Disclaimer: They are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Author's Note: Many happy returns of the day to Owl, and many thanks to Cheri for the nudge.

Silver Linings

by L.M. Lewis

"You probably don't remember me."

Mark looked up, took in the ordinary middle-aged face—a guy in a lieutenant's uniform. The nameplate over his pocket said "Kinney". It didn't help.

"Ah, well . . . no, not off hand." He'd met a lot of cops in his seven years with Hardcastle. And he'd met quite a few even before that.

"Yeah," the lieutenant named Kinney helped himself to a seat on the bench alongside McCormick, "I got a better look at you than you got at me. I think your mind was elsewhere both times."

Mark was frowning. The man was middle weight, very average looking. He didn't seem displeased at not being recognized.

"I did feel a little bad about arresting you."

"Ah . . ." Mark half squinted at the man, trying to peel off a few years and a few pounds. "Kinney?" He felt an unaccustomed flush of embarrassment which was more than the result of being at a social disadvantage. He glanced around at the nearly empty courthouse hallway. No one else in earshot, at least.

"And I never really got a chance to thank you for pulling me out of the car before it blew."

It all clicked into place, a tug of memory so strong that he could almost smell the odor of burning plastic and gasoline.

"Tom Kinney." The man stuck his hand out. Mark reacted automatically, though the lieutenant ended up doing most of the shaking—a firm, no-nonsense grip.

"You're a lieutenant now, huh?" Mark said, and then immediately hoped it hadn't sounded surprised.

"And you're an ambulance chaser. 'Scuse me," Kinney grinned infectiously, "a member of the bar . . . or so I heard."

"You heard?" Mark couldn't help it; this time the surprise was unmistakable.

Kinney nodded thoughtfully. "Word gets around."

Mark winced. "Does, huh?" He knew there were more than a few officers of the court who thought the California State Bar was collectively smoking the wacky tabacky on this one.

"Yeah, and 'course a guy takes a personal interest in their work—at least I do—likes to see how things turn out. Like I said, I was sorry I had to arrest you."

Mark swallowed hard. The sirens, the mad flight from Martin Cody's R&D building in the Coyote, with the cops—Officer Kinney—in pursuit.

"I almost got you killed." How the hell could he not have remembered the man's name?

"Yeah," Kinney's smile had slipped into a more sober expression, "I thought my number was up that night. You know the sleeve of my jacket had scorch marks on it? I didn't even notice till I got home. My wife had a fit."

"Sorry," Mark said. It came out sounding wholly inadequate, and then, "I didn't blame you for IDing me. It was your job. I got that."

He hadn't, not then, but he did now.

"Well, that," Kinney eased back on the bench; his smile had returned, "see, my wife wasn't the only one ready to spit nails. When my sergeant saw what I'd done—taking the squad car over a jump like that and toasting it," Kinney shook his head, "he was ready to chew me a new one. And then that guy—the one who owned the place—"

"Martin Cody."

"Yeah, him," Kinney nodded, "he was on the phone to the higher ups, screaming his head off, I guess. He wanted the damn car back."

Mark remembered how Hardcastle had put it—"restitution". He suddenly wondered how much of the judge's easy acceptance of Cody's guilt was a result of distaste for the man's style.

The lieutenant had let out a weary sigh. "You know how it is. I was the only one who'd gotten a good look at you. They were thinking out of state talent, industrial espionage, who knows what all. I got parked in an interview room with a pile of mug shot books and instructions not to come out until I'd made an ID." Kinney shook his head. "Took me five hours. You could've had a name that started with A or B." He grinned again.

Mark grinned back sheepishly and shrugged.

"So I made the ID, and we made the bust, and all the higher-ups were happy. Even Cody for a while, especially when he heard they'd assigned your case to old Hardcastle. I got a commendation. Imagine that, after toasting a car."

"I'm glad it worked out," Mark said and he realized that he meant it, deeply and sincerely. The alternative didn't bear thinking on.

"Yeah, it did. A commendation. Then I got made sergeant—part of that might've been they wanted to keep me from wrecking too many more squad cars. I've always had that problem with chases. I can't give up, you know?"

"Oh, yeah." Mark smiled. "I know about that."

"And then a couple more commendations—no more of them with banged up cars—and two years ago I took the lieutenant's exam," he spread his arms out and down, as if to take himself in, "and here I am."

"So," Mark frowned lightly, "the crash was a good thing?"

"In a way, yeah." Kinney nodded. "Especially since I got out." He paused for a moment, giving Mark an appraising look. "And the arrest, it was a good thing, too?"

Mark smiled. "In a way, yeah." From Kinney's complacent expression Mark guessed the man had heard some of that story.

"Like I said," Kinney said, confirming Mark's suspicions as he stood slowly, "word gets around." He offered his hand one more time. Another firm no-nonsense shake and Mark returned it in kind.

Then he strode away, up the empty corridor, leaving McCormick to gather his thoughts, and still not having quite managed that before another voice interrupted him.

"Who's that?"

Mark jerked his gaze round to meet Hardcastle, who was gesturing with a quick thumb hook toward Kinney's retreating back.

"Ah, somebody I know." Mark shook his head once in bemusement, then took in the judge's curiosity and couldn't resist adding, "Just a guy who arrested me once."