Part 3 (1/2)

She'd had a bad night. She was in a bad mood. And she was more than willing to take it out on this racist, s.e.xist son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h. He had a good four inches on her and probably a hundred pounds but she figured she'd have little trouble dusting his a.s.s.Tempting, but no. Although her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched, years of observing due process held her temper in check.He's not worth the trouble.

As she turned to leave, Harris swung around and, grinning broadly, reached out and smacked her on the a.s.s.

Vicki smiled.Oh what the h.e.l.l....

Pivoting, she kicked him less hard than she was able on the outside edge of his left knee. He toppled, bellowing with pain, as if both feet had been cut out from under him. A blow just below his ribs drove the air out of his lungs in an anguished gasp and given that she resisted stomping where it would hurt the most, she treated herself to slamming a well-placed foot into his b.u.t.t as he drew his knees up to his chest.

Then she grinned at his buddies and started home again.

He could press charges. But she didn't think he would. He wasn't hurt and she was willing to bet that by the time he got his breath back he'd already be warping the facts to fit his world view - a world view that would not include the possibility of his being taken down by a woman.

She also realized that this wouldn't have been the case if she still carried a badge, police brutality being a rallying cry of his kind.

You know,she shoved her gla.s.ses up her nose and ran for the bus she could now see cresting the Eglington Avenue overpa.s.s, /think I could grow to like being a civilian.

The euphoria faded along with the adrenaline and the crisis of conscience set in barely two blocks from the bus stop. It wasn't so much the violence itself that upset her as her reaction to it; try as she would, she simply couldn't convince herself that Harris hadn't got a small fraction of exactly what he had coming. By the time she was fighting her way to the back of theDundas streetcar in an attempt to actually make it offat her stop, she was heartily sick of the whole argument.

Violence is never the answer but sometimes, like with c.o.c.kroaches, it's the only possible response.By physically moving two semi-comatose teenagers out of herway, she made it out the door at the last possible second.Harris is a c.o.c.kroach. End of discussion. It was too d.a.m.ned hot to deal with personal ethics. She promised herself she'd take another crack at it when the weather cooled down.

She could feel the heat of the asphalt through the soles of her sneakers and, walking as quickly as the seething crowds allowed, she turned upHuron Street toward home.Dundas and Huron crossed in the center ofChinatown , surrounded by restaurants and tiny markets selling exotic vegetables and live fish. In hot weather, the metal bins of food garbage heated up and the stench that permeated the area was anything but appetizing. Breathing shallowly through her mouth, Vicki could completely understand why the wer had hurried out of the city.

As she pa.s.sed, she checkedthe puddle. Tucked up against the curb in a spot where the asphalt had peeled off and a number of the original paving bricks were missing, the puddle collected local runoff as well as a.s.sorted organic flotsam. As the temperature rose, foul smelling bubbles occasionally broke through the sc.u.mmy surface, adding their own bit of joy to the bouquet. Vicki had no idea how deep the puddle was. In five years, she'd never seen it dry. She had a theory that someday, something was going to crawl out of this little leftover bowl of primordial soup and terrorize the neighborhood, so she kept an eye on it. She wanted to be there when it happened.

By the time she reached her apartment, she was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and all she wanted was a cold shower and a colder drink. She suspected it'd be some time before she got either when she could smell the coffee brewing inside as she put her key in the lock.

”It's a hundred and twelve degrees in the shade,” she muttered, swinging open the door, ”how the h.e.l.l can you drink hot coffee?”

It was a good thing she didn't expect an answer, because she didn't get one. Snapping the lock back on, she threw her bag down in the hall and went into the tiny living room.

”Nice of you to drop by, Celluci.” She frowned. ”You look like s.h.i.+t.”

”Thank you, Mother Theresa.” He raised his mug and drank deeply, barely lifting his head off the backof the recliner. When he finished swallowing, he met her eyes. ”We got the son of a b.i.t.c.h.”

”Margot?”

Celluci nodded. ”Got him cold. We picked the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d up at noon.”

At noon. While I was proving I was more macho than Billy Harris.For an instant Vicki was so blindly jealous she couldn't speak. That was what she should be doing with her life, making a difference, not making a fool of herself in the parking lot of a coffee factory. Lower lip caught between her teeth, she managed to wrestle the monster back into its pit although she couldn't quite manage the smile.

”Good work.” When she'd allowed Mike Celluci back into her life, she'd allowed police work back in.

She'd just have to learn to deal with it.

He nodded, his expression showing exhaustion and not much more. Vicki felt some of the tension go out of her shoulders. Either he understood or he was too tired to make a scene. Either way, she could cope.

She reached over and took the empty mug from his hand.

”When was the last time you slept?”

”Tuesday.”

”Ate?”

”Uh. ...” He frowned and rubbed his free hand across his eyes.

”Real food,” Vicki prodded. ”Not something out of a box, covered in powdered sugar.”

”I don't remember.”She shook her head and moved into the kitchen. ”Sandwich first, then sleep. You'd better not mind cold roast beef, 'cause that's all I've got.” As she piled the meat onto bread, she grinned. It was almost like old times. They'd made a pact, she and Celluci, years ago when they'd first gotten involved; if they couldn't take care of themselves, they'd let the other one do it for them.

”This job has enough ways of eating at your soul,” she'd told him as he worked the knots out of her back. ”It makes sense to build up a support structure.”

”You sure you just don't want someone to brag to when the job is done?” he snorted.

Her elbow caught him in the solar plexus. She smiled sweetly as he gasped for breath. ”That, too.”

And as important as someone who'd understood when it went right, was someone who understood when it went wrong. Who didn't ask a lot of stupid questions there were no answers to or give sympathy that poured salt on the wound failure had left.

Someone who'd just make a sandwich and turn down the bed and then go away while the last set of clean sheets got wrinkled and sweaty.

Six hours later, Celluci stumbled out into the living room and stared blearily at the television. ”What inning?”

”Top of the fourth.”

He collapsed into the only other chair in the room, Vicki being firmly entrenched in the recliner. ”Goals scored?” he asked, scratching at the hair on his chest.

”It's runs, a.s.shole, as you very well know, and it's a no-run game so far.”

His stomach rumbled audibly over the sounds of the crowd cheering an easy out at first. ”Pizza?”Vicki tossed him the phone. ”It's my place, you're buying.”

One lone slice lay congealing in the box and the Jays had actually managed to acquire and hang on to a two-run lead when she told him she was heading forLondon .

”England?”

”No,Ontario .”

”New case?”

”Right first time.”

”What's it about?”

I'm looking for the person, or people, involved in shooting a family of sheep-farming werewolves with silver bullets.At least it was real work. Important work. ”Uh, I can't tell you right now. Maybe later.”

Maybe in a million years....

Celluci frowned. She was hiding something. He could always tell. ”How are you getting there? Train?