-Sasuke-
Hatake greets me. I scowl as I smell the alcohol on his breath. Not overwhelming, but certainly noticeable. It's rare that he drinks before he shows up for work, but it always makes me grumpy and I want to grumble, 'You've been drinking.' Maybe Umino can persuade him to stop or to cut back. Sex, or a good partner, can often make people do stuff. Umino, Hatake and I gather around Hatake's desk and stare at the yellow manila envelope. Soledad has sent us something related to the MS-13 case. Perhaps she's garnered so much information that she couldn't talk about it over the phone without the gang members suspecting something. The package crinkles as Hatake undoes the clasp—bubble wrap. There's something besides the five pages. Text runs down both sides of each page. A black object—a digital audio recorder—sits patiently on top of the stapled pages, which I realize are the transcripted dialogue of whatever is on the recorder.

Hatake reaches for the phone and my heart sinks as the A.D.A. walks up to him no less than ten minutes later. Hatake hasn't examined the evidence and he called the assistant district attorney after merely glancing at it, which means it was illegally obtained. He does that always if he thinks something is illegally seized. And he's almost always right…if Soledad gets caught she could have to go before the review board or worse. No cop is entirely clean forever. Soledad is doing this so justice can be served. Pardon my triteness as I justify my partner's actions. We've been together a little over six months. What else can you expect?

Five men have raped and beaten thirty-three women and girls over a period of five years. Soledad indicates at the end of the stomach-churning tape that we should do voice line-ups. Everyone nods, even though she's miles away and can't see us. We will. Hearing her calm, professional voice calms me down, helps me release some of the stress I've had. She's fine. She'll come back after this and everything will be back to normal. The streets will be a little bit safer for awhile and she'll become an even more highly decorated detective. I turn my attention to the twenty other cases screaming for attention.

I hate the red zone. People flock to the station in droves, either in tears and begging to speak to someone, or being dragged in by someone who cares for them, deeply in denial and prepared to lie. The first five weeks of any college's beginning academic year are the most crime-riddled, statistically. The frequent use of drugs and alcohol, as well as peer pressure for sexual activity and newfound independence, are major factors in the rapes that are reported. If you must know, my years in college were very boring and uneventful. I never drank or did drugs. I kept to myself and only exited my dorm for meals, class or rare workshops that piqued my interest. I spoke to three people on a regular basis but did not remain friends with them after I graduated—actually, one. Gaara moved back to Brooklyn after only one year. He hated the school as much as I did. I've visited him a couple of times. He's been with Lee for five years now. On occasion he complains of the tediousness that staying with someone for five years brings, and Lee's jealous behaviors. He says that the sex makes up for it, though.
"Uchiha," I answer the phone.
"The sex still makes up for it."
"I was just thinking about you. Don't tell Lee."

We both chuckle and update each other on our lives. Nothing much has changed. He sure likes the idea of Francisco as an agent for the FBI, probably because he thinks Francisco will cover his ass if he commits a crime. He would think the same thing of me if I lived in Brooklyn, even though I'd arrest him (and then pay his bail). I don't know where Francisco really does live, and I honestly think he has no real home. He moves around too much, is my hypothesis. Gaara tells me his lunch break is up but he'll call me later. We hang up. I follow up on a few solid leads and make progress on about half the cases. As I secure a search warrant for a case and arrest warrants for six others, I am slapped with another ten cases or possible cases. The red zone makes me want to shake up college students. Gaara would flat-out want to kill them. I'm not homicidal, but I am angry with drunk, high and stoned college students and abusive partners who think it's totally okay to do what they do. I sound like Soledad. I look over at her empty desk. The photo is still there. I've forgotten how long it's been.

"Are you having sex with anyone else?" Francisco asks bluntly later that night. "No," I respond slowly. Here we go again.
"Look, Francisco…we're dating. We're monogamous. I like you. The sex is mind-blowing. Now shut up and cuddle me, damn it." He grins that wide grin and drapes an arm around me, snuggling up close.
I was the one who cooked dinner tonight. Francisco gobbled down three helpings and inhaled quite a few wantons. He talked about how similar Japanese cuisine was to Peruvian, and explained that there are a lot of Japanese people in Peru. He hinted that he's Japanese-Peruvian, and talked about how common name-blending between the two cultures in Peru were. Keiko Ramirez. Juan Reyes-Nakasaki. Names like that. I cleared the table, wondering if Colombia culture-blended as well. As he washed the dishes, I asked him. "Yeah, they have Chinese people if I remember correctly. Do you know someone Colombian?"
"Yeah, she's pureblood Latina though." Francisco nodded and closed the dishwasher. "I know a Colombian woman like that, too."
He breathes heavily now and shifts about. Even when the sex exhausts him, he can't stay still after the orgasm. He usually falls asleep after five minutes of moving, though. It's cute. I really like being with him. His gentle snores lull me into a drowsy sleep. The pleasant state ends abruptly—not really, it's three hours later—as I am jarred into wakefulness thanks to my loud cell phone.

"Uchiha," I grumble sleepily. Francisco mumbles and stares at me through eyes heavy with sleep. "Okay. Twenty minutes at most." I roll out of bed and yank on some clothes. "I have to go." He sits up, chest bare but covered with the heavy quilt from the waist down. "It's a homicide, huh?" I stare at him. "You're a cop, aren't you?" Silence. "Why else would your work call you in the middle of the night?"
"It's four o'clock in the morning," I point out. Stupid. "Unless you're cheating on me, bastard!"
"I am not! And yes, I'm a cop. Don't tell anyone."
"Come back safe."
"I hope I will, too."
Francisco doesn't seem to mind my profession. His calmness and word choice and…knowledge…furthers my hypothesis. I focus on the task before me as I drive to the scene. I gave Francisco a key to my apartment and he's alluded to moving into my apartment. I told him I'd have to know him better first. So he talked about himself for an hour. I just want to know if he works for the FBI. I'm sure he at least works in law enforcement.
"Sorry to wake you up," chirps a crime scene investigator.
"Bullshit. What've we got?" I bend my knees, staring down. All thoughts of Francisco fade temporarily.