And just like that, the spell was broken.They were back to their regularly scheduled programming, but something hadshifted between them, something small and subtle but no less seismic.
‘It gets easier,’ she said, injectingevery ounce of conviction she had into the words.
‘That was thirteen years ago,’ Luca said.‘But forget that. We’ve got work to do.’
Ella looked at him again, and for thefirst time she didn’t see a rookie or a colleague or a roadblock. She saw anally. A friend, maybe, if they both lived long enough to claim the title.
‘Yes, we do.'
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Officer Burt Macklin cruised the streetsin his black-and-white, the radio squawking like a scalded parrot with theusual Friday night chatter. Domestic disputes, drunken brawls, the odd fenderbender from some lead foot with more horsepower than brain cells.
Just another night in paradise.
Macklin sighed and scrubbed a hand overhis five o'clock shadow. He'd been riding this beat since he was a rookie,fresh outta the academy with a shiny badge and a head full of heroic notions.Now, five years and a few dozen shades of cynicism later, the only thing shinywas his cue ball dome, and his notions had gone from heroic to hemlock.
Still, it coulda been worse. At least hewasn't walking the Tenderloin like those poor schmucks in Vice. He'd takebabysitting a bunch of booze hounds over wading through used needles and humanmisery any day of the week.
Especially since the Chief had put theword out - keep your eyes peeled for anything hinky, anything that might pointto Dover's newest whackadoo playing pin-the-tail-on-the-corpse. The things hedid for a measly government paycheck and a shitty pension.
But hey, it gave him something to dobesides run speed traps and scrape drunks off the sidewalk. So he'd play along,do his due diligence, keep his peepers peeled for any sign of psycho-boy outthere.
Macklin cruised past O'Malley's, taking inthe usual gaggle of stumble-bums and working girls loitering near the entrance.Half of them looked like they'd just stumbled off a boxcar, while the otherscould've passed for halfway respectable if not for the dead eyes and trackmarks.
Nothing promising there. Macklin made amental note to have a word with O'Malley about his clientele, maybe see aboutgetting some of those lost souls into a program or something. Assuming theydidn't pickle themselves to death first.
Next in line was The Chuckle Hut, aso-called gentlemen's club that hadn't seen anything gentle since the Reaganadministration. Last he checked, they had a two-for-one special on lap dancesand penicillin shots. Macklin gave the parking lot a once-over, taking in therust-bucket beaters and mid-life crisis mobiles. Nada on the serial killerfront, but he spotted a familiar face stumbling out the door - one RonnieDobbs, a semi-regular guest of the county lockup.
Looked like Ronnie was riding the whitehorse again. Macklin sighed, weighed the merits of hauling the scrawny bastardin to sleep it off versus letting him wander off to go piss in some poor sap'sazaleas. Without much more thought, he figured the flora could take one for theteam. Ronnie was a pain in the ass, but he wasn't a killer. At least, not thekind Macklin was on the lookout for.
He peeled away from the curb, leavingRonnie to his own devices and the tender mercies of whatever shrubbery he choseto defile.
And so it went, up and down the strip. Barafter bar, dive after dive. Macklin's eyes started to glaze over, his braingoing soft as a two-day-old donut from the sheer monotony of it all. He washalf-tempted to tug his piece and start playing quick-draw with his reflectionin the windshield, if only to keep from nodding off at the wheel.
But just as he was about to call it quitsand head back to the barn to go cuddle his faithful hound and his faithfulbottle of Beam, something caught his eye.
Two people, silhouetted against the sallowglow of the street lamps. Nothing too outta the ordinary there, except for thefact that that one of them was parked in a wheelchair and the guy was pushingthem along like he had someplace to be.
Now, Macklin was no expert on the socialhabits of the invalid set, but something about the whole setup just didn'tcompute. Who the hell went for a stroll down Skid Row in the middle of thenight with Grandma or Granddad in tow? It was like seeing a vegan at asteakhouse - technically possible, but highly friggin' unlikely.
He slowed to a crawl, trying to get abetter look without spooking 'em. But they must've had a sixth sense for pryingeyes, 'cause they hooked a sharp left and disappeared into an alley quick asgrease through a goose.
The hell?
Macklin's cop brain started firing on allcylinders. Could be nothing, just some Good Samaritan helping out a little oldlady in need. But in this neighborhood, good deeds were about as rare as hen’steeth.
He eased past, eyes straining to penetratethe murk of the alleyway. Caught a flash of movement, there and gone again,swallowed up by the dark. The wink of light on metal.
Macklin knew this alley, knew where itled. Straight to Snickersville Square, home of the famous Chuckles MemorialFountain. Damn thing was not only an eyesore but a reminder that Dover'sbiggest celebrity was some old-timey comedian who'd died on stage. These days,it was more likely to be full of used needles and human waste than anythingresembling humor.
Nobody went there unless they had areason.
It was an isolated landmark.
Aw, hell.
Something told him to get in there.