Rita was sitting on her small back porch, drinking a beer while eating wasabi peas and listening to Joe Slovak's voice radiate from her cell phone where it sat on the side table that also held the half filled glass bowl of dusty green peas and the wet cork coaster. Her hair was still damp from her shower after a rare afternoon visit to Blink Fitness. Rita was an early morning regular at the gym that stood barely half a mile from her home, though the establishment had already been open for an hour when Rita walked through its front door at 6 AM. When she walked out again sixty minutes later she had just enough time to make the twenty-five minute drive that would place her at the front door of the building that housed the 15th precinct.
In times past, when Rita and Aric had been a couple, she had not been above borrowing some energy from him, if it were a running day, and her treadmill du jour at Blink stood next to one occupied by a young extroverted man or woman in tight fashionable clothing who thought it was their mission in life to show Rita that women her age should exchange running for a more sedentary form of exercise, as well as baggier workout clothing. It didn't hurt that Aric possessed a sense of humor, and a mischievous streak (but also a sense of fair mindedness, and just application of strength; requirements for anyone who could do the things he could do), and was willing (occasionally, but not to excess; never to excess, not with his abilities) to play along. So it was in those instances that Rita's six mile run, which would normally take her a bit under an hour, would be reduced to just over forty minutes. Afterwards, Rita would wipe the small amount of sweat from her face, cast a friendly smile at the stunned youngster next to her, wipe down her borrowed treadmill, and go about her day.
Maybe she'll be nicer to the old lady she runs next to tomorrow, Rita had said after the first time, when the time difference between them made Rita's 7 AM Aric's 7 PM.
You're not an old lady. And when I was her age I wasn't always on my best behavior, Aric replied.
Neither was I, but I didn't walk around a gym flaunting a camel toe, or nipples that could cut glass.
Camel what?
I'll explain it to you some other time.
Her small backyard was technically fenced in, though none of those three mismatched sections of fence belonged to Rita; they belonged to her neighbors, as did the tree that stood on the other side of the wooden fence on her right, the tree that provided shade over the wicker furniture that sat at the far end of the small patch of grass that took about five minutes to trim with the Scott Classic push reel lawn mower that Rita kept in a small Rubbermaid storage shed. A tall gray concrete building stood behind the back section of fence, but its surface was almost completely covered with Ivy, and gave the impression of a verdant landscape that didn't really exist in this part of Brooklyn.
"She says that he was away a lot the last couple months. He would fly out, be gone a week or ten days, fly back for a few days, drive into the city for a week, come back home again. Lather, rise, repeat."
"Until he ends up dead and dumped off 13th."
"Right up until then. He was supposed to fly out again on Monday."
It was Saturday night, and her two detectives were working overtime, even though she had ordered everyone who was still in the squad room at 4PM on a Saturday afternoon to go home and take Sunday off. Burn out aside, they needed to clear out so the shifts that were supposed to be actually on duty had desks to sit at, and computers to use.
"Where was he flying to?" Rita asked as she popped another spicy green quasi-sphere into her mouth.
"San Diego. Always San Diego. Always the DoubleTree in Mission Valley. His wife says he had a room reserved for blocks of dates for another month."
"We have a request in to SDPD to toss his hotel room," Ray Quinn's voice said, letting Rita know that hers was not the only phone playing the call on speaker.
"It'll probably turn up nothing. The room's gotta be cleaned every time he leaves, and it's unlikely that they give him the same room every time he visits, but you never know."
"Rental Info?"
"Enterprise. Always. He's an Emerald Club member," Joe said. The noise in the background told her that Ray and Joe had just started their drive from Dr. Rasmussen's home in New Canaan, Connecticut back to New York City. They'd be on the road for an hour at this time of day, though they may stop along the way for dinner.
"Of course he is. Only the best for mad scientists working on secret weapons of mass destruction," Rita said as she took a sip from her bottle of Singha.
"He had two cell phones he was using, and two credit cards. We'll get those dumped as soon as possible."
"We only recovered one of his credit cards, but neither of his phones were on him, and the guy that had his credit card didn't have them."
"Why'd they leave his wallet with the body?" Ray asked, "Why didn't they take it? Then he's just John Doe number 4082."
"He had it stuffed down his pants, that's what the homeless guy said. Must have been worried about it getting stolen."
"That homeless guy tossed a dead body," Ray said skeptically.
"He says he's done worse," Rita answered, "life in the big city can be hell."
"Anyway, we'll know more on Monday," Ray said.
"What's on the west coast that takes him away from his wife and kiddies and WMD on the east coast? He's not gonna fly coast-to-coast just to bang a girlfriend, is he?"
"Don't know," Ray replied, "I'd have to see the girlfriend."
Rita burned a few calories with an eye roll and a shake of her head that Ray Quinn couldn't appreciate.
It might have been the four extra spicy peas Rita had just eaten at the same time that caused her moment of clarity, but whatever it was, it almost caused her to drop her beer as the two-thousand watt light bulb appeared over her head.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Rita said as she sat straight up, "it's not another woman that's got him flying coast-to-coast."
"What is it?" Joe asked.
"It's another fucking WMD."
"I'll light a fire under them," The Chief of Detectives said, "The time difference will help us some. They might still have a judge that will sign a warrant for the rental car tracking info. If Rasmussen was smart, he parked nearby and walked to the site, but if he always parked in the same location that'll narrow the search area."
"He was booked for another month, so they may not be much farther along on that one as they were on ours," Rita said, "but we need to alert them ASAP about what they can expect to find."
"Good work, Rita," James Essig said, "really good work from all of you. Let your men know."
"Thanks Chief. Any word on the last canister?"
"Not yet. Maybe Monday. Get some rest. You've earned it."
"Yes sir," Rita said.
Rita sat back in her NÄMMARÖ folding chair, direct from IKEA, and showing minor signs of wear after the three years of use, though Rita was good about always taking the KUDDARNA chair pad in at night. She had reviewed all the available data that they had, and she continued to come to the same conclusion: Dr. Daniel Rasmussen was splitting his time between New York and San Diego overseeing the production of deadly components for two weapons that were designed to kill as many people as possible, both in the initial detonation and afterwards as whatever pathogen it released worked its way through the world's population. Rita knew that she had gotten lucky. Someone else had been looking into it, or had found it totally by accident, and pulled a fire alarm that had brought the east coast operation to a halt before it completed its work. They might have gotten lucky again. Daniel Rasmussen's paranoia about getting his pocket picked might lead them to a second weapon and, if that one wasn't much further along than the first one, they might be able to shut that one down as well.
But the big question was still unanswered: who is doing this and why?
And are there only two of these things being built?
"Detectives, how are you?" The voice asked as the man approached Connie and Rita's table in Sunny & Annie's Deli.
The two detectives from the 15th squad had gotten through half of their lunch when Connie and the man from the roof spotted each other as they came into view through the large window of the deli.
"Don't turn around, don't turn around, Jesus, I told you not to turn around," Connie said as Rita turned around and saw the man whose voice had been in her head only a few weeks before.
Holy shit, there he is, Rita thought as she turned back around again quickly and pretended to study the half eaten chicken salad sandwich on a kaiser roll that sat on the plate in front of her.
"Your face healed nicely," he said to Connie, who was looking up at the man standing next to their table like she had been hypnotized.
"Thanks," she said as her hand came up to her smiling face, and the place that had been peppered with wooden shrapnel, "How are you?"
"So far, so good. Happy 2003. Let's hope this year will be better than the last."
"Hey, that would make a good song lyric," Connie laughed.
"Hardy har, har," he said as he returned her smile in kind.
"Do you want to sit down for a minute?"
"I don't want to interrupt your lunch."
"You've already done that," Connie replied as her right hand indicated the spot next to her.
"Thanks," He said as he removed his long black wool jacket to reveal a sculpted body that was hidden from the world by a form fitting black knit mock turtleneck shirt and a pair of slim black wool pleated pants.
Rita had still not uttered a word, which he seemed to realize finally as he directed his next question at her once he had landed on the red vinyl covered chair next to Connie.
"How's the man from the roof?" he asked.
"They had to pump him full of meds to get him to calm down, but he finally talked. He went into the system straight to a psych ward," Rita said. "The riding ADA isn't sure he'll pass the competency hearing."
"That's a good thing, I guess. He's not evil, he's just seriously screwed up in his head, and that's not really his fault."
"Not his fault? He and his running buddies were dealing felony weight heroin, and they killed two other dealers while they were doing it. Nobody forced them to do that."
"No, no one forced him. Except his parents, who alternated between neglect and abuse with him and his sister, and a foster system that only ever put him in touch with child molesters and criminals. Trust me, if you had seen what was in that guy's head, you wouldn't blame him either. And you probably know by now that he wasn't the trigger man in those murders."
"Seen what was in his head?" Connie asked.
You know what I mean, his voice said in Rita's head.
What the fuck?
"You two OK?" Connie asked as she alternated her gaze from Rita to the man and back again.
"What?" Rita asked once she had snapped out of it.
"You both got quiet, and just sat there."
"Sorry," Rita said.
"What was in his head?" Connie asked again.
"You were there," he said, "you saw what happened on the roof. How would you describe it?"
"I have no idea how I'd describe it. It's hard to keep straight in my head. Every time I replay it, the details seem to change."
"That's normal. Without a familiar referent it's hard to know which way you're pointing."
"Referent?" Connie asked.
"Like the North Star, or the Southern Cross. Something to navigate by. Your mind will take something unfamiliar and try to relate it to something you know."
"North Star. Got it," Connie said as she picked up an uneaten quarter of her turkey club sandwich on whole wheat.
"You called it, Saul on the road to Damascus," Rita said to her partner.
"Holy shit, you're right. I did say that. In Veniero's, the night it happened. I'd forgotten about that."
"You weren't wrong," the man said, "his life definitely changed that night."
"Do you live around here?" Rita asked him during a moment of quiet.
Jesus, could I sound any dumber?
"No, I just come here for the pastrami," he answered, the smile still on his face, "which I still need to order. I usually live somewhere that has a warm beach nearby."
"Oh, really?" Connie said, "Where are you living now?"
"Penida Island, in Bali. Have you ever been there?"
"No. Is it nice?"
"It's beautiful. Secluded. Very peaceful. The water's a beautiful shade of green. You should see it for yourself."
"It sounds great. Are you in the city for long?"
"No. Just stopped by for the pastrami."
"You flew from Bali to New York just for pastrami?" Rita asked.
"Not just for pastrami. I need some new guitar strings too. And, technically speaking, I didn't fly, not the whole way."
"I don't understand," Connie said.
"I get that a lot. Like I said, you'd need something to navigate by."
"And we don't have one, is what you're saying?" Rita asked, her temper on the rise. Rita did not like being called ignorant, or dumb, not even by a guy that was two orders of magnitude too attractive for his own good.
not for this you don't, he answered as he sent her an image of some sort of opening that led from a warm sunny beach to a frigid spot at the north edge of Tompkins Square Park.
Connie watched for the span of two seconds as Rita's jaw dropped and her eyes unfocused.
"Rita?" she asked, the half eaten quarter of her sandwich paused on its journey to her mouth.
"I apologize. It seemed the quickest way to answer the question you were about to ask. I should have asked your permission first," the man said.
"Aric, what the fuck was that?" Rita asked as the interior of the Deli came back into focus.
"Let's call it a referent. Just in case you need one in the future."
"Aric?" Connie asked as her eyes traveled between the two.
How the fuck did I know that? Rita asked herself as she waited for her heart rate to slow.
"Hi," he said as he extended his hand to Connie. "I'm Aric. It's a pleasure meeting you."
It was a sector car popping it's siren that finally woke Rita up, but she stayed still for a minute, still curled up on the wicker love seat underneath the branches of her neighbor's tree, her eyes traveling the length of her backyard to the empty beer bottle where it still sat on the cork coaster on the table on her small porch.
It wasn't unusual for her to dream of Aric, and those dreams were often of the night on the roof, or the afternoon when she had first plucked his name from the stream of consciousness he was sending her. Not unusual, but it had been a while. She knew what was happening to her. She knew because it wasn't the first time it happened. She had started thinking of him, and then she had called him and talked to him, and then she started dreaming about him. It was a cycle she knew well. She also knew well that she needed to nip it in the bud before it got to the next step, the step where she asked to see him.
Because if she saw him again, all bets were off.
