CHAPTER ELEVEN

"I'm in a pickle, Ray," Fraser said, sliding into the seat across from the desk. He was wearing the brown uniform, his hat clutched tightly in white-knuckled hands.

Ray was eating his lunch, one of Hugo's smoked salmon specials. Fraser had finally gotten him to try one, and, to his surprise, Ray found he liked it. Not that he would ever tell Hugo.

"Yeah?" he said, chewing noncommitally. From hard-won experience, he had learned to take Fraser Sr.'s advice and not buy a pig in a poke. Or follow a man off a cliff. He waited for more.

But Fraser was peering at him, taking in the bloodshot eyes, five o'clock shadow, and wrinkled shirt. "Are you alright, Ray?"

"Fine," he said, impatiently. "What's the pickle?"

"I must re-certify my firearms proficiency by Thursday."

"This Thursday?"

"Yes."

"The day after tomorrow."

"Yes."

"Or what?"

"Or else, I'll be dismissed."

"From the Consulate?"

"From the RCMP."

"What?!" Ray was outraged. He knew who was behind this. "The Dragon Lady's gonna fire you?!" He shook his head, "Man, has she got it in for you."

"It's not Inspector Thatcher's doing," he said, quickly. "It's mine. I neglected to fulfill the requirements of my position."

Ray stared in disbelief. "You? You neglected requirements?" He frowned. "That's not possible."

Fraser lowered his eyes to the desk. "It's my own fault. Can we leave it at that?"

"That won't wash. Not with me." He lowered his voice. "C'mon, Benny. What's the story?"

Fraser looked at him, earnestly. "Truly, Inspector Thatcher is not responsible in any way, Ray." At his friend's skeptical expression, he took a deep breath and explained. "All officers of the RCMP must have their weapons proficiency certified annually. It's a core requirement of the position. "

"We do, too."

"When I was first stationed in Chicago, Inspector Moffit requested a waiver from Ottawa of this requirement in lieu of having me travel back to Canada for re-certification. It was his opinion that re-certification would be ... superfluous." He frowned. "He was concerned with the cost of travel in light of the Consulate's budget. And since I am not licensed to carry a firearm in this jurisdiction ..." He trailed off.

"HQ denied it?"

"No, the waiver was granted."

Ray looked puzzled. "Then, what's the problem?"

"The waiver was rescinded last June."

"But, you were in the hospital the entire month of June."

"Yes."

Ray protested. "But, that's not fair! You must have been entitled to a special dispensation or something."

Fraser nodded. "Inspector Moffit could have responded to Ottawa and, perhaps, requested an extension on my behalf, at that time."

"But he didn't," Ray said, grimly.

"No, he didn't," he confirmed. "And ... somehow ... the second letter from Ottawa warning that I had missed the deadline to re-certify was not answered either."

Ray was angry, now. "Let me guess. That came when you were still in the hospital?"

"Yes."

"What about when you got out?"

Fraser rubbed his forehead. "Neither notice was among the personal or professional correspondence awaiting my return to duty. Or in my personnel file. And, as you know, Inspector Moffit was gone." He hesitated, then said, "Promoted."

"That son of a bitch!"

"Now, Ray," Fraser said. "Oversights happen all the time. I don't believe Inspector Moffit would have deliberately failed to act or inform me."

"So, he was incompetent, rather than evil? That's no consolation," Ray said. It was true that Moffit was inept. But, higher ups in the RCMP blamed Fraser for exposing the Yukon dam scandal and the complicity of a fellow Mountie in murder. It was obvious to Ray that absence, in this case, was not making the heart grow fonder. This was no coincidence.

Fraser rubbed a thumb along his eyebrow. "It's my own fault for not confirming that the waiver was still in place."

Ray shot him a disbelieving glance. "C'mon, you'd have to be psychic. Don't beat yourself up." He straightened in his chair. "So, Thursday, huh? There's still time to take the test."

He shook his head. "I've been working on this all morning. Because I am currently stationed outside Canadian territory, the test must be conducted by a firearms instructor who meets RCMP regulations and is licensed for the law enforcement jurisdiction where I am assigned. That eliminates private instructors, even those who are certified by the State of Illinois or the National Rifle Association. That leaves the FBI or the Chicago Police Department." He sighed. "Apparently, there are a number of forms required by the FBI for a foreign police officer to be certified. And they must be submitted at least three months in advance. No exceptions."

"Federal bureaucracy is a real pain in the ass," he agreed. "What about our Department?"

"I made inquiry and was told that, while I am eligible to be tested by the CPD, there is a backlog on scheduling the test. The police academy has just graduated a new class and the influx of new officers is putting a strain on an already overburdened system. Adding to the problem, there are two vacancies in the instructor ranks due to the retirement of Sergeant Bolles and the maternity leave of Corporal Martino. She had a baby girl yesterday." He sighed. "The earliest opening is three weeks out."

Ray knew the answer before he asked. "Any chance of an extension with Ottawa until then?"

He shook his head. "The Inspector tried this morning. Her request was denied."

"Then, I'll drive you up to Canada. You can take the test at an RCMP range. We can leave tonight."

"The Inspector tried that avenue as well, Ray. Like your Department, there is a backlog. An even longer one, if you can imagine. It is impossible to squeeze me in by Thursday."

He narrowed his eyes. "There's something fishy going on, Benny."

Fraser shrugged. "Perhaps. But, it is what it is." He looked bleakly at his friend. "I ... I don't know what to do, Ray."

Ray's temper flared. "Get mad! Pitch a fit! Throw something!"

"That won't change anything," he said, his face a mask devoid of all expression.

"It might make you feel better," Ray retorted.

"No," Fraser said, flatly, "it won't." His jaw tightened and he lowered his head.

Anger burned in Ray's belly. This was a set up and a damned dirty one. Somebody had taken advantage of Fraser at his lowest ebb - lying flat on his back in a hospital bed - to plant a seed. That seed was now bearing a very poisonous fruit. Ray was the one who had put him in that bed. He would not allow Moffit, or Thatcher, or some faceless muckety-muck to use that horrible time against them. Enough was enough.

He looked at his friend, head down, shoulders sagging ever so slightly. Ray hated to see him like that. Well, I can be mad enough for the both of us, he thought. He reached over the desk and patted Fraser's arm.

"Leave it to me." He stood and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Listen up!" He had to repeat himself a few times before he had the attention of the squadroom. "Anybody doing their firearms cert this week?"

Everybody looked at everybody else. A detective in Vice by the name of Sandy Harris called out. "I go Friday morning."

"Friday?" he said. "Thanks, Sandy. Anybody else?"

Elaine spoke from her desk. "I think Guardino is scheduled for Thursday." She tapped a few keys on her computer. "Yeah, he is. Thursday at 3 pm."

Ray glanced at Fraser. "That's cutting it close," he said. "Would it work?"

A flicker of hope crossed his face. "If the certificate is faxed to Ottawa by end of day, Thursday, it will be in time."

Elaine came over. "What's up?"

Ray quickly explained. She frowned. "I don't know if that will work, Ray. Even if Guardino was willing to give up his spot to Fraser, you know what a procrastinator he is. He's put off his own cert till his very last day, too."

Fraser protested. "I cannot ask Detective Guardino to jeopardize his own position on my account."

"Relax, Benny," he said, soothingly. "One step at a time." He had a thought. "Elaine, when will Harris' current certification expire?"

Elaine tapped the computer once more and said, "She's got another six weeks."

He stood and straightened his tie. "Thanks, Elaine." He looked across the squad room. "I'll be right back." He walked over and spoke at some length with Sandy Harris, who glanced over and smiled at Fraser.

Elaine spoke. "We'd miss Diefenbaker around here if you two went back to Canada."

"He would miss you too, Elaine," Fraser said, solemnly. He paused. "As would I."

Elaine, surprised, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and didn't answer. She busied herself at her computer until her face was no longer flushed.

Ray returned. "Come with me," he said, herding Fraser to Welsh's office. He knocked on the doorframe.

"Come in, Detective. Constable."

Ray closed the door behind them. Welsh raised an eyebrow at that, but gestured to them to take seats.

"Sir, there's a problem with the International Joint Task Force of the Chicago Police Department and Canadian Consulate –"

"No, Ray," Fraser interrupted. "It's the International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department."

"Are you sure," he said, "'cause I thought it was the IJTFCPDCC."

"No, Ray. It's the IJTFCCCPD."

"Enough with the anagrams already!" Welsh roared.

"I think you mean, acronyms, sir," Fraser corrected, then subsided at the look on Welsh's face.

"Vecchio, what's the problem with the IJT-whatever?"

"After Thursday, there won't be a Joint Task Force 'cause Fraser's gonna be history."

"Explain yourself, Detective," he said, gruffly.

Ray told him the story with Fraser jumping in to correct the details. When they were done, Welsh frowned. "I can't interfere with the shooting range schedule. That division is strictly independent of the precinct commanders." He turned to Fraser. "To prevent corruption and cronyism with the cert process."

"I understand, sir," he said. "It seems a wise policy."

Ray started to speak, but Welsh held up his hand. "I also can't order Guardino to give up his place, Vecchio."

"No, sir," Fraser said, rising from his chair. "Of course, you can't." He nodded, stiffly. "Thank you kindly for your time." He hesitated, then thrust out a hand. "And, may I say, sir, that it has been an honor and a privilege serving with you."

Ray batted his hand down. "Hold on," he said, "you're not heading to the Great White Way just yet."

"Why would I be going to Broadway?" he asked, puzzled.

"Broadway?" Ray retorted, rolling his eyes. "I mean, you can carry a tune and all, Benny. But, you're hardly Mandy Patinkin."

Welsh roared. "Stop!"

Their heads swivelled back to the Lieutenant. "Sorry sir," they said, in unison.

"Sir, we're not asking you to order anybody to do anything." Ray ticked off points on his fingers. "Guardino can give his Thursday spot to Fraser. But he needs to get back in asap. Sandy Harris is scheduled for Friday morning. She can give up her time to Guardino. She has plenty of time to reschedule before her cert expires. And she's willing to do that." He gestured to Welsh. "Sir, all we're asking is that you give Guardino a twenty-four hour extension."

He steepled his fingers. "I can't give anybody an extension without a good reason." He grimaced. "You understand, Constable. I can't play favorites here."

He blinked. "Of course, sir."

Welsh leaned back in his chair. "I mean, if Detective Guardino was too ill to take his test, or had some sort of family emergency, that would be a different story. I am not an unreasonable man."

"No, sir, of course not," Fraser began, "However, Detective Guardino seemed to be in good –" He grunted as Ray jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

Ray cut in. "I think he mentioned a sick grandmother only this morning, sir."

"I hope the poor woman is soon on the mend," Welsh murmured. "Now, get out of my office."

"Yes, sir!"

"Thank you, kindly, Lieutenant."

They left Welsh's office with alacrity.

"Elaine!" Ray shouted.

"I'm right here, Ray," she said, wincing. "Don't yell!"

"Where's Guardino?"

"Downstairs," she said, making a face. "Huey and Louie pulled a jumper out of the river this morning."

Great, he thought, just what I need after lunch. "OK, Fraser, let's go." He looked behind him. No Fraser. He swivelled his head. "Where'd he go?"

Elaine pointed down the hall. Fraser was talking to Sandy Harris. She was standing close, looking up at him with an odd expression on her face. Ray grimaced. Sandy had worked Vice for five years now. Like all detectives in that division, her language could get pretty salty. He was prepared to see the aw-shucks routine played out in pantomime from across a crowded room. He was shocked to see the reverse, as Sandy blushed prettily and played with her hair. Then, to Ray's astonishment, she giggled. As he approached, Fraser nodded goodbye to her and joined him.

"What was that all about?" he asked, as they headed down the stairs.

"I was merely thanking Detective Harris for her help."

"I'm telling you, man, if you could bottle that ... " he muttered. At the foot of the stairs, he said, "Guardino's in the morgue."

Fraser balked. "Really, Ray, don't you think that's taking the charade a bit too far?"

In the end, Guardino parted with his time slot. It cost Ray his tickets to next Saturday's Bulls game and a raincheck for a lasagne when Ma returned from Miami. Fraser objected to the bribery on principal, but was shouted down by Ray and Elaine. His offer to make the lasagne himself almost blew the deal. Guardino was holding out for a bigger payoff when Elaine delivered the coup de grace.

"Louis, if you don't do this, Fraser is gonna be shipped back to Canada," she said, sternly. "It'll be all your fault." As Fraser started to demur, she shushed him. She stepped into Guardino's personal space and said, for his ears only. "And I'll make sure every woman in the precinct knows it." She crossed her arms over her chest and rocked back on her heels. "Hero or goat. Your call."

Guardino chose hero.

So, Thursday afternoon, Ray picked Fraser up outside the Consulate and headed uptown to the shooting range. He was sporting the red serge uniform. His sidearm, for once, was in the holster. He carried his rifle, wrapped in its buckskin cover, and two boxes of ammunition.

Ray gave him a sidelong glance. Fraser's job was hanging by a thread. If he didn't pass the proficiency test today, he was out. O-U-T. He was a bundle of nerves at the prospect, but Fraser showed no signs of inner turmoil. Of course, he never did. It was one of the most irritating things about him.

"You ready for this?"

"Yes, Ray."

Fraser was quiet for most of the ride. Maybe that was an indication of the state of his nerves. Or, maybe he just couldn't get a word in edgewise. Ray, when anxious, talked. And talked. And talked. He kept up both sides of the conversation for forty blocks. About everything and nothing. He knew he was nattering, but he couldn't stop it. If he stopped, he'd think about Fraser being an ex-Mountie.

Parking was usually tough at the 1-1, the precinct which housed the firing range. But today, it was particularly bad. Ray had to stalk an elderly couple exiting the building to claim their space. They checked in with the desk sergeant, a big, red-faced man. His name tag read Sergeant F. McLaughlin. He looked Fraser up and down through the half-moon glasses perched on his nose.

"You're The Mountie," he said, the capital letters evident in his tone.

"I am a Mountie, yes," he replied.

"Here for your firing test," he said, handing them their visitors passes and indicating that they should sign the log. "You know where it is." At Ray's nod, he said, "Good luck."

"Thank you kindly, Sergeant."

Ray and Fraser clipped on the badges, then walked to the stairs. McLaughlin called after them, "My money's on you." He gave Fraser a big thumbs-up.

Fraser returned the gesture. He glanced uncertainly at Ray, who shrugged. He followed Ray down the stairs to the basement level. The firing range ran the length of the building. There was another check-in, where Fraser completed forms and paid the certification fee. He was issued a set of hearing protectors and assigned Shooting Lane 3. Ray led the way down a narrow hall toward the sound of gunfire.

"This is the largest gun range in the city," he said. "They hold Olympic trials here, too."

"Impressive."

The narrow hall had flared into a large open space. The back wall housed a small set of bleachers which observed the shooting lanes. There was a balcony level, which was restricted, and a row of vending machines on the far wall. Ray came here once a year to re-qualify. Typically, the bleachers were empty; perhaps, one or two cops might be waiting to shoot. Today, the gallery seats were full to capacity. The din was incredible, between the buzz of the crowd and the sounds of shooting. The chatter stopped when they entered and heads swivelled in their direction.

"Busy place," Fraser commented. He moved to Lane 3 and set his paperwork and gear on a ledge for that purpose. He removed his .38 from the holster and set it beside the rifle. Then, he undid the Sam Browne and hung it on a hook. The red tunic followed. He pushed up the sleeves of the white Henley shirt and began to unwrap the rifle. He paid no attention to the crowd.

Ray frowned, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He recognized a lot of the people here, several from the 2-7. He saw Huey leaning against a wall and approached him.

"What are you doing here, Jack?" he asked, scowling.

He shrugged. "Louis wants to know how Fraser does with his slot." He smiled, slyly. "He couldn't come. His grandmother's sick, you know." He leaned in closer. "So, how good is he?"

"Dunno," Ray said. "Never seen him shoot."

Huey looked startled. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope."

Huey looked worried, confirming Ray's suspicions that there were bets down on the shoot. He was slightly gratified that Huey wasn't betting against his friend, but mostly pissed at the circus that had formed around this event. The cop grapevine had gone into overtime on this one. Just what Fraser needed. This wasn't some circus sideshow. This was his life. Looking daggers at Huey and the rest of the rubber-neckers, Ray joined him in the shooting cubicle.

"When's the last time you used a handgun?" he asked, in a low voice.

"By used, you mean ... " Fraser ventured.

"Fired ... shot ... discharged!?" he said, impatiently.

He looked thoughtful. "Eighteen months ago."

Ray stared at him. Before he could say anything, an older man dressed in golf shirt and khakis came out of a side door. He was wearing a badge that said Instructor. His eyebrows shot up as he took in the crowd. He approached Ray and Fraser. "I'm Don Frankel. I'll be monitoring the test. You Fraser?"

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged, extending his hand. They shook.

Frankel jerked his head toward the bleachers. "Friends of yours?"

"Curious onlookers," Fraser advised.

"I see," he said, frowning. "I can clear the room, if you'd like."

"Maybe you should," Ray began, but Fraser interrupted him.

"That won't be necessary," he said.

"Your call," said Frankel. "I need to inspect your weapons and your bullets." He moved into the cubicle and began his examination.

Ray pulled Fraser aside and lowered his voice. "Benny, are you sure you want all these people here, watching?"

"It's not what I prefer, Ray, but I don't think I can ask them to leave. They have as much right to be here as I do." He gave Ray a pointed look. "More, perhaps, since my presence was secured by bribing a police officer."

"OK, then," he said, taking a deep breath. "You just relax. Forget about everything and everybody. Do that thing you do. You know, that out-of-the-body thing."

"Zen?"

"Yeah, that's it. Do the Zen thing." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll be right over there."

"OK, Ray."

"Fraser," a female voice said from right behind them. Ray jumped, startled.

Fraser whirled. "Inspector!" The open box of bullets he had in his hand spilled on to the concrete floor. He bent to pick them up just as Ray did. Their heads collided with an audible thump. Laughter spilled out from the audience. Rubbing his head, Ray handed the bullets to Fraser. He could feel his own face burning and was grateful for the camouflage of his darker complexion. Fraser looked like a beet.

He patted him on the shoulder and whispered, "Good luck, Benny," before taking a seat in the first row. His stomach was in knots. He couldn't imagine the pressure Fraser was under, and now, with the Dragon Lady looking over his shoulder ...

Fraser stood at attention.

"At ease, Constable," she said. She wore a tailored black suit and heels, looking elegant and out of place in this utilitarian venue.

Fraser tried to cool his flaming checks by sheer willpower. "I wasn't expecting you, sir." He cleared his throat. "I trust your meeting was successfully concluded?"

"I left early." At his puzzled look, she continued, "I thought ... that is ... I wanted to show my ..." She kept looking at the crowd. "Fraser, what are all these people doing here?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I believe my re-certification has become something of a sporting event, sir."

"Do you mean ..." She leaned in. "Are these people betting on you?"

He nodded. "Some. Though, I daresay more are wagering against me, sir."

At that, she spun and glared at the crowd. A few officers flinched. Then, she stepped closer to him. "Constable, I know that this test is very important for you personally. After all, your future career is dependent upon it." She took a deep breath. "Frankly, if you fail, there is no future for you in the force."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Be that as it may, there are larger issues at stake. Much, much larger."

"Sir?"

"You know what Americans are like, Fraser. Just look at them," she said, contemptuously.

He looked over her shoulder. Fifty pairs of eyes looked back at him.

"You know the American superiority complex! They're looking for you to fail. Wishing for it."

"Sir, I don't think –"

She lifted her chin. "This is a matter of national pride, Fraser. We must show these Americans what we're made of." She patted his arm. "The honor of Canada is riding on your shoulders. Don't let us down."

He swallowed. "No, sir."

At that, she strode with her head held high to the bleachers and looked down her nose until two officers parted like the Red Sea. She took a seat and sat primly, hands in her lap.

"You ready?" Frankel asked. At Fraser's nod, he continued, explaining the safety rules. Then, he said, "We'll start with the sidearm. Target distance is 50 feet. You get to go 'round three times, if you need to. Passing score is 70%."

"Understood."

Frankel pointed to the balcony. "I'll be watching from up there. Good luck, son."

"Thank you, sir," he called after him. He donned the hearing protectors and picked up the .38. He took a couple of deep breaths and centered himself. After a long moment, he extended his right arm.

Ray froze. Fraser stood, right arm outstretched, the gun looking as if it was an extension of his hand. He held his breath. Then, Fraser fired six times. The crowd, which had fallen silent when he had taken aim, buzzed again. One spectator had a small pair of binoculars. He shouted, "One hit, the rest missed." Laughter, groans and hoots of derision erupted from the crowd. Ray buried his head in his hands for a moment, then sprang to his feet.

Fraser was removing the empty shells from the .38 when Ray clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"It's OK, buddy," he said, sympathetically. "Ignore those idiots."

"Yes, Ray," he said, distractedly, peering at the target.

Frankel came out of the side door. He was carrying a remote control. "OK, let's see what we got." He pressed a button. The target in the shape of a man trundled forward on overhead pulleys. Ray saw that there was indeed one bullet hole on the entire target. One shot through the paper thug's right shoulder. The rest had, indeed, missed.

"You'll do better next time, Benny," he said, outwardly confident, but inwardly reeling.

"I doubt it, Ray." he said, eyeing the target critically. "I am out of practice."

Ray cringed. "Don't say that. Of course, you will." He looked at Frankel. "He's just being modest." He shrugged. "Canadians."

Frankel reached for the clips that held the paper target and released it. He laid it flat and examined it closely.

Ray punched Fraser in the arm. Considering that he had more shooting to do, he hit him in his left arm. "What is wrong with you?"

"Ow!" he said, rubbing the spot. "What?"

"This is too important for you to just give up!"

He stared at him. "Who says I'm giving up?"

"You are!"

.

Before Fraser could say anything, Frankel spoke up. "That's some damn fine shooting there, son! Damn fine!"

"Huh!?" Ray said, mouth dropping open.

Frankel continued. "Your choice of impact point is unorthodox. Most go for the head or the heart."

"I prefer a non-lethal site," Fraser explained.

Ray was confused. "What are you talking about? He missed five shots! He barely caught the target!"

Fraser looked at Ray in surprise.

Frankel pointed at the target. "His first shot hit squarely in the shoulder. The next five went through the first bullet hole. Not quite dead center. You can see where they each nicked off a little more of the paper." He pointed to little scalloped edges around the hole, counting one through five as he did.

Fraser said, apologetically, "I'm a bit out of practice."

"Marksman status?"

"In Canada," he acknowledged.

"In America, too," Frankel said, enthusiastically. "If you do the full advanced test, I can issue the marksman certs in about a week."

"That's not necessary, sir. I just need the proficiency rating for today."

"Suit yourself, son."

Ray stared at him, then Frankel, then at the target. His grin started slowly, then grew until it was ear to ear.

"What's going on?" Inspector Thatcher asked imperiously, as she stepped into the cubicle.

"Who are you?" Frankel asked.

"I'm his commanding officer," she said, cooly. "Is there a problem?"

He rubbed his bald head and rocked back on his heels. "No problem at all. Best damn shooting I've seen in a long time!" He showed her the target and explained what it meant.

By this point, the rest of the room was buzzing in confusion. Ray sauntered over to Huey.

"Vecchio, what's going on?"

"You bet on Fraser?"

He frowned. "Yeah, there goes my twenty bucks."

Ray clapped him on the back. "Au contraire, my friend. You won. 99% proficiency," he proclaimed, in a loud voice. There were groans and expletives and demands to see the target. It was passed from hand to hand as Fraser qualified with equal ease with the rifle.

Frankel excused himself. "I'll be back with the certification." He disappeared via the side door, shaking his head. Inspector Thatcher stared at the crowd with her head held high.

Fraser shouldered into his tunic and was fastening the collar as Ray and Huey approached. Huey beamed at Fraser, waving a wad of cash and the paper target. "Way to go, man. Drinks are on me." The crowd was dispersing quickly now that the show was over.

Fraser thanked him, but declined. He and Thatcher needed to return to the Consulate to fax the certification to Ottawa. Ray took him up on the offer.

"I'll be with you in a minute, Jack."

"I'll meet you upstairs," he said, "I gotta call Louis." He turned to Fraser. "Can I keep this?" he said, referring to the target. At his nod, he walked away, saying, "He's never gonna believe it!"

Ray pulled Fraser aside, as he was fastening the Sam Browne. He spoke in a low tone. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you're Sergeant freakin' York!"

"If, by that, you mean I have marksman status, Ray ... I suppose ... because you never asked me."

"I've been sweating bullets over this, Fraser!"

He chuckled. "Very funny, Ray." Then, he took in Ray's withering look. "Oh. You're serious."

"Of course, I'm serious!" he said, in a fierce whisper.

Fraser held his hands up, defensively. "I thought you knew."

"How the hell would I know? I never saw you shoot!"

"My uniform." At Ray's blank look, he pointed at the two badges on the left sleeve. Little crossed pistols and rifles, topped with crowns and rendered in gold thread, adorned the red serge.

"Oh," he said, scratching his head. "I thought that was just decorative."

"Ray, Ray, Ray," Fraser said, shaking his head. "Nothing on the uniform is 'just decorative.'" He straightened the belt and adjusted his lanyard. "Like the Sillitoe Tartan on your department's headgear. There's symbolic meaning in everything."

"Speak English, Fraser."

He paused, choosing his words. "The ... uh ... checkerboard pattern on the band of your hat?" At Ray's blank look, he continued, "The blue and white color for patrolman and detectives. Blue signifies justice, the white, purity of purpose."

Ray stared at him as if he was from another planet. "Where do you get this stuff?"

"The library," he said, in a tone that said "where else?"

Frankel returned. He handed Fraser a piece of paper. It was signed, stamped and sealed. Then, he held out his hand. "It's been a pleasure," he said, shaking his hand. "Damn fine shooting."

"Thank you, kindly," he said, uncomfortable with the praise.

Frankel nodded and returned to the side door.

"Fraser," Thatcher said, impatiently, "It's getting late." She looked conspicuously at her watch.

Fraser turned to Ray. "I have to go." He smiled, warmly. "Thank you for this," indicating the certification. "It means the world."

"Yeah, well, " Ray muttered, ducking his head, "you're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow." He watched as Fraser hustled to open the door for the Dragon Lady. Ray thought he heard the echo of "O Canada" as she sailed through, head held high. He couldn't figure her out. She had seemed to be genuinely rooting for Fraser to succeed here. He scratched his head. It was a mystery. He hated mysteries. He looked up at the ceiling. "I need a drink." Then, he left the gallery and joined Jack upstairs.