Yikes! It's been almost a month since I last updated. Work, work and more work is keeping me busy, as well as working on some other projects. Despite my vow to not pick up extra shifts, I always do. Hopefully, I'll have a few weeks before the holiday grind starts up. I was thinking of writing a Halloween story but by the time I get to it, we'll have moved onwards towards Thanksgiving. Perhaps I should start on something for Christmas. That way there's a possibility of being finished while the season is still in full swing.
Thanks to Bexxe for the review. It was very encouraging and I appreciated it very much!
I hope to have the next chapter up within 1-2 weeks. That's my goal and I'm sticking to it!
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Chapter 10
"Cinderella, dressed in yellow, went upstairs to kiss her fellow. Made a mistake and kissed a snake, how many doctors did it take? 1...2...3...4...5..."
Hanging onto pink handles, Sunny twirled a jump rope, skipping over it like a rabbit. Dressed in jean shorts and an old Dodgers shirt of a brother, she looked every bit a tomboy and, except for her fondness for jumping rope and pretty jewelry, she was exactly that.
On the sidewalk, her brother, Kevin and his friend, Davey, rode slowly by on their bikes. They stopped to watch her and Kevin started counting in sync with his little sister, "35, 72, 26, 8, 94..."
Sunny lost track of counting and stumbled over the rope, catching herself as she tripped. She wrinkled her freckled nose and scowled at the two boys. "Jerks!"
They both grinned and Kevin put one hand on each side of his head and waggled his fingers while he stuck out his tongue. "Blaaaaaaah."
The little girl sniffed, spinning around on the heels of her well-worn sneakers. Marching across the lawn, she settled up against the rough trunk of the only tree in the front yard: a large, majestic pin oak, with shady boughs of green leaves that offered protection from the late summer sun.
Whiskers, the big black and white cat, poked his head out from the bushes that framed the front of the house. Twitching his long, bushy tail, his gold eyes fixated on her as he delicately nibbled some grass.
"Whiskers," Sunny wheedled, holding out her hands encouragingly as she blew kisses at him.
The big cat waddled over and stood still, arching his back as she stroked his fur. She scratched behind his ears and under his chin until he closed his eyes with contentment and collapsed with a lazy purr in the grass next to her.
Kevin and Davey rode their bikes into the driveway and dropped them with a clatter on the buckling pavement before running over to the oak.
Whiskers regarded them through narrowed eyes, suspiciously tracking the boys' every move. They often teased him and occasionally he'd leave claw marks on their hands or legs, depending on their crime and his willingness to forgive.
"You want to go swimming, Sunny?" Davey asked, grinning. "Your Mom said it was okay."
"Nope. Don't want to do anything with a couple of turds like you."
"Aw, don't be sore," Kevin pleaded. "We were just teasin'."
Sunny wasn't ready to forgive. Normally, she would be delighted at the invitation. Davey's pool had a slide and plenty of floating rafts and toys, but her stubborn pride prevented her from accepting their overtures.
"Go pound sand," she politely informed them when they continued to beg. It was a phrase that Gary taught her to say when she'd rather say other things, things that she'd have to tell Father Scott in confession.
Kevin gave up. "Fine." He and Davey went back to their bikes. Sticking out his tongue, he called out, "Bye, bye, dragon fly."
"Peace out, Trout," Sunny shot back.
The boys rode away on their bikes, Davey ringing a tinny-sounding bell mounted on his handlebars. When Sunny couldn't hear the trilling ring-ring anymore, she went back to the driveway and retrieved her jump rope.
As she started to jump again, a tall figure stepped out from the next door neighbor's hedge. Startled, Sunny dropped the rope and stumbled back.
"Hey, kid, take it easy. I ain't going to bite you," the man laughed, his smile showing a large gap between his front teeth. "Maybe you can help me out. I'm looking for someone."
Sunny stared at him nervously, shifting from one foot to the other. She could hear her father's stern voice admonishing them to never talk to strangers no matter what. Monsters came in all shape and sizes. Wasn't that what he always said?
It was something that always puzzled her. Monsters were scary creatures with big teeth and slimy scales that hid in closets and under beds. How could people be monsters?
Was this man one of those monsters? Is this what Daddy meant when he warned them?
The man didn't look like a monster from what she could tell. He was dressed nicely, in a neat, carefully-brushed black suit and tie with a clean, folded white handkerchief peeking from the coat pocket. His shoes were polished and shiny, not scuffed up like Mr. James, the man who lived next door, and his hair was slicked back and perfectly combed. He looked like he was going to church.
Even so, there was something about him though that made her shrink away.
Maybe it was the way he smiled. A gap-toothed, thin-lipped smile that reminded her of the dog down the street that menacingly bared his teeth at her through the fence whenever she walked by. Maybe it was the reptilian-eyed way he studied her through heavy-lidded, half-opened eyes that were so dark they looked black. He looked just like a snake she saw once on a family trip to the zoo. The resemblance was so striking, she half-expected him to start hissing and slithering on the ground.
She glanced back at the screen door. Faint piano music drifted out from the house which meant even if she called for help, her mother wouldn't hear her. She took a step back, battling the urge to run.
"Don't be afraid," the man reassured in an oily voice. "I just want to know if William Walters lives here."
William Walters? He must mean Daddy, reasoned Sunny. Grandma calls him William and so does Uncle Paul when he wants to make him mad.
When she didn't answer, the man repeated the question. "Does he live here?"
Don't talk to strangers.
Sunny nodded, obeying the stern instruction from her father. A nod didn't count as talking. She was sure of that.
"See?" he smiled. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Sunny couldn't stand it anymore. Giving into her fear, she fled towards the house. The man watched her thoughtfully, his smile fading before he blended back into the thick hedge and disappeared.
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"You can't lay on the floor like this." Officer Byrd, hands on hips, looked downward at the young woman positioned in front of the public entrance station door. His tone was light and friendly.
"Who says I can't?" the girl shot back.
"Me." Officer Byrd sighed. "Please don't make me quote California Penal Code again. Just take my word for it that you can't block the entrance to a police station with your body."
He looked over the twenty or so people scattered around on the floor in the entryway and in front of the desk before he added, "That goes for all of you."
A tall, bearded man, donning a dirty blue bandana around his forehead, shouted out from his position by the desk, "We have a right to protest!"
A chorus of hostile "yeah, yeah and that's right's' followed.
"Sure you do," Byrd agreed calmly, "but not like this. Why don't you go find a street or a sidewalk to march on?" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Or maybe you lay on that patch of grass in that lot across the street. That would be a lot more comfortable than the floor. If you'd lay out head to feet there would be plenty of room for all and I'd bring some coffee for you."
"Christ, Marty, don't encourage them," Jeff grumbled as he walked back onto the scene. He hooked a thumb backwards. "No Banks, but we've got Malloy."
Byrd looked relieved. "Thank God."
Behind Jeff, Malloy stopped so suddenly that Reed almost ran into him. He surveyed the scene, taking note of the scattering of people laying on the floor. Careful not to step on anyone, he picked his way over to Byrd.
"What's going on?" he demanded.
"They all just came in at once and plopped on the floor like pigeon poop," the older officer explained. "There's some outside, too, on the sidewalk. They say they're 'protesting.'"
"Protesting what?" Malloy wanted to know.
"Police brutality," the bearded man with the bandana answered. "We're sick of the way you pigs go around beating up innocent people!"
Again, the echo of 'yeah' and 'that's right' followed.
"That kid that Walters arrested," mused Malloy. "Is that the 'innocent people' they're talking about?"
"Yep, and our King Kong, too," Jeff supplemented. "Neiman's got a story about that shit show in the evening edition of the Times."
Malloy sighed. "Great. Just great."
"What do you want us to do?" Jeff asked, and both he and Byrd looked at Malloy for direction.
Malloy considered the problem thoughtfully as he studied the pattern of people laid out on the floor before deciding. "Move 'em, if they won't go. They can't block public access to the station. I'll call the old man and let him know what's going on. I'd prefer not to arrest them, but if they won't move, then I guess that's how it's going to be."
"You want me to stay and help?" Reed asked.
Malloy nodded. "That would be great. Go get a couple of guys from booking. Mutt's an extra and he'll come in handy if we have to physically move them."
Reed hurried away while Byrd flicked through the Rolodex on the front desk. Once he found what he was looking for, he jotted down a phone number and handed it to Malloy.
Malloy dialed the number and waited for an answer. "Captain Grant, it's Pete Malloy. We have a problem down here at the station..."
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Walters wandered through the book store. He had the book he had come for tucked under one arm, but he kept looking. He didn't consider himself much of a reader but the rows of books with their shiny covers and titles on their spines had their own appeal.
He stopped in front of the section labeled fine arts and started browsing through the section dedicated to music. He regretted the way he had talked to Jessie the night before and that feeling, along with the desire to make up with her, had grown all day until it was at a fever pitch.
He knew she'd accept his apology. She gave herself so freely: her love, her friendship, her kindness, her forgiveness. All too easily and too much, in his opinion. It always baffled him how she could still love him after all the times he broke her heart. He knew he wasn't an easy man to love and yet she never gave up on him. No matter how many times he rammed through their marriage with the careless destruction of a wrecking ball, she was always willing to mend things and give him another chance.
He had thought about buying flowers. She loved flowers, from simple daisies to elegant roses, but there wasn't a bouquet big enough to satisfy his guilt. Jewelry would be great, but there was no way he could afford to buy a quality piece, not even on payments. So it came to him, as he wandered through the maze of tall shelves, that a book would be perfect. Unlike him, she was a reader and loved books almost as much as she loved music. So he figured combining the two would be just the thing. A book about music.
But how to choose one? What did he know such things? Absolutely nothing. He thoughtfully began pulling out books, flipping through pages before placing them back on the shelf. The more he looked, the more he became convinced he didn't have the foggiest idea what would make a good choice. Eventually, he found one about the life of the Beethoven that seemed interesting and was scanning the table of contents when a voice called him out of his focused state.
"Officer Walters!"
Walters looked up and spotted Beth Stenzler standing a few feet away, her arms full of art books and sketch pads.
"Just Walters, remember?" he reminded, quickly recovering from his surprise at seeing her there. "Unless you want me to find a reason to give you a ticket."
She smiled and he smiled back. A book slid from her arms, and she juggled her load, as she crouched down trying to reach it.
"Let me help you with those, Mrs. Stenzler...Beth," he corrected, retrieving the book on the floor then taking the pile of oversized sketch pads from her.
"Thanks," Beth said gratefully. "I guess I got carried away. I always buy too much stuff when I'm in here. Do you come here often? I've never seen you here before."
"Uh, no," Walters confessed, hating to admit something that might cause her to think less of him. "I'm not much of a reader. Just buying a gift."
She cocked her head, noticing the book he had tucked under his arm. She reached for it. "Oh. So what you'd buy?"
She laughed, a musical sound like the tinkling of wind chimes, when she saw the title. "For you or your kids?"
Walters cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. "Neither. I've already got a copy. It's for a friend."
"My father used to read that story to me when I was little," Beth said, continuing to smile at him. "It's a great story."
"Yeah, I always thought so," Walters agreed. He thought of her at the cemetery in front of the granite stone, tears dripping off the end of her nose as she foundered in a sea of soul-crushing grief. To his relief, she looked better today. More alive, with a light in her eyes and color in her cheeks.
As if she read his mind, she said, "Maybe I'm starting to get what it means when they say to take one day at a time. Today's a good day...I feel good."
Walters nodded and understanding bounced back and forth between them like a ping-pong ball.
"I'm glad," he finally spoke, his voice made softer from relief. "I was worried about you."
Confused, Beth's smile faded and she wrinkled her forehead in thought. "Worried?" she marveled. "Why would you worry about me? You barely know me."
"I was responsible for your husband, Mrs...Beth, and I care about what happens to you."
Beth studied him, her blue eyes boring holes into his like a drill. A familiar stab of guilt pierced him, but he refused to look away. He met her gaze head-on, seeing a kind of strange sadness that he hadn't seen before.
"I don't hold you responsible for what happened to my husband. You know that, right?" she asked softly. "I don't blame you for it. I never did. It's not your fault."
The words sliced like a razor and he flinched at the rawness of the wound that had never started to heal, even after all those months. He had been careful not to look too closely at the memory because instinctively he knew that if he did, then he'd have to face it. He'd have to face the fact that no matter what everyone said, it was his fault that the young officer was dead.
He deliberately chose to bury the memory of Stenzler's death. It was a matter of survival, plain and simple. He laid it to rest next to other things in his life locked away: finding his stepmother dangling from a knotted rope in the attic when he was ten years old, watching helplessly as his Grandfather burned alive in a crashed single-engine plane, Korea with its death and misery, all the tragedy on the job through the years. Instinctively, he was aware of the danger all those memories posed to his sanity. He couldn't live with it. If he set it free, he'd go crazy.
So no matter how those things screamed for attention, he stubbornly refused to listen. He built a dam in his mind that grew in height and thickness with each passing year, and as cracks appeared in the self-built barrier, he shored them up and repaired them as best he could.
Overall the technique worked, but sometimes a memory clawed its way out into his dreams like a frenzied zombie trying to escape the grave. He would wrestle with it, beat it back, and bury it once again. Walters resisted the awareness that, ultimately, no matter what he did, the past would not be denied forever. The inevitability was chilling, full of a despair and darkness that he stubbornly continued to fight like a drowning man trying to stay afloat.
"It's not your fault," Beth repeated again, trying to hold his gaze which had dropped to floor.
"I know," Walters finally said when he couldn't stand the silence.
"Do you?" Beth asked, her voice still soft.
He couldn't look her in the eye so he focused on the cover of the Beethoven book which he had placed on top of the sketch pads. Beethoven's portrait stared back at him sternly, reminding him of the way Lieutenant Moore looked sometimes during roll call.
"Yeah," Walters insisted, wishing his voice didn't sound so uncertain. "I know it wasn't my fault."
"I think you're lying," Beth accused. "I think you blame yourself but you shouldn't. The only one to blame for my husband's death is the man who shot him. Justice was served when you killed that bastard."
Beth paused, her voice turning icy cold. "And I'm glad you did it. I'm glad that I don't have to live knowing that murdering thug is alive in a jail cell somewhere. Fuck forgiveness. I'm happy to think he's burning in a special corner of hell reserved for killers."
Walters finally met her eyes, which had stayed arctic even as there was a glimmer of tears starting to rise.
"I'm glad," Beth repeated, her words breaking into an angry sob. She dropped the armful of books she had been clutching and they hit the floor with a bang, startling several people at nearby shelves. She covered her face with her hands, trying to stem the sudden flow of grief.
Walters set his pile of books down. Without hesitation, he pulled her to him in an embrace like she was one of his children that needed comforting. She rested her head on his shoulder and silently cried.
"It'll be okay," he whispered, patting her gently on the back as she trembled. "Things will get better. One day at a time, remember? Today was a good day. There'll be more."
Silently, they stayed like that for a long time. Walters ignored the curious looks from passing customers. A young guy with a name tag labeling him as an employee named "Mark" approached, looking through horned-rimmed glasses with undisguised disapproval.
"Is everything okay?" he asked in a clipped voice.
Walters bit back the urge to tell him to mind his own business, instead forcing an expression meant to be a smile but turning into grimace instead. "Yeah, everything's fine. Thanks for asking."
"Do you plan on buying anything?" "Mark" persisted.
"I was," Walters growled, giving in to surly impatience. "But now I'm not so sure. Do you plan on putting your nose in everyone's business or just ours?"
"Walters," Beth softly huffed out a laugh as she pulled away from him. "It's okay. He's just doing his job and his job is to sell books."
"Then let him get to it with someone else," Walters grumbled. "You're buying your fair share. You've got enough books here to open a library."
Beth laughed, eyeing the pile of books ruefully. "I guess I do have enough to open a library, or at least a small branch. Art and books...my fatal flaws."
"Everyone's got flaws."
Beth arched an eyebrow. "Even you?"
"God, yes," Walters assured. "Mine are like the stars in the sky...too numerous to count. Just ask my wife."
They gathered up the discarded books, and after paying for their purchases, Walters walked Beth out to her car and loaded up her trunk.
Again, she looked for her keys, and again, Walters spotted them hanging in the ignition.
"You remember what I said before?" he scolded with a frown. "You keep doing that and someone's going to swipe your car one of these days."
"I remember, but that's another one of my flaws...I don't listen," Beth teased as she turned on the car and put on her seat belt. She waved as she pulled away, calling. "See you later, alligator!"
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Eric Moore was on autopilot. He didn't acknowledge the friendly greeting from the parking garage attendant, and he pulled into his dedicated parking space solely from practiced habit rather than any deliberate attention to the task.
Robotically, he made his way to the office, footsteps silenced by the thick, plush carpet that layered the entire expansive office of the law firm of DLA Winters. Ignoring acknowledgments called out to him by co-workers, he felt like he was underwater, hearing and seeing things through a thick, muffled barrier.
Sam was dead. There was blood on his clothes to prove it, no matter how dream-like the whole thing seemed.
Debbie, his paralegal, looked up from her desk when he stumbled up to his office door. "Mr. Moore! Where have you been all day? Mr. Winters has been looking for you for hours."
"How many times have I told you not to call me 'Mr. Moore?' Mr. Moore is my father and I'm not him," Eric answered mechanically.
The young woman flushed and corrected, "Of course...Eric."
She picked up a handful of papers with scribbled telephone messages. "The D.A.'s office called you four times and you missed two appointments, which I rescheduled..."
Eric pushed past her and went into his office, closing the door to her chatter of protests and the handful of papers she waved insistently.
He shrugged out of his suit jacket and let it fall to the floor as he headed to the large window that took up the entire length of one side of the office. He braced an arm against the glass and stared out the window, half-blinded by the late afternoon sunshine. He focused on the deep blue sky, the brilliance unmarred by any trace of clouds but dimmed slightly by the ever-present downtown LA smog.
How did this happen? How did things go so wrong?
He played over the events of the day, from the morning in court to the moment the doctor at Rampart had told him Sam was dead. It was a robbery. A stupid, petty crime. Sam couldn't have had more than a few dollars in the till. Was that pitiful amount worth killing for? Was any amount of money worth a life? His friend's life?
Eric heard the gun bang and saw Sam fall. Blood. Blood. Blood.
And blue eyes. The blue eyes behind the mask. He knew those eyes. They were uncannily familiar. He knew them from somewhere, or did he imagine it? He couldn't place the face they belonged with but he was sure he had seen them before.
Sam was dead.
The blood on his tie caught his eye and the gun exploded in his ears again. Picking at the knot, he ripped the silk tie from his neck so hard a button popped off his shirt.
"Eric."
Jonathan Winters was standing there, with narrowed eyes and a thin-lipped frown, looking more displeased than Eric had ever seen him.
"Where have you been?" he demanded.
Eric didn't answer as he headed blindly, almost staggering, to the opposite end of the room. He stopped in front of a small table that showcased a decanter of his favorite whiskey surround by crystal beveled glasses that could hold a ridiculous amount of liquor when the situation demanded.
He poured until the glass was nearly full and took a long drink, swirling the flaming liquid in his mouth, savoring the burn.
Jonathan watched him critically, concern crowding in on anger. "You didn't answer my question. Where have you been?"
Eric took another long drink, before answering. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Perhaps you misunderstood," the older man spoke slowly, enunciating each word. "When I ask, you answer."
Eric turned around slowly. "Perhaps you misunderstood me. I said I don't want to talk about it."
The two men glared at each other until Jonathan noticed the stains on Eric's shirt, "Is that blood?"
"Yes."
"Yours?"
"No."
"What happened, Eric?" Jonathan asked again, concern replacing anger.
"Don't make me talk about it," Eric voice wavered slightly. "I walked in on a robbery and someone got killed. I just want to leave it alone for now. I can't stand thinking about it anymore."
"Alright, we don't have to talk about it right now," Jonathan assured. "But we do have to talk about what happened with Gene Crenshaw today."
Eric closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm not apologizing so don't ask."
"Who said anything about an apology?" Jonathan asked. He helped himself to some whiskey, pouring a fraction of the amount still in Eric's glass. He sampled the dark, woody liquid, then approvingly added more. He settled comfortably in an overstuffed leather chair by the window and studied the younger man benignly, all traces of menace gone. "Let's get something straight. Gene Crenshaw is an asshole, plain and simple. He lacks class and any semblance of restraint or self-control. There's no doubt in my mind that he deserved what you said to him."
The words weren't what Eric had been expecting and his rigid tension changed to surprise. "I don't understand."
Jonathan smiled wryly. "The man is a plebeian, son. Common and vulgar. It's always amazed me that he ever made it to elected office, but the public can be completely blind to a candidate's true colors, especially when there's skillful people working behind the scenes."
Eric hid his astonishment at his boss' words by hiding behind his glass as he took another long drink.
Jonathan sighed. "Even so, we must keep up the facade that we respect and value the fool, which is should be rather easy when you consider just how useful he can be in certain situations. Politicians, judges, the rich and famous...they all have their uses. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
He waited for an answer patiently, again taking a drink from his glass and closing his eyes with utter contentment. "This is quite refreshing. I'll have to get myself a bottle or two."
Eric nodded slowly. "I understand."
"Then give Gene Crenshaw what he wants."
"Which is...?" Eric wanted to know.
"A pretense of regret. I know you're not sorry, nor am I, but the performance of an apology is necessary to keep the man on his leash."
Eric frowned, doubt nakedly displayed on his face. In return, Jonathan smiled, his eyes glittering darkly as he studied him.
"You see, this is what I keep trying to teach you, Eric. Truth? Justice? Mere fairytales your policeman father taught you when you were young and pliable. It's also a farce they teach you in law school. In actuality, the best lawyers are skilled magicians. Masters of the mirage." He paused, letting his words hang in the air before continuing. "Illusion is the key to handling any situation. It always is."
A jarring buzz came from the desk and Eric stabbed at the intercom.
Debbie's worried voice came over the speaker. "I'm sorry for interrupting, but there's two detectives from the LAPD that would like to speak to you, Mr. Moore...uh...Eric."
"I'll be right with them," Eric assured.
Jonathan drained his glass with a satisfied gulp. He slapped his hands on his knees and got to his feet. "We're finished here. I think we've come to an understanding, don't you?"
The two men studied each other with the air of a pair of old west gunfighters whose duel had ended in a standoff. The conversation had jolted Eric out of the daze he had been in since the shooting and his defenses were up with alarms blaring.
Eric finally spoke, breaking the silence. "Yes, I understand you perfectly."
"Good." Jonathan waved a hand carelessly towards the door. "Then I'll leave you to deal with L.A.'s finest."
After he left, Eric opened a small closet behind his desk and grabbed a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He changed quickly, wadding up his blood-spattered suit and tossing it into a corner of the closet.
Running his hands through his hair, he sat down behind his desk. Once he felt composed, he pushed the intercom.
"Send them in, Debbie. I'm ready."
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Brinkman stood back and looked at his handiwork. The gas-powered hedge clippers grumbled loudly with puffs of white smoke wafting from the sputtering engine as he anxiously studied the bush he had been trimming. The more he tried to even it up, the worse it looked. He contemplated getting a chainsaw out of the shed and putting the thing out of its misery, but he was pretty sure that his wife wouldn't be happy.
Deep in thought while he considered his options, a tap on his shoulder made him jump and spin around. Dropping the clippers, the machine quit with a sputtering rumble as the blades dug into the lawn.
Standing there, Walters grinned. "Partner, cruel and unusual punishment is banned in this country. Don't you think you think you've tortured it enough? "
"God, Bill!" Brinkman scolded. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on a guy with hedge clippers in his hands? I could have trimmed a limb off of you."
Walters ignored the chastisement and motioned towards the mutilated bush. "Is this what you call trimming? 'Cause I call it attempted murder. I could arrest you for ADW right now and no lawyer could defend what you've done in the name of yardwork."
Brinkman smiled despite himself. "What are you doing out this way?" he asked curiously, knowing his partner's house was at least a twenty-five- minute drive in the opposite direction, assuming the traffic wasn't too horrendous.
"The question isn't what I'm doing here," Walters corrected. "It's what you're doing. I'm pretty sure this isn't what the doctor had mind when he said to take it easy."
"I just thought I'd make good use of my time," Brinkman protested. "Isn't that what you're always telling me on patrol? 'Use your time wisely.' I'm just taking your advice, partner."
Walters raised his eyebrows and snorted. "You might make sense to you, but no matter which way you spin it, killing the shrubbery around your house doesn't fit in with rest and recovery."
"Something's got to be done," Brinkman insisted. "Look around you!"
He outstretched his arm dramatically as if he was a ringmaster presenting a circus act. Despair showed plainly on his face as his eyes darted from the brown, patchy lawn to overgrown, scruffy bushes. The paint was peeling on a rickety picket fence and a weary-looking poplar with spindly limbs stood dejected in one corner.
"Okay," Walters begrudgingly admitted. "Maybe it's no victory garden, but now's not the time to try and do something about it."
"You don't understand," Brinkman moaned. "My family is coming over the weekend."
"So?"
"So, I can't leave it this way."
"Why not?" Walters demanded. "You're recovering from a concussion for Christ's sake. Who cares about the way your yard looks?"
"I do," Brinkman sighed. "My father and my brother-in-law always gang up on me. It's like being in front of a review board. I can never please them."
"Big deal," Walters scoffed. "Why do you care what they think?"
"I care because they're my family."
Seeing that reasoning wasn't good enough for Walters, Brinkman tried to explain. "It's more than just the way the place looks. My father is still hanging onto the dream that someday I'll take over the family business. He can't accept that I just don't have the skill or interest to run a nursery. I know I've been a real disappointment to him and it bothers me."
"You can't control how other people feel."
"I know," the younger man acknowledged with a rueful, lop-sided grin. "But I want him to be proud of me, you know? I don't want him to think I'm a failure."
"He should already be proud of you," Walters shot back. "You're a good officer, Brink."
Brinkman's eyes widened in surprise. "I can't believe I just heard you say that."
It was Walters turn to look surprised. "Why? I always give credit where credit is due. You drive me absolutely nuts most of the time, but you're a great copper and I'm glad you're my partner and..." he dropped off sheepishly.
"And? Keep going," encouraged Brinkman, looking pleased. "You were saying?"
"...and you're a terrible landscaper." Walters answered gruffly. "Look, why don't I have my boys come out tomorrow morning and give you a hand? Gary will trim, Danny can mow, and Kevin can weed your flower beds...what's left of them, anyway. How's that sound?"
"It sounds like a lousy way for them to spend a Saturday."
Walters shrugged. "That's the way a kid's life goes sometimes. Life isn't all fun and games. All play and no work, you know."
Brinkman chuckled. "I hate to break it to you but I think the saying's the other way around. All work and no play."
"Not for my kids." Walters picked up the hedge trimmer and adjusted the choke. "They get lots of play time. It won't hurt them to come over and give old Uncle Bob a hand for a few hours." After a couple attempts, he started the hedge trimmer and carefully sheared off a few small pieces, pausing now and then as he tried to figure out a way to fix the damage that Brinkman had done.
"There." Walters stood back, satisfied after a few minutes of work. "That's much better. It still looks like the victim of someone with a score to settle, but it will have to do."
Brinkman beamed. "Thanks, Bill. You can come trim my hedges anytime. I won't stop you."
"Now will you take it easy?" Walters asked. "Please. I need you back on duty as soon as you hit one hundred percent. I rode with Reed today and, if it becomes a regular thing, one of us won't survive, and odds are it's going to be me."
Brinkman was startled. "Really? Was he that bad?"
"Not at all. If he can survive probation, he'll be one of the best. That's not it. Some pairings are just off...me and him...we're like chalk and cheese. But Reed with Malloy...they make a great team. They balance each other perfectly."
"Just like us," Brinkman said, grinning.
Walters sighed and rolled his eyes upward. "A few compliments and look what happens. I give an inch and you take a mile."
"Go on. Admit we're a good team. No one will ever know you said it," Brinkman teased. "Just you and me."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. We make a great team," Walters grumbled. "Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, Martin and Lewis, the Smothers Brothers...they got nothing on us."
Brinkman gazed off in space as if seeing an imaginary marquee sign. He sighed fondly. "That's right. Walters and Brinkman. Legends on the beat."
Walters shook his head. "You're nuts, you know that?"
"I know. I wouldn't have it any other way," Brinkman said simply, adding, "...and neither would you, even if you won't admit it."
Walters glanced at the sun. The red orb had steadily moved lower in the sky, it's brilliance dimmed by the haziness of the horizon. "I better get going, Brink. Jessie will be worrying about where I am."
Without anything else being said, Brinkman knew what that meant. He had been a silent witness to his partner's last descent into the bottle and suffered right along with him as he struggled back to sobriety. Even though he knew Walters hated talking about it, he was unable to hide his concern. "Is there a reason for her to worry?" he asked lightly.
"No," Walters answered, the sun bathing his face in a soft red glow. "No reason at all."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Then Walters squinted and turned his back towards the lowering sun. For a brief moment their eyes met, and the turmoil so nakedly churning there disturbed Brinkman. Just like he suspected, something was bothering his partner.
"Bill..." he began.
"Just let it be." Walters took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back stiffly. "It's all good, Bob. Trust me."
"I always do," Brinkman said quietly. "I just wish you'd trust me for a change."
"Who says I don't?" Walters put a hand on his partner's shoulder. "I trust you with my life, partner." Before Brinkman could say anything, he became all business. "Now what time do you want my boys here in the morning?"