New York Minute - Toga Q, Kichiku Neko, Suzume

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New York Minute by Guilt | Pleasure Script: Kichiku Neko Art: Toga Q Featuring "Prey" by Suzume

ISBN-13: 978-1-62548-008-8 © Guilt|Pleasure 2013 www.guiltpleasure.com Note: This is a HiRes Graphic Novel - Best viewed on smart phone and tablets with image zoom and resizing capabilities. Set your viewer to full-screen or portrait settings with wide margins for best results.

PREY BY SUZUME

“Is that the new guy?” David looked up from the coffee pot. A neatly-pressed suit and a head of dark hair passed across the door of the kitchen where he and Richards were standing. He dragged the name up; Doctor Katsuya Asano. “Yeah.” He dumped a packet of sugar into the black depths of his mug. “Just got here today. Shrink on the State’s payroll.”

“And let slip the dogs of war,” Richards muttered from David’s shoulder as a handful of the Kidnapping department guys filed into the adjoining station break room in the doctor’s wake, a buzz of conversation and laughter filling the hallway around them. The younger detective, strawberry-blonde hair always in perpetual need of a trim, stuck his head around the corner in a brief attempt to see into the other room. “They’re gonna eat him alive.” “Leave it be,” David said. He sucked coffee off his thumb and tossed his stir into the trash. Hazing wasn’t something he agreed with but it was part of cop culture for a reason; cops assumed that

real character was shown by taking bullshit with a stiff upper lip. Richards shrugged and turned back into the kitchen to grab his soda off the counter. “Nice lookin’ guy.” “Thanks for noticing, I picked this tie with you in mind.” David batted his eyelashes at Richards’ pained expression and was turning with a laugh when a clear voice rang out from the break room, oily enough to break both his momentum and his conversation. Detective Carter Lane was easy to recognize; his drawl was deep and always a little too loud. The asshole loved to hear himself speak.

“Well look who’s here.” David grimaced. They were peers, both section chiefs--Lane for Kidnapping and himself for Homicide--but their mutual positions had never made them friends. “What do you think, fellas?” Lane continued. “I’ve been thinking the doctor seems awfully familiar.” “Maybe in the courts?” someone answered. It wasn’t helpful, it was sycophantic. Richards looked uncomfortable. David felt himself frowning. Neither of them walked away. Lane loved hazing and was a fuck about it; David was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“No, that’s not it...” Lane must have thumped his hand down on a table, the sound a heavy punctuation. A lead-in to the punchline. “I got it. Didn’t I see you at that last human trafficking seminar?” His voice was pleased. “I swear you were one of those kids on the slides walking bowlegged from too much cock.” Everyone in the room laughed. “Are you kidding me?” Richards hissed, looking upset. David shook his head. “What,” he muttered back, “you didn’t get leered at as part of your hazing?” The kid flushed; the color showed easy on his fair skin and almost blotted out

his freckles. “No. The guys put in a jumper call and then tossed a CPR dummy off the roof and I pissed my--” He stopped as David held up a hand. “What’s the term,” Lane was going on in the other room, “you know, during World War II.” There was a murmur and he laughed. “Right, comfort women. You sure are pretty enough, though I don’t think your people really cared what the faces looked like, huh? Just a hole to ram it in. Would have been a shame to waste you on that, anyway.” There was no response from the doctor. David scratched his fingers across his chin and exhaled through his teeth, reminding himself that no matter how

much he disliked Lane, the same rules of silence would have to be said for himself. If he stuck his nose in then the other cops would think that the doctor couldn’t handle himself. “Anyone ever bend you over and give you a spanking, Doctor?” It was easy to hear the smile in it, the delight that Lane got out of trying to make Asano uncomfortable. “Hell, I bet you like it, probably use that tie as a gag. Or is that all a little too Stockholm for you?” The room broke into ringing laughter. They just wanted a reaction. David’s head raised at footsteps and he watched the doctor walk back past the doorway of the kitchen. Standing there made him feel

like a voyeur, made him feel complicit against his will. “Bet you look adorable in a skirt!” Lane threw after the doctor. The men in the break room laughed again and David caught Richards’ arm as he stepped forward. “What are you going to do?” he asked the kid in a low voice, hedging him in against the counter so that he had to stay put. They couldn’t do anything about the hazing, whether they liked it or not. “Stepping in there now is just gonna make you a black sheep. Come on.” David dropped his hand from Richards’ elbow. “Work.” He pointed out the door and stepped back. “Chair. Ass. Go.”

David watched his detective go and turned back to his coffee on the counter, listening to the laughter from the other room. It wasn’t as easy to dismiss his own bad feelings. It was a little much, even for Lane. That kind of pointed abuse wasn’t the same thing as making new guys piss their pants over a cruel-but ultimately inclusive--joke. In the end he filled a second mug with coffee and, the liquid burning the ceramic against callused palms, made his way out of the kitchen and down the hall. The precinct wasn’t large; space was at a premium in Brooklyn, even for cops. David passed the front desk and

nodded a hello to Abel before taking the steps up to the second floor, one hip hugging the wood banister as guys came and went in the collar-and-tie uniforms of the detectives and the blues of patrol. The whole place was a fine tuned dance, one that David enjoyed the rhythm of. He’d spent almost a decade of his life within these walls. The blinds on the large windows upstairs were always drawn and halfslatted so that any sunlight they might get was pushed onto the drop ceiling. The scuffed wood floor held a fleet of cubicles that waged a constant war between casework and personal effects. There was a rolling bulletin board

shored up in the corner of the area near David’s office that had an ever-changing collection of the department’s worst neckties pinned to it, like a portable wall of shame. Only some of his own guys were in today, hunched over their desks. Rogers and MacFadden had their heads down together and Montoya was steadily bouncing a tennis ball against a wall. Bellany was at the file cabinets. Richards looked up as David passed. The doctor’s office was tucked back in a corner, straddling Homicide and Organized Crime, almost opposite the floor from David’s. Standing in the doorway David couldn’t help but think

how empty it looked compared to the rest of the place, nothing personal but a black briefcase in the corner. They should have at least left a damn plant. With a shake of his head he turned away and almost succeeded in spilling coffee on the man who’d come up behind him. It was only quick reflexes--the doctor’s-that saved Asano’s neat three piece suit from ruins. “I swear that this was intended as a welcome wagon,” David muttered, grimacing as the upset coffee splashed on his own shoes, “not a murder attempt.” “When in Homicide?” Asano’s

expression was amused as his long fingers took the full mug without touching David. His smile was polite. David chuckled and shook his head. “Nothing so clever, I swear it.” Their shoulders brushed as he stepped into the office and set his own mug down in order to steal the last handful of tissues from the box on the desk. Tugging up his pants he hunkered down to mop up the mess, futilely attempting to blot the toes of his shoes first. “Would tea have been more sincere? You seem like the type.” He rose with the damp tissues to find a dark eyebrow arched over the thin frame of rectangular glasses and something much closer to an honest smile edging

Asano’s lips. “And what type is that--Japanese?” “You, Japanese?” The tissues were tossed into a trashcan and David looked around before grimacing and wiping his hands on his slacks. “I never would have guessed it.” He looked up from his pants to find a fixed gaze on him, cool eyes almost black behind those small lenses, and realized that he was being profiled. He grinned. “I’d offer my hand, but...” “Doctor Katsuya Asano. And I do prefer coffee.” Aside from the ease of his own name, the doctor spoke without an accent.

“David Krause, Homicide. Me too.” He took up residence against the top edge of a low file cabinet, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. Damn his shoes, that coffee would stain. For a moment longer Asano stood but finally took his own desk chair with a nod. “Detective. So this is just a hello?”

Looks like the guy has a helluva lot of walls up, David thought, judging by the precise knot of the doctor’s tie and the fact that there was no fluster in him even after the events downstairs. His shirt was starched, jacket not only on but still buttoned. It was like an armor, then. David’s own sleeves were rolled to his elbows. “I’m nicer than everyone else,” he said. “I come bearing gifts.” “Beware of men bearing gifts.” “You’re just full of adages.” Asano smiled again. “For good reason; I had the coffee here this morning. It’s terrible.” He took a sip of it anyway; it might have been politeness, like his

smiles. “It’s a house specialty.” David switched tracks. “I heard you were the one to close the Stark case.” The shift of topic gentled the stoic lines of the doctor’s face and for a moment dark hair fell into his eyes and his lips parted. The sudden softness became the man and David found his throat tight; it was dangerous, to make being put offguard so attractive. No wonder Lane had gone after him, if he’d seen that. “So to speak,” Asano said. Fingers reached up to smooth the strands back toward his ear, smoothing his composure at the same time. “I was just given the right opportunity. The young man talked to

me.” “Don’t be so humble, no one else got him to open up.” David had a look at the Stark case retroactively; as soon as Asano had been assigned to profile the young victim, things started moving. It was as if the doctor had known just what strings to pull inside of that kid... and all the knots had unraveled themselves. That was something more than book smarts, that was god-given talent. Asano smiled again but most of the expression was hidden behind his coffee. The steam momentarily fogged his glasses. “Do you throw compliments at everyone, Detective?”

Legs uncrossed and David leaned over his knees, mug between his palms. “I generally try not to spoil people. As a rule.” “And what makes me different?” David smiled. “I don’t know you yet.” Compliments were hard to come by in his department, despite it being one of the highest ranked in the boroughs. “Maybe if you prove as good as your paper trail, I’ll take you out for real coffee someday. My treat.” “Don’t do me any favors,” Asano said, setting his coffee down. The words were mild enough but he met David’s gaze. “I know how that goes around here.”

So the doctor understood the score, or had read it in a textbook somewhere. He lifted a hand. “Not a favor. A reward for a job well done, there’s a difference.” David had no intention of stepping on Asano’s toes, his reputation, or his pride. Pulling himself to his feet, back popping, David showed himself out. Asano watched him. He stopped in the doorway, putting a hand on the frame. David grinned. “Welcome to the precinct, Doc. Every day is a good day in hell.” And it was. Case in point: it became almost instant common knowledge that Lane had pulled in help to haze the doctor. Guys were

filing into Asano’s office all day long, complaining of being sick. David overhead cases of nymphomania and premature ejaculation, and once through his own office window saw Montoya throw his tennis ball at a kid from Traffic who was trying, loudly, to get the man to hunt down the Red Sox fan who’d given him crabs. Mike was from Boston. To his credit, Asano told the cop that it was outside of his expertise. By the time David was gathering his things and heading out for the day the line had only gotten longer. He’d seen it before, the pack going in for the kill. And while it was an annoyance to the

two departments closest to the doctor’s office, no one said anything because that was how it went. David passed the line on his way out. Asano was telling Lenart that despite the man’s dreams about his mother, he was a psychiatrist, not a matchmaker, and would he please leave. The doctor still looked composed, tie neat and hair smoothed back. It wasn’t quite how he looked the next morning, when David found him walking through the snow toward the station. Schools were closed and traffic was light; the winter had become an unending string of poor weather. The heater in David’s sedan was roaring against the gentle but persistent wall of snow falling

across Brooklyn. At first he didn’t recognize the shape trudging through it on foot; the collar of the man’s black trench coat was turned up, the black umbrella hugging the top of his head and shoulders, but David had seen that briefcase before. He turned the tires to the shoulder and rolled to a stop so that he could put the passenger window down. “Need a lift?” Feet paused and cool eyes found him through the white. “No, thank you.” It wasn’t exactly the answer David had been expecting and he was left a little slack-jawed as Asano kept walking in

the direction of the station, still long blocks away. Stubborn bastard. He pushed the gas a little and drifted along at the doctor’s side, keeping pace. Flakes of snow crawled onto the passenger seat. “It’s pretty toasty in here,” David said, sotto voce. “I mean, I’ve been in some warm cars but mine really takes the cake.” He glanced from the road back to Asano. The man was looking resolutely ahead. “It’s almost too hot.” “Then it’s a good thing that you have the window open.” David snorted. “Touché, Doc.” He leaned over a little, steering with one

hand on the wheel so that he could look out the window. “You’re stubborn.” Asano glanced over. “You’re the one following me. Would you like to be the pot or the kettle?” “Which one’s black?” The laugh seemed to struggle from Asano’s lips as if it was against his will somehow, and he fought with it as he finally stepped off the snowy curb. David stopped. Cold air washed into the car along with the doctor’s slim frame and the clean smell of soap, and when Asano tilted his head to the side to look over, damp hair stuck to his cheek. “This is a favor.” The door slapped shut.

“This is me keeping my precinct’s doctor from freezing to death and therefore saving everyone from more paperwork. It’s purely selfish.” The struggling laugh was back as Asano turned away, reached to roll up his window. “I see. In that case I suppose that it was kind of me to get into the car.” “Very kind, Doc.” David checked traffic and pulled back out onto the white road. Snow ploughs were having a time trying to keep up; the tires spun once climbing through the slush that had accumulated on the shoulder before catching on the asphalt beneath. “Bad time of year not to have a car.”

Asano watched the road through the flick of the windshield wipers. “I have a car, I just couldn’t use it this morning. It’s not a far walk.” That earned a chuckle from David. “In this? Far enough. All native New Yorkers are born with thick skin, but I worry about guys from out of town.” “You don’t know anything about me.” It was an echo of David’s own statement from yesterday. He shrugged. “I’m learning.” “Are you.”

The dry incredulousness in those two words made David laugh, the sound large in the small confines of the car. “Sure. You like black coffee. You smile because it’s polite, not because you want to, but your outfit says you’re self-aware so it’s a choice you make.” Asano was looking at him now as David added, “and independent--I’m guessing to what’s likely an unhealthy extent given the right situation. So tell me again not to worry about you freezing to death.” There was a silence in the car that David read as tacit agreement and perhaps a little earned respect. Asano finally spoke up around it. “You seem to worry a lot, Detective.”

“And you seem to deflect the conversation away from yourself a lot. Is that because you’re a shrink, or just a natural talent?” This time when Asano laughed it was open, soft and low; there was a sort of give in it that made David feel, for the first time, that there was an honest-togod man underneath the doctor’s starched shirts and cool eyes. “Maybe I’m just not that interesting,” Asano offered with a smile. “I somehow doubt that.” The police station could just be seen across the snowy intersection a half a block ahead. David put the blinker on

and pulled the car up to the curb. The doctor glanced out the window. “There’s a lot at the precinct--” “Where I will be parking shortly,” David agreed. Asano’s look at that was mild but David thought he saw the start of a real smile before it was hidden by the opening of the door as the doctor climbed out into the cold. He hesitated, and then leaned back down. “Thank you.” David touched two fingers to his forehead and gave the gentle salute with a smile, as if he could write the behavior off as all a part of the job. Closing the door, Asano started walking the rest of

the way to the precinct. David pulled back into traffic. What the doctor had said about his car turned out to be only a version of the truth. David yawned as he took the steps down to the basement of the station. He’d always thought it depressing down here--which was the point, of course. No windows in the cells and interview rooms, just grey concrete. Didn’t want any sun to cheer up the suspects or breeze to stir the smell out of the drunk tank. He slid his ID and request list under the evidence room counter partition to the

clerk and then leaned back against the wall to wait, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling the cold seep through his shirt and into his skin. Two patrolmen were sitting on the bench across the hall, coffee in hand and wheel hats to their sides, talking between shifts. “Nope, did it right there. He said whoever was in the neighborhood.” David closed his eyes and wished he had his own coffee. “Poor shit,” the other patrolman laughed. The metal drawer near David’s elbow

was pushed open from the other side, his ID and the manila envelope containing the evidence he requested inside. “Hold on,” David told the clerk. He left the drawer and took the few steps across the hall. “This an offender you’re talking about?” The men looked up. “Nah,” said the first. “The new guy upstairs.” “Did you boot his car?” David asked. “It was guys from another precinct, they had it impounded. Lane put out an A.P.B. last night and asked anyone in the area to take care of it for him.” “Impounded?” David couldn’t fault

Asano for not giving him the whole story and while he respected the fact that the man hadn’t lied to him, it didn’t change things. Anyone could have ordered a boot taken off but Asano would have to pay to get his car out of impound. Not to mention the fact that Lane had pulled in guys from another precinct to do it. “Hey!” the evidence clerk yelled at him. “Come get this stuff!” “Thanks,” David said to the two cops, turning to grab his card and bag. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and headed for the steps. There were certain, unspoken rules to hazing and Lane was walking perilously close to the edge of them. A prank wasn’t supposed to make

a new recruit feel like the butt of a joke, but a part of some bigger eventuality and without a certain amount of respect that didn’t happen. Having a CPR dummy tossed off a roof gave Richards a chance to laugh with the guys who’d pulled the prank, to build a bond. Anyone lacking that feedback was just being laughed at. For a few hours, a few cups of coffee, David was able to push all of it to the back of his mind. There was paperwork to do and Richards had been pestering him to look at a case he’d gotten hung up on. It was enough until midday when Lane showed up in Homicide. David looked up from Richards’ desk,

tapping his pencil against their files as his attention followed the man. Lane had both a few years and a few inches on David, but what was clear in the way he strutted through the department to Asano’s office was that while David was an asshole to people who deserved it, Lane was an asshole because he enjoyed it. Through the windows of the doctor’s office David couldn’t hear the conversation but it was easy enough to see the intent. Lane’s body posture, curled over the doctor with one hand on the back of his chair and one on the man’s desk, might have set David’s teeth on edge but his hands were tied; the

backlash of a report wouldn’t be worth it, not if the doctor didn’t want anything to do with it. When Lane reached a meaty hand out and settled it on Asano’s shoulder, David stood. Richards sat forward. “You said--” “I know what I said,” David said through his teeth. The door to the doctor’s office opened and Lane stepped out, followed by the doctor. Asano’s eyes flickered to David but the contact was so brief and narrowed that it left David feeling winded and worse than if the man hadn’t looked at all. Richards made a sound when David snapped his pencil in half. The kid wore

all the skeptical animosity that David was hoping he’d kept off his own face as he watched the pair leave. “Where the hell are they going?” “Wherever Lane says.” David shook his head and tossed the pieces of his pencil into the trash. “He’s pulling rank. Let’s get back to work.” No favors. Lane was clearly bent on making Asano a habit, or making him an example, and anything David would do would only carry the color of the detective’s obvious bias. He needed to leave it alone. The doctor could take care of himself. And hours later when Montoya set yet

another shot glass filled with dark liquid down in front of him, David had almost forgotten to worry about it. The Lucky Duck was two blocks from the station, a dim place with low ceilings, yellow lights, and a bar held together by a prayer and the grace of precinct payroll. That night it was crowded, humming with cops taking refuge from the bad weather. The old Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner played Johnny Cash. “Cheers,” Montoya said, “another one bites the dust.” David tapped the bottom of his glass against the sticky bar. “Amen.” The whiskey was sweet and it burned on the way down, adding to the faint warm

glow of his previous drinks. Montoya’s empty glass was put headdown on the bar and he tugged on his moustache--an impressive handlebar that he’d had for so many years David didn’t even know what his face looked like beneath it--and stood with a moan. “I’m gonna take a leak. Hold down the fort.” David pressed a solemn hand to his chest. “I’ll defend your seat to the death.” Montoya clapped a heavy hand on his back as he moved by, almost enough to push David closer to the bar. “That’s your problem, Dave,” he laughed as he walked off. “All heart.”

His first day on the job when David told his then-new partner and would-be mentor that he’d like to be called David, Montoya had looked him in the eye and told him that he didn’t give a shit what he liked, he looked like a Dave. Almost ten years later David was the man’s boss but Montoya had never stopped calling him by the nickname. David huffed a laugh and took a drink of his beer, settling down further into his seat and trying not to listen to the low argument the guys next to him were having, now that he was alone. He twisted his empty shot glass on the bar. He’d been to birthdays here, and wakes. This bar had almost a hundred years of

cop history soaked into its woodwork, the best and the worst of it. “He’s the department chief.” The statement was loud enough that it was hard to ignore. David glanced over as the man continued, “He can do whatever the hell he wants; he pays me.” The two were Gregory and Peck from Kidnapping, and they both looked a few beers into their night. He didn’t know either of them well, they were just faces and names in another department. Thing was, that department happened to be Lane’s--and that got David’s attention despite himself.

“Nah, that’s...” Gregory shook his head. “It’s not right. Besides, the guy’s a doctor, ain’t he? Should be hands off; not like he’s one of us.” Obviously David wasn’t the only one who thought Lane was crossing lines lately. He told himself to get up, move down a seat so that he couldn’t hear. Whatever was going on wasn’t his concern. Asano wasn’t his concern. He took a drink. “Doesn’t matter who he is, guy could be the goddamn pope in Rome, I don’t give a shit.” Peck picked at the bar. “Lane wasn’t in there adjusting the man’s clothes--”

“Shut up,” Peck hissed, his head coming up. David looked at his beer and willed himself to fade into the sea of tan and black coats. “Look,” the other detective finally continued in a lower voice, “it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he was adjusting Asano’s tie or trying to take it off, doesn’t matter if it was on the crime scene or in the station--a new guy’s a new guy and Lane’s our fucking boss.” So you’ll let a little sexual assault slide, Peck, is that it? Anger was a bitter taste under his tongue that had nothing to do with the beer. “It mighta been funny,” Gregory was saying, “the way Asano brushed him off,

but Lane was pissed. It was weird that he was mad. Right? It was weird.” Peck was silent for a moment before speaking up. “Yeah,” he said. “It was weird.” David had heard enough; he stood up and pulled out his wallet. Peck had been involved with some of the meaner and more embarrassing hazings of the last few years. The fact that he agreed that Lane was out of line put David more on edge than the general impression of the conversation itself. “Hey.” Montoya had come back and watched David take a few bills from his wallet. “You leaving? Did something--”

David waved the question away and laid the money on the bar. “Nothing, just been a long day. I’ll see you in the morning.” Montoya looked skeptical but nodded, and David could feel his friend’s eyes on the back of his neck all the way to the door. To Montoya’s ultimate good judgment, he didn’t follow. They’d known each other long enough, maybe; he knew when David wouldn’t be good company. The snow settled in close and thick after being displaced by the opening door and it crunched under his feet. The cold was sharp enough to hurt David’s lungs. Standing on the sidewalk for a moment he watched the soft orange clouds made

by the flurries under the street lamps before tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Lane wasn’t going to back down. And David wouldn’t sit by any longer and let Asano be hurt because his pride, or some testosterone-driven relic of a system, demanded that he put up with an asshole like Lane. There was cold comfort that came with the decision to act and it carried him the two snowy blocks back to the station with his eyes fixed ahead and his hands loose in his pockets. He hardly saw the desk sergeant at the front as the man raised a hand in greeting, or the increase of blue uniforms settling in for the late shift.

David took the flight of stairs two at a time, slowing near the top to check his watch. There were only two guys left in Kidnapping for the night and neither of them bothered to stir as David went by on his way to the far office. Lane looked up from his desk when his door was snapped shut, the blinds on the window rattling. “We need to talk.” Lane leaned back in his chair. Despite the hour his dark blonde hair was neat, though his tie had been taken off and hung over his computer screen and the jacket over the back of his chair looked rumpled. “Panties wound a little tight, Krause?”

David didn’t take either of the two chairs opposite Lane at his desk; instead he stood between them and, putting his hands on the wood, leaned forward. “Shut up and listen.” Lane opened his mouth but David went on, rolling over him. “I know it’s hard for you, acting like a human being, but you need to grow the fuck up. The people in this precinct are your co-workers and it’s about time you started showing them some respect.” From the other side of the desk Lane laughed and crossed his arms over his chest. “So says Miss Fucking America herself. What are you on about?” “Don’t play stupid. Lay off the doctor.”

David didn’t dare be more specific; he didn’t want to hang Peck and Gregory out to dry. An eyebrow arched and David didn’t like the cagey look that crossed the man’s thick face. “Has someone suddenly developed a little taste for Japanese food? Didn’t take you for the type.” Lane sneered and sat forward. “Don’t make this a problem, Krause.” David pushed himself upright. “Dealing with you is my fucking problem. You’re a prick. You’ve always been a prick. You think someone else won’t back me up?” It was a soft threat. “They won’t risk their jobs. Nobody

likes you enough.” “Then we’re both in the same boat. Which way do you really think the tide is gonna turn on this one? Using outside onduty resources to haze a man who isn’t even a cop.” David lowered his voice. “Sexual assault while on a crime scene?” Lane’s face paled, his square jaw working in silence. When he finally spoke the question was a growl. “You gonna martyr yourself for this guy?” “Like you said.” David shrugged. “Nobody likes me enough to care.” With that, he left.

On the way out he waved to the desk sergeant. David hoped it would end there, with the threat. Lane would behave and Asano wouldn’t know that anyone had interceded, for whatever reasons. Half an hour later, with his anger and adrenaline vented on Lane, sleep was easy. He might have even dreamed of dark eyes but the ringing of his cell phone in the early, grey light of dawn and what was waiting on the other end of the line were more insistent than remembering. He fumbled a hand on the nightstand and peered with one eye at the number without lifting his head from his pillow. The duvet was knocked down far enough

to put the phone to his ear. “Krause.” It was the beginning of the end of the next week of his life. The next four days were so devoted to the case that had dropped into his lap that morning that he didn’t have time for drinks or to think about Lane, hell, he took half of his showers in the locker room at the station. By Sunday night when things had calmed down enough that he and some of his guys were able to sit down in a room together to go over the fine print, he’d stopped caring that his shirt was rumpled or that he’d eaten take-out every meal running for the last seven. He just knew that he was sick of Chinese food and he was tired. They all

were. “I’m beat,” Richards said, his head falling forward onto the large table they were seated around. It shook the small fleet of coffee mugs and paper food cartons that had found a home there. The smell of the food was starting to give David a headache; he clapped Richards on the back as he got up and walked to open a window. Behind the shuttered blinds the world was dark. David sat on the long ledge there running the back length of the room so that he could feel the cold breeze. Montoya yawned and leaned back in his chair, scratching fingers through his

close-cropped hair. “It doesn’t matter that forensics found cyanide residue in the cup from the cabin,” he went on, following his earlier train of thought. “We can’t prove it was the cause of death without an autopsy. And without Mr Crazy’s help we don’t have an autopsy because we’re never going to find a body without him plugging back into reality and telling us where it is.” “Not constructive,” David said, leaning back against the wall between the large windows. He didn’t know what would push a man, a cop, to abduct and murder his own father, but he wanted to find out. Richards sat up with a groan, a red mark on his forehead from the table. He

rubbed at it. “There’s nothing there. We’ve been over every inch of the cabin for clues to where he might have gone with the body. Cell phone records are clean during those hours.” “Have you talked to Doctor Asano?” Rogers, who was sitting next to Montoya and flipping a pen around in his fingers, looked from the corkboard they’d covered with pictures and dates to create the rough framework of a timeline, to David. “Anything he could give us...” “He can’t tell us anything until he’s done the psych review with the suspect. You know that.” David leaned forward,

bracing his forearms against his thighs and lacing his hands between his knees. His team was good and David trusted them, but a case had to be done to the letter of the law to be valid. Some things were just waiting games. “The interviews are gonna tell us that he’s crazy.” Montoya tapped the table with his finger as punctuation. “You didn’t even get past reading the guy his rights before he bugged out, Dave.” There was no way the suspect was mentally fit enough to stand trial; when David had gotten in on Thursday morning he’d been screaming, incoherent, and from there it had only gotten worse. “If anyone can figure him

out, it’ll be the doctors,” David said. “Tomorrow we may have some answers.” There were three doctors assigned to the case but maybe Asano would find that magic string of his that could unravel all the knots. Rogers sighed. “Or we might have exactly what we have now.” David knew in his gut that the puzzle was broken, missing pieces. The key to the whole thing wasn’t here on the board, wasn’t in the cabin where the murder likely took place. The key was sitting in Bellevue, restrained to a bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed a hand over his face.

“The press are going to want more than what we’ve given them,” Montoya said, sitting up to grab a cold dumpling. He gestured with it. “The shit-storm is upon us. The vultures will start widening their net and tabloid field-days look bad for cops.” “Cops killing their fathers look bad for cops,” Rogers said. Montoya jabbed the dumpling in Rogers’ direction before eating it. Richards had opened his mouth when Lane threw the door open and let himself in. Silence descended on the room; the man had no reason to be there, but it was obvious that he planned to throw in his two cents regardless of that fact.

“Just what we needed,” Montoya said, “a little hot air.” Lane ignored him, fixing his eyes on David. “I hope you’re not seriously letting this asshole slide through the system,” he said, his voice a sneer. David sat up straighter but didn’t rise from his seat. He spread his hands. “I hope you’re not seriously suggesting that making a mentally incompetent man stand trial is the best way to play this.” Richards, Montoya, and Rogers were all looking different shades of mutinous for having been interrupted by someone who didn’t belong in this discussion--even if he was their superior. “What, Lane?

Was it a slow day in Kidnapping?” “This should be in Kidnapping, asshole,” Lane snarled, smacking a palm against the corkboard hard enough that a picture from the cabin tacked there fluttered to the floor. “The son of a bitch abducted his father before he killed him-if you’re not going to charge him, send it to me and I will.” “That’s not going to happen.” When Lane stalked toward him David grit his teeth and remained seated, holding a hand up as across the table, Montoya stood. “This guy is a cop,” Lane said. “He’s a problem for all of us. We need to go after him with everything

we’ve got.” He leaned down and planted a hand on the wall next to David’s head. “Or is this another act of a good fucking Samaritan?” This close, David couldn’t help but feel his hackles rise. “Like you’re one to talk,” he said, his voice low and between the two of them. “So ready to defend cops when you’re a shitty one yourself.” Lane’s lips peeled back from his teeth but before he could retaliate, Richards spoke up. “We need to go after him the right way,” he said, his voice reedy but determined, “or it all falls apart.” David breathed out; the kid sure had

timing. Lane’s attention diverted, he backed off enough to drop his arm and turned on the red-head. “Who the fuck are you?” “Richards, sir.” “Richards, shut the fuck up.” That was enough; David stood up. “Get out of my meeting.” His voice was low. Lane could run his mouth all he liked, but he couldn’t talk to David’s guys that way. “Or I’ll call downstairs and get someone to help you out.” “Out on your ass, or into a cell,” Montoya interjected helpfully.

An angry flush was crawling up Lane’s neck. “If you think you can--” He turned his eyes to the door and his words stopped. In the silence that fell, David’s gaze followed Lane’s. Doctor Asano was coming out of an office, a file spread open in his hands to read as he walked. “Have it your way, Krause,” Lane finished, a new, dangerous softness in his voice. “You won’t help me then I’ll find someone who will.” He headed out the door. “Asano!” David followed, watching the doctor’s shoulders stiffen slightly underneath the dark suit when Lane called his name. He raised his head and took all of them in without answering. David didn’t blame

him, he wouldn’t have liked the looks of it either, but it was too late for the man to pretend he hadn’t noticed. “You’ll recommend that perp goes to trial,” Lane said. It didn’t sound like a question and David didn’t think it was supposed to. He put a hand on Montoya’s shoulder as the older man tried to step past him and through the doorway. The doctor shut the manila folder in his hands and reached up to straighten his glasses. “I don’t have enough information to say one way or the other right now.” “Bullshit,” Lane spat, crowding into the man’s space. “You must have had your third interview by now, you know

exactly what’s going on. But the fucking point is that it doesn’t matter. This guy’s a cop. You might not understand--” “The closed, exclusionary mentality fostered by the police force?” Asano asked. “Or the need to outcast someone associated with a stigma in order to make yourself look cleaner in comparison?” At David’s side, Montoya choked on a laugh. David was pretty impressed himself. “I think I understand enough,” Asano finished mildly. Lane’s face was an impressive shade of red. “You little shit,” he pushed through his teeth. It had taken him a moment to form the words. He jabbed a finger

against the doctor’s chest. “If you think I’ll let you fuck this up for me, you’re wrong. You’re nobody here. If you don’t do what I’m telling you--” “Lane.” “What?!” The detective roared it, rounding on David; David just hooked a thumb over his shoulder and into the conference room where Rogers was standing passively near the phone on the wall, receiver to his ear and fingers hovering over the department keys. David had never seen Lane quite so angry before and god, it felt good. But underneath the intense satisfaction and love for his team at that moment, he worried. Nothing good would come of

Lane being pushed so far. “No need to do anything rash, Rogers.” David looked at Lane. “Unless you don’t think you can find the way back to your own department, Detective?” “I swear to you,” Lane growled at David. “I swear to you, Krause. I’m going to see that this guy goes down, with or without your help.” The detective swung back to Asano. “Think long and hard about what you’re doing before you do it, doctor.” And then he was leaving, stalking down the hallway. “What an asshole,” Richards muttered. David let it slide. He looked at Asano

and the doctor was looking back, his gaze steady. Richards and Montoya filed back into the conference room and the hum of their conversation with Rogers was a low wash. “Do you need a ride home?” David expected the doctor to say no. The question hung in the air between them. The doctor nodded. “Thank you. You won’t be here all night?” David shook his head. “No, I think we’re all done. A good night’s sleep will do us better than being in there and banging our heads against any more walls. Let me just grab my jacket and I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.”

Richards, Montoya and Rogers were more than happy to be told to go home. Asano was waiting at the front desk and he fell into stride at David’s shoulder as they pushed through the door. The case loomed between them. David knew better than to ask for details about the suspect and Asano knew better than to tell him his thoughts--and they both knew better than to bring up what had just happened with Lane. They climbed into the car in silence and David only broke it to ask directions to the man’s apartment. Asano leaned back into the passenger seat and when David looked over a few blocks later, the doctor was asleep, his

hands folded in his lap. There were light smudges under the man’s eyes that eyelashes and glasses together couldn’t quite hide. He’d gotten into the car as a professional, put together and cool, but in the passing glow of the street lights he looked young and fragile and David found himself marveling at the strength and composure he’d seen the man carry day to day if this was what was underneath it all. In the silence of the car with Asano breathing evenly David felt trusted. Forgotten but included and there was a peace in it, a sort of letting go that was a relief after the last few days. Because for the time it took to reach the apartment

he was the center of a very small universe, one that hinged only on him keeping his company safe and the soft music of the windshield wipers, and it was so simple. The apartment complex was small, a compact set of buildings that stretched a single block but somehow had carved out a tiny parking lot for tenant use. Asano shifted, sat up as David pulled into an empty spot and put the car into park. The first glance across the seats was as unguarded as anything he’d seen from the doctor. It gave David the impression that the man was like a vase that had been broken and glued perfectly back together; the cracks always

showed. Asano unhooked his seatbelt and the moment was gone, maybe imagined. “Thank you for the ride.” His voice was rough and he cleared his throat, lifting up to rub fingers beneath his glasses. “And thank you for defending the suspect tonight.” For defending you as well? No, David didn’t think that was implied. “It’s my job.” Which might have been a distillation of the truth, but remained the truth regardless. “You should make a trip out to see him, Gabriel, for yourself.”

The wipers squeaked against the drying windshield and David turned them off. “Should I?” Asano nodded. “You made the right call, asking for the 730 exam. He’s gotten worse.” “I can’t imagine that, considering.” “I know you’re busy, but he is what you’re fighting for. Your original assessment of him was correct.” David looked at Asano for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m not fighting for him. I’m fighting for the right thing.” He met the doctor’s eyes. “If he ever comes around, I’ll be fighting to put

him in jail for a long time.” Asano didn’t back down from his attention. “I understand.” “I’m not a cop because I like carrying a gun,” David said. “I’m a cop because I honestly believe that the system works when there are good people working to uphold it. It is what we make it.” The overhead dome light blazed on as Asano opened the door and put a foot out into the night. “It would be good,” he said, “if every policeman felt that way.” “I like fighting uphill battles.” Asano huffed quietly and reached to

collect the briefcase that he’d settled at his feet. “I don’t doubt that, Detective.” “You could call me David, you know.” He looked over as he said it and was unsure of what to make of the smile that touched Asano’s lips. “I think it’s better to keep things professional, don’t you?” David laughed. The sound felt strange in his throat after the last days of work and worry. “Sure thing, Doc.” Asano’s smile shifted subtly, a little closer to true, and then he was stepping out of the car and closing the door behind him, leaving David in the dark.

Turned out the doctor was as good as his word. The next day the official paperwork came in and all three psychiatrists, including Doctor Asano, had found the suspect unfit to stand trial. No charges would be pressed unless his mental state changed dramatically. Standing there in Bellevue hospital that night after another long day and looking at the gaunt figure of the dark-haired man strapped to the bed, David understood. Gabriel was quiet, not sedated but nearly comatose, his cheekbones sharp against the pull of skin. An IV line in his arm kept him alive. There was nothing there to stand trial, just a body that kept running because it was too young to do

anything else. David tried to place the man’s face, maybe in uniform, but didn’t think their paths had ever crossed. Last night he had told the doctor the truth--he wanted the suspect tried to the full extent of the law. But this wasn’t right, this husk of a man. Why? The last time David had seen him he’d been aggressive and healthy enough to give two guards a run for their money. Between the doctor’s reports and his own clues there was a vague picture of a young man with an absent father. An obsession with an ideal. Is that what love was to Gabriel? It that what love was?

David’s phone rang, the buzz in his pocket pulling him out of his reverie. Maybe everyone should just get dogs. “Krause.” He turned from the viewing window when there was just breath across the line and pulled the phone from his ear to check the number. A coldness that had nothing to do with the white walls of the hospital trickled into his gut. “Richards? J.R., talk to me.” There was a hissed curse. “Sorry,” Richards said. “I--,” there was a thump and an exhale. “It’s Lane.” The name was enough to turn the trickle of cold into a flood. David was already headed out of the room and down the hall. He dodged a nurse at a pace that wasn’t

quite running. “Lane was in the parking lot. He had Doctor Asano pinned to the brick wall with his arm up behind his back. He was... he was pulling down the doctor’s pants.” Richards inhaled sharply and muttered, “crap, that hurts,” to himself before continuing. “I think he was trying... or had started--” “That’s enough.” Rape. The intent if not the act. David threw his shoulder into the front door and spilled out into the night. It was the first day in a week that it hadn’t snowed and the ground had finally started to thaw after the brief rain last night. He jogged across the parking lot. “What happened?”

“I jumped on him, sir.” Richards’ laugh was tired and a little hysterical. “I didn’t know what else to do. Lane walled me but I held onto him long enough that the doctor took off on foot.” “Jesus Christ, Richards.” Later he’d have time to be proud of the kid. The car door slammed after him and David switched the phone to his other ear so that he could put the key in the ignition. “Is Lane still there?” “He punched me once I let go and then got in his car. What should I do?” David peeled the car back out of the spot. Asano had to be headed home; if

the precinct wasn’t an option for him, the smart thing to do was to go where he could get behind a locked door. “Anything broken?” “I don’t think so.” “Then go home. I’ll get Lane.” David hung up the phone and tossed it into the empty passenger seat in time to take the still-wet turn out of the hospital entirely too fast. He refrained from running the siren and just hoped that there were no patrols between there and Asano’s place. Lane had finally lost it. Rape? David slammed a palm down on the wheel. He’d always known that the man fought

dirty, that he’d use whatever he had at his disposal to turn things his way, but this. Part of David knew that he should drag the asshole up on charges and do it the right way--but the right way, in this case, wouldn’t stick. The red tape would be so thick that they wouldn’t be able to see through it. It was time to do things the hard way. Everything was quiet in the doctor’s parking lot. David found a spot in the far corner where there was no light and turned off the car. Lane wasn’t here, but there was no telling if he’d come and gone. David got out of the car and had only shut the door when he saw the reflection of police flashers across the

street. He dropped down with a curse that was white in the cold and a moment later headlights washed into the lot. It was enough time to get ready. When Lane’s door was opened David was there, grabbing the detective by both the arm and the collar and using the man’s momentum to haul him headfirst into the car parked in the next spot. There was a bark of pain along with the crunch of metal and Lane crumpled to the dirty slush. His car chimed softly about the open door and David swung it closed, kicking Lane in the ribs as he did. The man grunted with the force of it. “You touch him again,” David said, leaning down, “you touch anyone ever

again, and I swear to Christ it’ll be the last thing you do.” He backed off, hoping it would be enough but not quite believing it. Lane put one hand under himself and worked his way to a standing position, his shallow breath misting in the cold. The man’s shirt was untucked from his slacks and now most of it was covered in cold, dingy water, including his tie which hung limp and heavy. He’d only gotten to his feet before he threw himself forward. Still dazed from the hit against the car, he was too slow. David ducked under a wild swing that might have offered him a new way to breathe had it connected and hooked a punch up into

the soft gut where his kick had landed a minute before. Lane’s breath puffed out with a startled sound and as he curled forward, David swung again. His fist slammed into Lane’s face and his knuckles connected with teeth. Lane staggered to the side, bracing himself against the trunk of his car.

“Tell me you hear me,” David panted, holding his throbbing hand. There was a coughed curse and Lane spat blood along with a, “Fuck off.” He lunged again and this time David was too close, bewildered that the man could still move so well. Hands closed around him and Lane threw David against the next car over with enough force to blot the night out with bright stars. Lane’s bulk pressed in from behind and his breath smelled like blood. “Jealous of all the attention?” Lane huffed out, the words hot against David’s ear. “Maybe it’s not the doctor who needs the lesson. I’ve always fucking hated you, Krause. You stick your nose where it doesn’t

belong.” “One of my better qualities,” David grunted through his teeth. He threw his head back and heard the crunch of breaking bone. Suddenly he could breathe as Lane stumbled back, hitting his own car, a hand over his nose. Blood ran between his fingers, black in the low light. “I’ll kill you,” he growled, muffled. His breath came in hard grunts. David panted, teeth clenched. “You could try.” He stood there, hands in fists, offering the challenge. Daring Lane to back his words up. Lane didn’t care about much, but he understood physical

brutality. Might equaling Right. For a long minute there was silence, the passing of an occasional car or the slam of a front door somewhere. It had started to sleet. Lane finally turned away, jerking his car door open and leaving blood smeared across the handle and window where he grabbed to throw himself into the seat. David put a hand on the door before it could close and leaned in. He was interrupted by an upstairs window sliding open. “I’m calling the police!” “For fuck’s sake,” David muttered, raising his head. “We are the police!” he

yelled back. The window slammed closed and he looked back at Lane, who was blotting his already swollen nose with his tie. “I’m serious about this, Lane.” Freezing rain ran down the back of his neck. “I fucking heard you,” Lane snarled, but the fight had gone out of him; his shoulders were rounded and his lips puddled into a frown. Blood dripped onto his shirt, red roses against the damp white material. He wouldn’t accept losing with grace but David didn’t need him to, he just needed him to accept it. He nodded. “Behave.”

David leaned back and Lane reached for the door, slamming it closed. There was a kind of victory in the finality of the sound that he could feel echoed in the throb of his knuckles. David stood back and watched Lane clear out, turning his collar up against the weather and for just a moment longer he remained there, looking at the building. He felt good. Alive. Ready for tomorrow. With a satisfied smile on his face, David turned toward his car and toward home. The sleet didn’t last long, just long enough to coat everything in a thin layer

of ice the next day and turn the traffic division on their ears. Then it was back to snow. But the sun was trying its best regardless, shining weakly between the soft flakes and taking the worst bite off the chill. Of course, as David stood in the precinct parking lot and cursed at his frozen car, the last thing he was feeling was thankful that the air was warm enough to breathe. He banged on an icy window and then rubbed his hands together before kicking a wheel. “Stupid weather--” “Need a lift?” He’d been so intent on abusing his own

car that David hadn’t heard another pull up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and found Asano, leaning over to look through the passenger window of a red sedan. David grimaced at being caught. “No, thank you.” He turned back to try the door handle again. The laugh that his answer received rubbed the sharpest of the edge off his mood and when the doctor added, “well it’s rather toasty in here, almost too hot,” David relented with a breath of a chuckle. Leaving his car, he walked over to drape his forearms through the open window and leaned his head in. The doctor must have just climbed in

himself; he was still flushed with the cold, his cheeks pink. On the right one there were the lines of a shallow, already-healing scrape that David didn’t comment on. “So you actually have a car. I was beginning to suspect you were just a freeloader.” Asano smiled. “I told you that I had one.” “So you did.” David patted the inside of the door. “Where are you and this hot ride proposing to whisk me off to? All I really need to do is find an ice pick, but if you’ve got a better offer...” Asano laughed. “I was thinking that I’d take you up on your promise of a real

cup of coffee.” David raised an eyebrow. “My treat, huh?” “Yes.” The smile was still in the doctor’s eyes. “Let me think about it.” With a grin, David shook his head and stood up, glancing up at the clearing sky. He laughed, opening the door and climbed into the car. “You drive a hard bargain, Doc.” Asano smiled again and this time the expression was easy enough that David was able to see through the cracks to the man underneath. “Why don’t you call me Katsuya?”

David settled back with a smile of his own. “It’s a deal.”