Chapter 2
BBQ Bob's was extremely busy that night. Jesse and Steve, as well as a few other employees were scurrying around trying to satisfy the customers' usually demanding desires. Even though neither Steve, nor Jesse were supposed to be working that night, being co-owners of the restaurant, they felt obligated to be there on such a busy night.
Jesse trudged into the seating area balancing a large, black plastic tray in one hand, loaded with piles of dirty dishes. In the other hand was a similar tray containing a myriad of steaming cups of piping hot coffee.
After gazing upon the grimy array of plates, he bitterly realized that he should have placed the dirty dishes in the kitchen before bringing out the coffee.
Jesse neatly pivoted in mid-step and briskly cantered towards the kitchen. He had his eyes set on the large metal door in front of him, paying no attention to Steve who was striding in front of his path.
"Jesse," Steve addressed his friend seriously.
Jesse, still oblivious to Steve's presence, kept shuffling along, right into the bewildered lieutenant, spilling scalding coffee all over Steve's jacket. The dirty dishes also plummeted to the ground with a loud clamor.
Steve howled in pain and leaped back from the offending coffee.
A young waiter, Alex Martin, had watched the scene take place and darted over to help Steve. Without thinking, Alex poured a pitcher of ice water over Steve's distressed form.
Steve stopped uttering a few choice words the second the icy liquid drenched him. He stood, wild-eyed and furious, his muscular arms draping out from him body as water cascaded from his now soaked clothing.
After recovering from the shock, Steve slowly lifted his head and gaped at Alex, who now dangled an empty pitcher from his hand and gave Steve a sheepish grin.
"Sorry," Alex admitted timidly.
Steve disregarded the apology and turned his incredulous gaze upon Jesse, who wore an equally sheepish expression plastered on his face.
"Oh, Steve. I'm so sorry. I didn't see you," Jesse spoke quickly.
Steve turned once more to the young medical student and spoke surprisingly tranquilly, "Alex, why did you pour ice water all over me? Jesse already singed my new jacket with his coffee,"
"Oh, gosh, Steve! I'm so sorry, I," Alex rambled, "I...I thought since you were burned... It happened so fast. I'm sorry."
"Whatever," Steve spoke agitatedly, "If you were concerned for my safety, you probably should not have poured water on me. I'm leaving in a couple of minutes and it's cold outside tonight."
"Actually, it is not cold enough to pose any danger to you, so long as you don't spend too long outside and," Jesse was cut off by Steve's threatening glare.
"I have to go to work- now! I'm already late as it is and I don't have any spare clothes because I was not planning on being burned, stained, and drenched!" Steve fumed.
"Hey, Steve. I have a spare set of scrubs in my car. You can borrow them," Jesse offered.
"Jesse, only you would carry a spare set of scrubs in your car. Anyway, I am not going to walk around in public looking like I'm ready to go into surgery! Imagine the look on a suspect's face when I go up to them in a surgeon's apparel and say, 'Hi! I'm Steve Sloan with the LAPD!' I'd look like a lunatic!" Steve ranted.
"I'll go and get them," Jesse replied smugly, stifling a laugh at Steve's horror-stricken face. "Besides, you can change when you get back to the station, right?"
Having dawned a pair of too-short, deep blue scrubs, Steve grumbled and sauntered to his pick up truck. He tried not to imagine the remarks he would get from everyone at the station; he probably would be teased for months, if not forever. He would change into some real clothes the minute he got to the station; nobody would ever have to know about this.
Steve stealthily sneaked into the station, trying to avoid anyone who could identify him. He was nearing his work area when he caught sight one of the most horrifying things Steve had ever had the displeasure to witness.
There, in front of him, was a large group of his co-workers, with Cheryl, holding a white lab coat and a stethoscope.
"We thought you might need these, Doctor," Cheryl teased, "Hey, did you get hurt again and sneak out by mugging a surgeon?"
"Jesse," Steve mumbled bitterly under his breath, "I should have known he was plotting something. Ha, ha. Very funny, guys."
"Oh, come on. It's not all his fault. I'm sure we still would have found out either way," Cheryl feigned sympathy.
Just then the Captain bolted out of his office, "Sloan! Banks! We've just gotten confirmation that our suspect Theresa Rumen was sighted near the intersection of 23rd Street and Maple Road. Sloan, change out of that ridiculous... Never mind! Just, go!"
"But, Sir!" Steve stammered, but was cut off when the Captain abruptly held up his hand to silence him.
"There's no time, Lieutenant. Now, go! I want you to be the one to bring her down," the Captain barked.
Seeing no point in arguing, Steve slipped on a black bullet-proof vest, wryly thinking that it would cover up some of the blue outfit.
Steve moped as he trudged to his old vehicle and drove quickly to the intersection, with Cheryl not far behind in her car.
After a short time, another call came in about the same person they were after. Some person, meeting Theresa's description, was sighted in the opposite direction. Cheryl and Steve split directions, each going to a location where their suspect had presumably been seen.
When Steve arrived at his destination, a deserted intersection with a few dilapidated buildings and several back alleys, he sluggishly crawled out of his vehicle and surveyed the dark street as best as he could.
Feeling heavy with his vest, he carefully unfastened it and pulled it from his chest. There was nobody around to notice his clothing, or lack there of. It would also be easier to explore without its tremendous weight. Steve laid the vest in the passenger side of his beloved truck and started his search.
Steve froze in mid-stride, the hairs along the back of his neck standing up, when he heard the muffled sound of footsteps behind him.
He swiftly reached for his gun. It wasn't there! How could he be so stupid as to forget to bring his gun?! Well, he was wearing scrubs.
A young woman with long, red hair emerged from a dark alley, her light face gleaming in the moonlight.
"Peter," the woman, who Steve recognized as Theresa Rumen spoke harshly, "Where is my money?"
"Money?" Steve asked nervously as he inched back away from the menacing character.
"Don't play innocent, Peter Clayton! You owe me 15 grand! I did your dirty work! I saw to it that Smithsone's husband was killed. I even sent someone to kill those pesky kids. Now pay up, Love."
"Uh," Steve stammered, still retreating from the gun bearing woman, "Did those 'pesky kids' actually get killed?"
"My sources are reliable. I'm sure they were. If you pay up, I'll finish the job."
"What makes you think I even want them dead?"
Theresa boldly strode up to Steve and smacked him hard across the face with her hand.
Steve flinched slightly at the sharp, unexpected pain, but held his ground.
"This is so like you!" She shrieked, "You start a revenge project, and, halfway through, you forget why! Now, I don't care if you are or are not happy with their deaths, but you will pay me!"
After seeing Steve's quizzical stare, she added passionately, "Don't you remember why you started this, Love? You were so angry that Smithsone chose Valentine over you. You wanted revenge. You waited so long... And then, you found me!"
"How did you recognize me, Sweet Cheeks?" Steve mentally chastised himself for speaking such vulgar street talk.
For this comment, Steve was rewarded with another acute slap to the face.
"How do you think, you idiot?! Who else would wander around in the middle of nowhere with your same complexion in scrubs?!" Theresa answered fiercely.
Steve was taken aback by her comment. This was all Jesse's fault! If he hadn't made him wear these, or if he just hadn't spilled coffee on him in the first place, none of this would be happening. Although, now Steve had a confession and another name to put into his investigation.
Steve was slightly puzzled that anyone could mistake him for a cold-blooded killer. It was dark, so Theresa probably couldn't see his face very well. He also guessed that this Peter Clayton was a surgeon or some surgeon-obsessed mental case.
"I don't have your money," Steve told her frankly.
"Too bad," Theresa said in a mock sorrowful way.
She drew a small, black revolver from her belt clip and trained it at Steve's chest.
A deafening shot rang out through the still, night air, and one of the forms buckled and collapsed onto the cold ground.