traffic. “It started up back in the fall. It’s a cop with a psychiatric nurse on board. They handle the EDP calls. It’s a 51 Division car but sometimes they come up here to help us out. I’m surprised they’re still on the air; they usually head in around eleven.”

“Sounds like a good idea, but I doubt we’ll need them,” Jack declared, making the turn on the red.

“Why not? It’s that building on the corner. The entrance is on Holly.”

“Thanks. If this guy really wanted to kill himself, he wouldn’t have called.” Jack pulled the scout car to the curb in front of the apartment building. “I mean, if he was serious, we’d be getting calls from other people after he went splat on the sidewalk.”

“Are you cynical or just crabby tonight?” Juliet tapped the At Scene button and they both got out of the car.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “My wife and I were at her parents’ place for a party this evening and I got into a bit of a fight with her dad. Guess I’m still a bit peeved about it.” That and falling in cow shit. But I’ll keep that to myself.

“In-laws can be a bitch, but no need to take it out on this guy. We haven’t even seen him yet and you’re already declaring him a loser.”

“Come on,” Jack defended himself as they stepped into the lobby. “How many times have you gone to a call where someone’s threatening —” he held up and crooked the first two fingers of each hand “— to kill himself and when you get there he’s taken half a dozen Tylenols or he’s slashed —” again with the quotation marks “— his wrists so lightly the cuts are barely bleeding. They just want attention, that’s all.”

He lifted a quizzical eyebrow her way as he punched the elevator button.

“Okay, I get your point, but that doesn’t mean everyone who calls is looking for attention.”

“Tell you what,” Jack offered as they stepped into the elevator, “if this guy turns out to be serious, I’ll buy you lunch.”

Juliet flashed him her toothpaste ad smile. “You’re on.”

The elevator doors opened with a cheery ping! on the eighteenth floor. Jack glanced in each direction. The hall was empty.

“You choose,” he told Juliet. “I always go the wrong way.”

“Yeah, me too.” She shrugged and picked left. Jack followed, keeping an eye on the hallway ahead of them over his escort’s head. Just because he was willing to bet good old Ted McManus was simply another attention seeker didn’t mean he was going to rule out the chance — a slim one, he was ready to admit — that Ted did want to die and wanted to take some uniformed company along with him when he went. The last thing Jack wanted to be was an example of the complacency instructors used at police colleges.

He never wanted his name attached to You see what happens when you approach a call thinking it’s bullshit? Sometimes it turns out not to be bullshit and that’s how coppers die. Take these two idiots for example. . . .

No thanks.

They realized they were going the wrong way after a couple of doors and turned around. As they passed the elevator, Jack half expected the doors to ping! again, expelling the fabled crisis team. He wondered what type of nurse would want to ride around in a police car. Some tree-hugging do-gooder, no doubt. Probably volunteered for the job so she could save the poor nuts — oops, Emotionally Disturbed People, I mean — from us uncaring, ignorant cops.

With luck, they’d have Ted all bundled up and ready for a quick ride to the hospital before the crisis whatsit arrived and wanted to spend the next couple of hours chatting with Ted about his feelings.

Crap, I am cynical.

The door numbers were still climbing and Jack had just reckoned it would be the last apartment when Juliet announced, “It’s the last apartment.”

“Always is.”

As they approached the door, both of them automatically turned down the volume on their radios. Jack was pleased to see Juliet slide her finger — both of them had donned their Kevlar-lined leather gloves in the elevator — over the peephole before she quickly slipped past the door. She leaned in, not quite pressing her ear up against the wood. Although the building looked clean enough not to have to worry about something crawling into your ear, why take the chance? She motioned for Jack to wait while she listened. Maybe she wasn’t such a rookie after all.

A moment later Juliet shrugged, silently to say, I didn’t hear anything. Jack nodded and tried the doorknob. It turned easily in his grasp. He looked a question at Juliet and she nodded. He pushed and the door swung gently open. Before Jack could step in, Juliet took the lead, pushing the door flat against the wall, achieving a double goal: giving them the widest view of the apartment as possible and removing any potential threat from behind the door.

Jack was definitely impressed. Juliet had not missed any of the little things that could be the precursor to the shit hitting the fan — or what Jack’s training officer in 32 liked to call “the fecal matter encountering the oscillating blades.”

The door opened onto a small foyer tiled in white with a closet to their left and a tiny kitchen laid out on the right. While Juliet gave the closet a quick peek, Jack scanned the kitchen. It was clean and tidy except for a stack of unwashed dishes in the sink and a deep gouge in the drywall on the far wall. “Far” being a disputable description as the kitchen couldn’t have been more than twelve feet in length. Amid a scattering of drywall chunks and dust, Jack saw a frying pan and what might have been a sandwich — it was too charred to really tell. The familiar, unpleasant smell of burnt toast lingered in the air.

Jack pointed it out to Juliet and they both shrugged.

“Ted? It’s the police,” Juliet called. Her voice was firm but not aggressive. “You called 911? Ted, you in here?”

They paused, listening. A hushed sobbing was coming from farther in the apartment. The living room stretched out from the foyer and kitchen, the sofa, coffee table and TV offering little in the way of concealment. A bathroom and a smaller room, either a den or a second bedroom, lay to the left. Juliet quickly cleared them both. They crossed the living room, heading to what must have been the master bedroom and Jack felt the temperature drop, a chill carried on a breeze from the bedroom.

Open balcony door. Fuck, maybe this guy is serious after all.

The balcony door was indeed wide open, but Ted had not taken that fatal, final step. A man was huddled on the queen-sized bed that all but filled the room. Jack hoped it was Ted and not a grieving roommate.

“Ted? It’s the police.” Juliet attempted to engage the sobbing man while Jack inched around the foot of the bed to the balcony door. The wind at street level had barely been noticeable, but up this high it sliced into the bedroom, as solid as an icicle. One freaking huge icicle.

Giving Ted a final glance, hoping he wasn’t conning them, Jack stepped out onto the balcony. His stomach lurched disagreeably as he peered over the railing at the sidewalk below. Far, far below. Jack wasn’t a fan of heights and wasted no time checking the ground for splattered bodies. The sidewalk was clear of people — dead ones at least — and he gratefully retreated to the safe side of the railing.

No way. No fucking way would I ever jump. I’d eat my gun first, if things got that bad. He stepped inside, locking the door behind him. But then can life ever be bad enough that offing yourself is the answer? Well, let’s see what’s up with Ted, shall we?

Juliet was sitting on the end of the bed. A nice, non-threatening position but still well out of reach. Jack passed behind her and leaned in the doorway, crossing his arms casually over his chest. He frowned when he felt his jacket pull tight across his back. Damn, I have to get a new jacket some day. He dropped his arms and folded his hands over the front of his gun belt.

Ted’s bedroom was in about the same state as the kitchen minus the frying pan redecoration. The walls were painted a nice off-white shade, and the furniture was that rare cross of functional and stylish; the bed had drawers in the frame. I guess in a small place like this you have to make use of all available space. The bedsheets were rumpled and had that long-lived-in look. Jack wondered when Ted had last changed the linen.

Speaking of washing, Ted himself had the same kind of ridden hard, put away wet look to him. He was slight in build and, judging from the way his blue golf shirt — also in need of a wash — hung on him this might have been a new body weight for him. He was sitting at the head of the bed, in the middle, with his back up against the wall and his arms wrapped protectively around his knees. His head was tilted back, eyes staring listlessly at the ceiling. His hair was in serious need of trimming and his face hadn’t felt the touch of a razor in some time.

Even with his head canted back, Jack could see that Ted’s eyes were so heavily rimmed in red they appeared to be bleeding. Tears streamed down his cheeks unchecked to drip heedlessly from his jaw. His mouth was a grimaced slash, his frown lines etched so deeply they appeared carved into his skin. It was as if sorrow was the sole expression he knew.

What the hell could have happened to this guy?

Juliet echoed Jack’s thoughts. “Ted, what’s wrong? What happened today?”

Ted drew in a ragged, hitching breath. “I . . . I . . . oh, God!” His eyes slammed shut, squeezing out fresh rivers of tears.

Jack felt a shiver chase up his spine. Those stammered words carried such pain, such sheer insufferable agony, it was no wonder the man had thought of killing himself. Compassion, unexpected and sudden, brushed aside Jack’s indifference.

Someone’s died. Or maybe it’s cancer. Or . . . Something. Jack didn’t want to imagine what horror could strike someone so deeply.

“Ted, we can’t help unless you tell us what’s wrong.” Juliet was speaking softly, coaxing Ted into trusting them.

Ted lowered his head, rubbed furiously at his eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice harsh, strained. “It’s stupid.”

“It can’t be stupid if it’s hurting you that much,” Jack insisted, unable to remain silent.

“Please, Ted, tell us,” Juliet urged.

Ted’s head whipped to face her, his features a mask of rage. “I burned my lunch! I fucking burned my lunch,” he snarled, his voice filled with such hate and anger Jack twitched in anticipation of an attack. But Ted’s anger was not directed at them. “I’m useless, so fucking useless.” His head dropped to his arms, the fury gone as quickly as it had flared.

Juliet looked over her shoulder at Jack, her eyes wide in disbelief. Jack was sure his own expression mirrored hers. His lunch? He burned his sandwich and that’s why he wants to kill himself?

“Give me a fucking break.” This Jack uttered aloud, once again unable to remain silent. “You burned your lunch?” he asked, not really believing. “You burned your lunch?” Louder this time and not without his own touch of anger.

Ted nodded, his face buried in his arms. He was sobbing yet again and Jack had had enough.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, knock it off!” he snapped.

Ted flinched, as if expecting to be hit and Jack was more than mad enough to lay a beating on the wimp.

“Jack —” Juliet began, but he cut her off.

“No. This is bullshit. Bullshit!” he repeated, flinging the word at Ted, feeling a vicious pang of delight when the huddled form flinched again. “He calls 911, says he’s going to jump, wastes our time and for what? What? Because he burned his fucking lunch? No, this isn’t right, not by a long fucking shot.”

“What’s all the shouting about?”

Jack turned away from Ted and found a fire hydrant of a cop standing in the bedroom doorway. It wasn’t that he was overly short, because he was only a few inches shy of Jack’s height. His stocky width created an illusion of shortness. And he was wearing the weirdest uniform Jack had ever seen. He had on a blue nylon raid jacket, the kind plainclothes officers usually threw on during search warrants when they wanted to be easily identified as police, his gun belt and blue jeans. His black hair bristled in a crewcut and he definitely didn’t look happy.

“I take it you’re the crisis team?”

“Yeah, we are,” the half-plainclothes, half-uniformed cop said, not sounding overly impressed.

Jack didn’t blame him; he sure as shit didn’t want to deal with loser Ted anymore. “He’s all yours.” Jack stepped aside, waving the crisis cop in.

The cop moved into Ted’s bedroom and was followed by his escort, the psychiatric nurse, Jack assumed. At first glance, Jack thought Manny had changed jobs. Do all guys who shave their heads grow goatees? But the nurse was too short to be Jack’s former partner. About the same height as the cop — book ends, Jack thought sarcastically — the nurse gave Jack a dismissive look as he stepped past.

What’s your problem?

Nurse Little Manny tapped Juliet on the shoulder. “Excuse me, officer.” He took her spot on the bed when she got up. The cop stood to the side, forming the third point of the triangle between cop, nurse and loser.

“Ted, is it?” the nurse began, speaking slowly and calmly. Jack figured the calm wouldn’t last long once the nurse learned Ted had been willing, or at least said he had been willing, to take a swan dive because of a burnt sandwich. “I’m Aaron. I’m a nurse from St. Michael’s Hospital.”

The cop turned to Jack and Juliet, but his words were for Jack. “You can wait in the other room.”

Jack’s back went up. First Ted wastes their time and now this jerk thought he could order them around as if being on some stupid team made him special. Jack had been about to step into the living room; he’d had enough of Ted’s blubbering. But he decided to stay put. Fuck this cop and his crisis team.

Juliet must have sensed the tension growing in the room. It wasn’t hard to miss, with two cops glaring at each other. “C’mon, Jack. Let’s give them some room.” She had to tug on his arm to get him moving.

Once away from Ted and his two holier-than-thou babysitters, Jack relaxed. He blew out a deep breath and some pent-up frustration in the process. “Those guys are supposed to help us out?”

Juliet shrugged, heading to the kitchen. “Seems like everyone’s in a foul mood,” she declared, looking pointedly at Jack.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” First the cop with the fire-hydrant head, then the chubby nurse, now Juliet? As he’d told Ted, this wasn’t right, not by a long shot.

“Nothing much,” Juliet explained, crouching to pick up the frying pan and sandwich. “I guess Ted likes grilled cheese.” She tossed the pan into the sink, adding to the unwashed stack. She found the garbage under the sink and dropped the charred bread in. She went to wipe her gloves on the dish towel, thought better of it and used her pants.

“Well?” Jack asked, impatient.

Juliet joined Jack by the couch, where they could keep an eye on the bedroom door. Officer Hydrant Head had deliberately shut the door. Closing it had not been the wisest of tactics but Jack grudgingly admitted to himself that he might have done the same had the roles been reversed.

“You tore quite the strip off Ted and it seemed a little excessive. Harsh.”

“He pissed me off,” Jack defended.

“Obviously.” When Jack didn’t answer, she blunted the edge of her words with an open smile. “You could have toned it down some, that’s all.”

Jack wasn’t so annoyed that he was invulnerable to her smile. “Okay, I guess I was a bit offside, but come on! He was going to kill himself over bad cooking?”

Juliet grinned in agreement. “Some people are just perfectionists, I guess.”

Jack snorted and they settled in to wait for Hydrant Head and his nurse to deem the lowly uniforms worthy of notice. It didn’t take long. A few minutes later the bedroom door opened and Ted came out, bracketed by Nurse Little Manny and Officer Hydrant Head.

“Ted’s agreed to go to the hospital with us, so we won’t need you for transport,” Hydrant Head announced.

All five of them left the apartment. The ride down in the elevator was quiet. Even Ted was silent, his sobbing all dried up for the moment. With nothing to say, Jack studied Nurse Little Manny and decided that, other than the shaved head and goatee, the man looked nothing like Manny. When Juliet had explained the CIT to him, Jack had just assumed the nurse would be some soft-hearted tree-hugger, but this guy — Aaron, was it? — didn’t come across like that at all. Jack noticed that Aaron kept a wary eye on Ted and the slight downturn to the corners of his mouth suggested he wasn’t the biggest smiler. Not at work at least.

Aaron was also wearing a jumbled uniform. Unlike his escort’s royal blue jacket, the nurse’s was a dark blue, almost black, emblazoned with CRISIS TEAM across the back. He wore a ballistic vest over his T-shirt and there was a radio on his hip. Jeans and running shoes completed the outfit.

Semi-casual and pretty comfortable looking.

They left the building and Hydrant Head placed Ted in the rear of the CIT car, an unmarked Crown Vic, plain white but with a caged back seat. Then the cop headed for the driver’s side before Jack could say anything, so he spoke to the nurse. Aaron stood in the V of the open door with one foot already in the car. He did not look impressed.

“Listen, I just wanted to . . . apologize for overreacting up there. I guess I’ve been a little stressed out and Ted looked like a good target to blow up at.”

Aaron looked at Jack for a moment, not speaking, then nodded. “Yeah, well, you definitely could have handled the situation better.”

“So I’ve been told,” Jack agreed, gesturing to Juliet. “But, honestly, I don’t understand it. I mean, I know he’s depressed, but he burned a sandwich. I could understand it if he was getting evicted or something, but it was so . . .” Jack groped for a word.

“Inconsequential?” Aaron suggested.

“Exactly.”

“That’s what made it so bad,” Aaron said, shaking his head at Jack’s ignorance.

“You’ve lost me,” Jack admitted, truly bewildered.

The Crown Vic roared to life, telling Aaron it was time to go. He ducked his head into the car. “Hang on a sec.”

Straightening up, he said, “I’ve got to make this quick.” He ran a hand over his scalp, looking at Jack as if he was searching for the easiest explanation. “Depression is often described as hatred turned inward. A depressed person will think things like ‘I’m no good’ or ‘My family would be better off without me.’ They feel loathsome or useless.”

“That’s what he said,” Jack remembered, pointing at the rear seat.

“I don’t doubt it. If you or I had burned our lunch, we would’ve said, ‘Shit, I’ll have to make another one.’ Ted thought, ‘I’m so useless, I can’t even make a sandwich.’ Get the idea?”

Jack nodded slowly as understanding dawned. “I think so.”

“Don’t they teach you about mental illness at the college? Depression, schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder?”

Jack laughed, embarrassed. “I’ve never heard of that last one. They teach us our grounds for arresting under the Mental Health Act, that’s about it.”

“Unbelievable,” Aaron said and in that one word Jack heard a depth of frustration. The car jumped as the engine revved. “That’s my cue to go.”

“Hey, thanks for the help and the quick lesson. I’m Jack Warren.” Jack held out his hand and Aaron gave it a quick, firm shake before climbing into the passenger seat.

“Aaron Wallace. No problem, guy. See you around.” Aaron slammed the door but not before Jack heard him say to Officer Hydrant Head, “Jeez, guy. You’re one impatient bitch, aren’t you?”

Jack’s impression of Nurse Little Manny jumped a few notches.