Page 63 of Pure Killers

I smile a little. “No. I’m shocked, but that’s it.” It doesn’t escape me who this call is coming from, and who it’snotcoming from. “Is Dirk…”

“Back at the old Needler scenes, helping get new samples. Anything Seb touched is obviously suspect now.”

I nod slowly. He could have made this call. He didn’t. Maybe I’ve finally burned this bridge.

“You two having problems?”

“Nothing terminal,” I say, sounding more hopeful than I feel.

“Partners are worse than lovers sometimes,” Howie tells me in his usual gruff way. “Either one’s as likely to get you killed.”

That squeezes a soft laugh out of me. I toy with the cord. “I’ll pass that on to Dean.”

Howie chuckles. “Alright. Take care. It’s a mess in here today. Poor Rosie…” He clears his throat. “We’ll get this cleared up.”

***

The call from Howie is the push I need to come back in. There’s only Friday left by then anyway, and I imagine I can get through just one day of work. I happen to reach my desk at the same time as Dirk reaches his, and I freeze as we make eye contact. His jaw set, and he looks away first.

I should go apologise. He’ll know about Seb, like everyone here. What can I say? ‘I know now you weren’t the Needler’, as ridiculous as it was to ever think that. But there’s a wall around him, one I’m afraid to build even higher with some clumsy words.

I get through to lunch like that, always in anticipation of trying to mend, and then not doing it. Dirk must feel my looks in his direction, but he doesn’t react and certainly doesn’t invite conversation.

The hunt is on for Seb now, and for Cocooner, their particular deadline setting the city on edge.

After a lonely lunch, Tawill comes onto the floor, looking over what must be a rather sad congregation of detectives andofficers, slogging through to the weekend after a particularly trying week. She sighs before announcing, her voice carrying well enough across the entire floor to be understood loud and clear. “I know this is not what anyone wants to hear… But the entire office needs to pass self-defence today.”

There’s a collective groan, not unlike a classroom told they need to do beep tests for gym class. Tawill hushes us. “I know, but we’ve got a deadline. With everyone here, it needs to be met. And now more than ever, we need to stick to policy.” Ignoring any further demoralised sighs, she goes on. “Usual partners, broken into two groups. Check the board and report to the firing range, please.” And she leaves.

Dirk gets up and goes to the board along with most of the others. “Great, let’s all go make sure we know the perfect moves for if your attacker is in the perfect position,” he mutters.

I stare blankly at my screen for the next hour since I only have to go in the latter half. The desks are mostly empty, compounding the overall dreariness. Outside, the cloud cover is thick enough to make it seem later than it is. Then four o’clock hits—so me and the other slackers make for the range.

Inside the long, usually empty arcade used for firing practice, thick mats have been laid out, scattered around the windowless room with pairs of people from all over the office going through a set regime of attacker-defender moves and counters. It’s all overseen by the ex-army colonel commissioned to oversee and check us each individually off for passing self-defence. I walk in, just in time to see Dean, my usual partner, being helped back into the waiting area. He's taking small close-legged steps, hunched over in that position unique to men who’ve gotten a hit to the balls very recently. Andrea is following, looking concerned, “I’m so sorry Dean!”

“I’m fine, really…” he creaks, not convincingly.

Howie is there, taking Dean’s arm from Andrea’s, and patting him on the back, “Happens to the best of us, mate.”

I watch them set Dean down. Great, I’ll need a new partner then. Usually, I’m matched with Dean because he’s smaller, as far as the men in the office go, making the match more even. Which really kind of proves Dirk right on how pointless this exercise is.

I go up to them, sparing a sympathetic glance for Dean. “Howie, who were you supposed to be paired with for the second set?”

He looks up at me. “Dirk.”

Great. Just perfect.

The contractor-coach is retired Colonel Gillian, a guy with a square jaw and an indeterminable age somewhere above forty, also apparently with a knack for names. “Detective Ginsburg!” he shouts my maiden name, thank God. “On the mat.”

This is probably not the best way to face Dirk after the last time we spoke. Regretting even more that I didn’t take the chance to apologise earlier, I peel off my jacket and make my way down the arcade.

Dirk is already standing on the wide mat as I join him. Stripped down to a white singlet and his black work pants, he’s got a red mark on his neck, his hair looks like it’s been grabbed, and the fresh scar from the gunshot on his arm is circled in a newly forming bruise, like someone aimed for it.

Being bigger, he’s usually paired with other men, the street cops who often have something to prove against the mere detective. As such, he usually ends up roughhoused. But having seen those cops limping away, I’d have to guess his youth of street-fighting comes in handy.

“Okay! Ginsburg, this will be a good experience for you.”

I’m doubting that. “Are you alright?” I ask Dirk.

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