Home Sweet Home by Stacie

Detective Matthew McRae, despite his best efforts, was not working on Thanksgiving. He'd offered to trade, so he wouldn't be home on the holiday, but amazingly enough, he'd had no takers. He thought about going out for dinner, but instead decided to show a bit of holiday spirit that he definitely didn't feel: he had a turkey TV dinner. Hungry Man frozen turkey breast, with corn, stuffing, and chocolate cake. He pulled it from the oven and tossed it on the counter, burning his fingers as he pulled back the foil. Sucking on his singed fingers, he poured himself another large glass of Jack Daniels, turned the TV to some football game or another, and started on his Thanksgiving feast.

The turkey was still frozen in the middle, the stuffing tasted like spackle, and the chocolate cake was hockey-puck hard. The corn seemed edible, but he'd never liked corn. Fortunately, the Jack Daniels was just right. He toasted the unappetizing tray, and drained the glass.

He was about to settle on the worn sofa when he heard a tentative knock on the door. For a split second, he felt his breath catch in what could only be hope. He actually hadn't thought about his ex-wife, Kelly, all day. Part of that was due to the Jack Daniels, but part of him was slowly moving on, at least he hoped. He even smiled back at the pretty bank teller yesterday. Of course, she looked just like Kelly, with dark straight hair and hazel eyes, but it was a start.

The knock sounded again, a bit louder, and McRae shook himself from his reverie and walked to the door. He took a deep breath before opening it, and looked out to the hallway. It was empty. He heard a voice say, "Hey!" and looked down into a pair of wide dark eyes.

"Yes?" McRae said. He recognized the kid as one who lived in his building, but since nobody here ever introduced themselves, he didn't know the kid's name.

"You the cop, right?" the kid asked, peering around him into the small apartment.

"Yeah. I'm McRae. You are...?"

"Anthony."

The kid kept peering around him. "What can I do for you, Anthony?" McRae said, leaning against the doorway to give the kid a better view.

"Nice place. Smells good."

"It's my dinner. Aren't you having Thanksgiving?"

"Nah, my mom gotta work. She works over at the Starlight. She says Thanksgiving's one of the busiest days of the year."

McRae recognized the Starlight. It was a strip club about five blocks away. He'd even briefly considered going there himself for their Holiday Special--Breasts, Legs, and Thighs for $20. He chastised himself as he looked at the kid standing in his doorway.

"Why don't you come in? I have some food leftover. It's just a TV dinner but..." He was talking to an empty doorway. Anthony scurried under his arm and headed for the bar stool where McRae had left the tray. He picked up the fork and began eating like it had been days since his last meal.

"That's probably cold," McRae said. "I can heat it up for you."

"Nah, that's OK," Anthony replied. "Got anything to drink?"

McRae glanced at the nearly empty glass of Jack Daniels sitting on the table. "Water," he said. Anthony shrugged. McRae filled a glass from the tap and slid it over to him.

McRae watched him eat, and then asked again, "Anthony, did you come here for a reason?"

Anthony took a big bite of turkey, then said, "Mama said if there's ever any trouble, come here, cause you a cop."

"And are you in trouble?"

"I ain't. But you is."

"Me? Why?"

Anthony shoveled the corn into his mouth, and stuffed the chocolate cake into his pocket. He then hopped off the barstool, backing away from McRae. "You seen your car lately?" he asked, then continued backing to the door. "Thanks for dinner."

McRae watched him go. His car? Just then he heard sirens, and looked out the apartment's only window to see his old Buick engulfed in flames.

McRae stood in silence as the fire department doused what was left of his car.

"Don't need a car in the city anyway," a voice beside him said, and he turned to look at Detective Frank Singletary. He was heavy, with black hair that needed a trim. His eyes were watering and his nose was red. "Don't suppose you know who did this?"

McRae shook his head.

"Not a great neighborhood. You working a case here?" Singletary asked.

"I live here," McRae answered.

"Oh," Singletary replied. "Might want to think about staying somewhere else. This might be personal."

"It's definitely personal," McRae said.

After answering a few more routine questions, McRae returned to his apartment to find the door open. He glanced inside, and saw a small figure drinking from his bottle of Jack Daniels.

"Anthony!" he yelled. The boy dropped the bottle on the carpet, spilling it. He swallowed what he had in his mouth. "What are you doing?" McRae asked.

"You weren't here, and I was thirsty," the boy replied, grinning.

"I could arrest you for underage drinking," McRae said.

"But you supplied it. It was in your apartment."

"And breaking and entering."

"Didn't break. The lock isn't worth shit."

"And arson," McRae said.

Anthony's eyes grew wide. "No way, not me. I didn't start that fire."

McRae stepped further into the room, standing in front of Anthony. The boy tried to slide off the bar stool, but McRae grabbed his arm. "Who did start the fire, Anthony?" he asked.

"Dunno." He tried squirming out of McRae's grasp, but McRae held on, careful not to hurt him.

"Tell me, Anthony. I know you know who it was. I won't say where I found out."

"No way. Let me go!"

"OK, you don't have to tell me who. But at least tell me why."

Anthony rolled his eyes. "You really that dumb? Cause you a cop."

"That's it?"

"You need a better reason?"

The sound of someone coming up the dim steps echoed from the hallway. McRae turned, and Anthony took the opportunity to slip out of his grasp and bolt out the door. A woman's voice called out, "Anthony, you get back here!"

McRae stepped into the hall to see Anthony held by the ear by a tall striking black woman, wearing heavy make-up and carrying a bag from McDonald's. "Here's your dinner," she said, handing him the bag.

"Already ate," Anthony mumbled, but he took the bag and walked down the stairs.

They both watched him leave, then the woman turned back to him. "I'm Desiree Simms," she said, holding out her hand. "Anthony's my son."

"Matt McRae," he answered, surprised at her firm grip.

"The cop," she said.

"Am I wearing a sign?" he replied, smiling.

"Cop moves in, word spreads fast."

"Is that good or bad?" McRae said.

"Little of both."

"Right. Ask me about my car."

She laughed. "Is that your bar-b-qued hunk of metal outside?"

"It was," McRae said.

"I'm sorry. I hope you had insurance." A door slammed from a floor above. "Well, I should go," she said. "See you around, Officer McRae."

"Call me Matt," McRae said, but she had already turned and started down the flight of stairs. He watched her leave. "Yep, still haven't lost my touch with the ladies." He went back into his apartment to hunt for his car insurance forms, hoping that was one of the bills he had been able to pay.

It took McRae forever to fall asleep, slumped on the couch, a Torso Tiger infomercial droning in the background. Just as his head drooped in slumber, a loud pounding sounded on the door, and he jolted awake, reaching for his gun but coming up empty. He swore as he remembered he'd left it at the station.

"Who is it?" he yelled, grabbing the empty Jack Daniels bottle by the neck.

"It's Anthony. I need help! Somebody's hurting my mama!"

McRae ran to the door and opened it, and was instantly pulled outside by Anthony. "Hurry!" he yelled. "They were yelling, then he pushed her down and started hitting her. He's a big guy, so hurry."

"Wait inside. Bolt the door and call 911," McRae said, pushing Anthony inside his apartment. Armed with only the bottle, McRae raced down the stairs two at a time. The door to the Simms' apartment was open, and McRae paused outside, back to the wall, the bottle held in front of him like he was holding a gun. He saw bloody footprints leaving the apartment and disappearing down the stairs. McRae took a deep breath, hoping he wasn't too late, and leaped into the open doorway.

Desiree Simms lay in a bloody crumple on the floor. McRae checked for a pulse, but knew instantly he wouldn't find one. Her head lay at an unnatural angle; he could feel the bones move when he pressed against her carotid artery. Her deep brown eyes, the same color as her son's, stared at him through a haze of blood. He reached for the phone to call 911, but sound of sirens was already nearing the apartment.

For the second time that night, Detective Singletary questioned McRae about what happened in his building.

"I only met her a few hours ago, Frank," McRae said, lighting a cigarette. He'd quit a few months back, but after tonight, he needed one.

"You saw no one?"

"I was asleep."

"You said you thought the car fire was personal. You think this is personal?"

McRae looked at him. "Personal to her. I didn't know her."

"Did anybody see you tonight?" Singletary looked down at his notebook as he asked the question.

McRae had to laugh. "I'm a suspect? I guess that makes sense, me being the only cop around."

"Have to ask, Matt. You know the drill."

McRae nodded. "Yeah, I know. Sorry. No, nobody saw me. I watched TV and fell asleep on the couch. Then the kid woke me up."

Singletary closed his notebook. "OK, that's fine. I'll talk to the kid and be out of your way."

McRae put his hand on Singletary's arm. "Wait, Frank, let me talk to him. He doesn't even know yet what's going on."

Singletary hesitated. "I don't know, you being a witness and involved, it may screw up the case."

"Come on, Frank, he's just a kid. His mother's dead. Let me talk to him and see what he tells me."

Singletary hesitated, tapping his pen on his notebook. "OK, but don't make me regret it."

McRae nodded, and headed to his apartment.

Anthony was watching Red Shoe Diaries, eating Doritos, with his feet over the arm of the couch, when McRae returned. He looked so much like a carefree kid that it pained McRae to have to ruin it.

"Hey, kid, you'll go blind watching that," McRae said, sitting on the other end of the couch and turning off the TV with the remote.

"How's my mom?" Anthony said.

McRae ran his fingers through his hair. He didn't know what to say, or how to say it so it didn't sound terrible. How do you tell a kid that his mom is dead, beat to death like a mangy dog? He took a deep breath. "Anthony..." he started.

"She's dead, right?"

McRae nodded.

"I thought so. You were gone a real long time." McRae watched him for signs that he was upset, but he just sat back on the couch and picked up the bag of Doritos. "Can I watch TV now?" he asked.

McRae handed him the remote. Anthony flipped channels for a while before his eyelids started to droop. McRae led him to the bed, and he was asleep almost instantly.

McRae didn't sleep. He lit cigarette after cigarette waiting for dawn to come. Desiree's sister would be coming by at 9 to pick up Anthony, and he still had to ask the kid what he saw. He really didn't want to ask a 9-year-old who beat up his mother. He crushed out the cigarette and walked into the bedroom where Anthony lay curled in a tight ball under the covers, still wearing his clothes. McRae could see the outline of his sneakers through the blanket. He was facing away, toward the wall. McRae sat down on the edge of the bed, and reached for his shoulder to shake him, then paused. Anthony's thumb was in his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut tight.

"Are you awake?" McRae asked quietly.

"Yeah," came the answer.

McRae smiled slightly. "Your aunt is coming by in a little while to pick you up. You want some breakfast?"

Anthony curled himself tighter, but removed his thumb from his mouth. "I wanna stay here."

McRae shook his head. "Don't you think you'd be better off with family?"

"They ain't family. Aunt Rhonda is a mean jealous high-minded bitch. That's what mama said, anyways."

McRae sighed. "I'm sorry. You can't stay here, though. I'm never here."

"I can take of myself. Been doing it for a long time, 'cause mama never around neither. Besides, I'd..."

"You'd what?"

"I'd be safe here," Anthony finished. He turned to look at McRae.

"I'm sorry, Anthony. You'll be safe with your Aunt too. She lives in a nice neighborhood on the Island."

"Fuck that."

McRae sighed. "Anthony, I know you're scared and sad about your mom, but I need to ask you what happened. You said you saw a big man hitting her. Do you remember?"

Anthony nodded, and turned back to the wall. "His name is Desmond. He been around before, and mama told him to get lost. He come by and say she owes him, and she say get out before I get the cop lives downstairs. He laughed, and said he wasn't afraid of no white cop. Then he grabs her arm and she tries to pull away, and he loses it, like some guy on TV, just wailing on her. She tell me to run and get you, and I did. But you couldn't help her neither."

McRae closed his eyes as Anthony spoke. "Anthony, I'm sorry," he said.

He shrugged. "Ain't your fault." He turned on his back and stared at the ceiling.

When his aunt came, Anthony left in silence, not looking back at McRae. McRae sighed, and left for the office, to start the search for Desmond.

There were 345 Desmonds in the list of previous offenders. McRae narrowed the search to cross-reference a five-block radius around his apartment building with charges of assault. The computer spit out two names: Jackie and Wilson Desmond, twin brothers. Both had done time at Attica for a variety of crimes, including armed robbery, drugs, assault, and in Jackie's case, rape. McRae called Singletary with the information.

"You're not working this case, McRae," Singletary told him.

"Not officially. Just helping out."

"Not in any capacity. Back off and let me take care of it."

"Listen, Frank, I'm part of this. I just had to tell a nine-year-old kid his mom is dead. Now I want to help find the bastard who killed her."

He heard Singletary sigh into the phone. "OK, I'll follow up on the Desmonds. You sit tight, and I'll call you when I find out something. Deal?"

"Yeah, thanks."

McRae hung up and tried to concentrate on his own backlog of cases, but his mind kept wandering back to the empty look on Anthony's face when McRae told him his mom was dead, and her broken body lying on the floor.

Hours passed with no word from Singletary, and McRae gave up on working. He knew Frank would be pissed, but he called him again.

"I'm sorry, Detective Singletary is out right now," the secretary told him.

"Out where?"

"I can't divulge that information."

McRae slammed the phone down. In his gut, he knew where Singletary was. He'd gone to find the Desmonds without him.

McRae borrowed a squad car and raced to the last known address of Jackie and Wilson Desmond. He turned on the police scanner, hoping to catch some reference to Singletary's whereabouts. When he reached the dilapidated building where Jackie last lived, he saw Singletary's unmarked sedan parked out front, but no squad cars, no back up. His sixth sense kicked in that something was very wrong, and he drove past and parked the squad car around the block. He climbed out and doubled back, hiding behind a dumpster where he could get a good view of the entrance to Desmond's building. He didn't have to wait long. Singletary stepped out and looked around, followed by one of the Desmonds, wearing a black sweatshirt and gloves. His dark hair hung to his shoulders in dread locked clumps.

They spoke for a minute longer, then Singletary got into his car, and Desmond walked past and climbed into a beat-up Trans Am. Singletary left in one direction, Desmond the other. McRae's gut told him to follow Desmond, but he cursed out loud. He couldn't follow in a black-and-white. No chance of a cab in this neighborhood either, but he did see a bike from a Chinese delivery place leaning against a tree. Saying a silent prayer of forgiveness to the owner, he grabbed the bike and started following Desmond.

Luck was on his side. Traffic slowed Desmond up until McRae could ditch the bike and get into a cab. He showed the driver his badge and told him to follow the brown Trans Am, discreetly.

"Wow, just like in the movies," the cabbie said, changing lanes to get closer to Desmond's car.

McRae rolled his eyes as he dialed his partner's number on his cell phone.

"Will, it's Matt. I need you to do me a huge favor and tail Frank Singletary. I can't explain right now, but he's up to something dirty. I'll call you later."

McRae hung up and looked ahead at the car. When he saw the Trans Am edge off the exit towards Long Island, he felt a lump start in his throat. Shit, the guy was going after Anthony.

McRae's first instinct was to run the fucker off the road, but he doubted the cabbie would agree, despite his love of movie car chases. Besides, he didn't have proof. You can't just arrest a guy for driving to Long Island.

The Trans Am slowed as it entered a residential neighborhood, and traffic thinned. McRae wasn't familiar with the area, and he was afraid that a cab was going to draw attention. Then again, he thought, maybe that's not a bad idea. If it scares Desmond off, then at least Anthony's safe. The cab got caught at a red light, and the Trans Am continued up a hill and turned onto a side street.

"Run it!" he told the cabbie. The cabbie shook his head. "I think this a bad idea. Besides, look at the meter." McRae glanced at it. $117 dollars and rising. He opened his wallet, and took out a twenty and a business card. "Send me a bill," he said, and bolted out of the cab. He could hear the cabbie swearing at him as he hurried across the street and ran in the direction of the Trans Am.

He found it parked five blocks away in the driveway of a small yellow house. He didn't hear any noises coming from inside, so he walked quietly up to a window and peered into the glass. He saw Anthony, sitting on the couch, clutching a video game joystick. Desmond sat beside him, staring at the TV and working another joystick. Anthony looked up at the window, and his eyes met McRae's. He looked scared. McRae ducked down and walked to the back of the house.

The back door had been kicked in. McRae snuck inside. He could hear the loud metallic music of the video game as he walked down the hall, his gun poised in front of him. He heard a low mechanical death march from the game, and the words "Game over."

"Shit!" Desmond yelled. "This game is a piece of shit!" There was a crash, which McRae assumed was Desmond throwing the joystick at the TV. "Now, let me ask you again, where's your aunt?" Desmond's voice had grown eerily calmer.

"I told you, she's at work. I don't know where she works. I was asleep when she left," Anthony answered.

"And you didn't tell her about what you saw?"

"No, didn't tell nobody," Anthony said.

"Except the cop," Desmond said. "Don't worry, though, he's next." McRae heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked, and leapt into the living room, gun pointed at Desmond.

"Drop it!" he yelled, running to stand in front of Anthony. Desmond fired at him, and then ran to the front window, leaping through it and sending glass flying. McRae followed him, firing once, and started to climb out of the window after him, when he heard a small whimper behind him. Anthony lay on the couch, holding his hand in front of him. The hand dripped blood from where the tip of his pinky finger used to be.

McRae called 911, and wrapped the afghan lying on the sofa around Anthony's hand, murmuring, "It'll be OK, don't worry, it'll be OK." He ducked as another bullet came into the house just as tires squealed out of the driveway. That bastard was going to shoot a kid. McRae was going to get him if it was the last thing he did.

McRae entered Anthony's hospital room quietly. The TV was on, turned to Jerry Springer. Anthony lay propped up on pillows, sipping a chocolate shake through a straw.

"They don't get Cinemax, huh?" McRae asked as he sat down on the end of the bed.

"Nah. They don't even get cable. Cheap place," Anthony replied. He looked down at the sheet across his legs. "Did you catch him?" he asked quietly.

"Not yet," McRae replied. Not for lack of trying, though. They'd found the Trans Am, abandoned in a playground. McRae had told his partner about Singletary, but Sharp said there was no proof of a tie-in.

"How's your hand?" he asked. Anthony held it up. It was wrapped in several layers of bandages.

"Hurts like a bitch," he said. "They said it won't grow back."

"I'm sorry, Anthony."

"Don't be. Pretty cool, I got a bullet wound. Kids at school are gonna be jealous. Course this means I can't play Street Fighter no more." He shrugged. McRae shook his head. This kid never ceased to surprise him.

"Did your aunt come by?"

Anthony stiffened. "Yeah, says I can't stay with her no more. Since I messed up her house and all. They gonna put me in foster care, I guess." He shrugged again, still staring at the blanket.

McRae couldn't believe what he was about to say. "What if we put you in protective custody? You are a witness. Then there'd be someone to watch over you 24 hours a day."

"Would it be you?" Anthony asked.

"Sometimes. Except when I'm out catching the bast...the guy who did this to you."

Anthony grinned. "Bastard. I heard it before."

"Yeah, I guess you have."

Anthony was released shortly afterwards, and McRae took him to stay with his partner's wife Laura. He left two uniformed police officers at the door, and then went into the office to check with Sharp about what he had learned about Singletary.

Will Sharp was in the captain's office when McRae arrived. That was never a good sign.

"McRae!" Captain Morgan yelled when he saw McRae trying to sneak to his desk. "Get your scrawny ass in here!"

Sharp was smiling as McRae came in and sat down.

"Wipe that smile off your face, Sharp!" the captain yelled. The smile disappeared.

"One of you want tell me what the fuck is going on? I have some guy from Yellow Cab telling me one of my cops stole a cab, and Detective Singletary is telling me another of my cops is harassing him. Considering you two are partners, I'm guessing this is related."

"I said follow him, not harass him," McRae said to Sharp.

Sharp shrugged. "He spotted me, I had to do something."

"Now I know why they kicked you off Vice," McRae muttered.

"Both of you, shut the fuck up! McRae, tell me what's going on, and tell me straight, or you'll both be working litter detail until I retire." Sweat had begun to bead on the captain's bald head. Sharp bit his lip to keep from smiling again.

McRae sighed. He explained everything he knew so far, starting with the car fire and the murder, up to Desmond going after the kid.

"Which Desmond?" the captain asked.

"I don't know. Probably Jackie," McRae said. "No usable prints so far from the house."

"What about the Trans Am?"

"I ran the plates," Sharp said. "It's registered to Desiree Simms."

"The victim?"

Sharp nodded.

The captain leaned against his desk. "OK, McRae you're off of this. You're too close. I'll put Sharp and Kirkland on it."

"But Captain," McRae interrupted.

"No buts. You're in charge of guarding the kid until this whole mess is over."

"Captain, I..."

"Enough, McRae. Out! Go home, get cleaned up, and stay away from this case!"

McRae stood and stormed out of the office. He gathered his stuff and shrugged off the hand Sharp rested on his shoulder. "Hey, don't sweat it, Matt. Do you really think I'd keep you in the dark?"

McRae smiled at his partner. "Thanks, Will," he said.

"Now go home, take a hot shower, and get over to my place to watch that kid. I'll call you if we get anything, OK?" Sharp said. McRae nodded. A shower did sound good, and some of Laura's cooking sounded even better.

When McRae got to his apartment, he slowed as he approached the door. The wood had been splintered and bent where someone had it kicked in. He pulled his gun from the holster and released the safety before kicking the door open and bursting into the room. It was empty; whoever had been there was long gone, but not before tearing the place apart. The TV was smashed, all the dishes in pieces on the kitchen floor. The couch was sliced to ribbons. His small collection of books had been ripped apart by the spines, the pages strewn everywhere. Even the refrigerator had been tipped over, food and drink leaking from beneath it. In his bedroom, the mattress was covered in a black smelly substance that he didn't even want to guess what it was, all his clothes piled on top and also covered in the stuff.

He stepped over the mess into the bathroom. The faucets in the sink and shower were running, and water was already a few inches deep on the tile. He glanced at the cracked mirror, and his heart nearly stopped. In between the cracks was written "1722 Overland." The Sharps' address.

McRae was already on the phone to Sharp as he bounded down the stairs, hoping to God he wasn't too late.

There were several squad cars in front of the house when McRae arrived, but he didn't see Sharp anywhere. He flashed his badge and ducked under the crime scene tape, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Captain Morgan waited just inside the door. He could hear a woman crying in another room.

"Captain?" McRae asked, dreading the answer.

"She'll be OK. Real banged up, some broken bones, but she'll be OK." The captain didn't look at him as he spoke. "Officer Allen was taken to Mercy General, gunshot to the thigh. Officer Whitten was DOA."

McRae waited for him to continue. He didn't. "And Anthony?" McRae asked.

The captain finally looked at him. "I'm sorry, Matt. He's gone."

McRae stormed into the 19th precinct and straight to Frank Singletary's desk. The man barely had time to look up before McRae picked him up and slammed him back against the wall.

"Where is he?" McRae said through his clenched jaw.

Other cops in the precinct stood in shock, but were stopped by Captain Morgan and Will Sharp.

Singletary looked around at the other cops watching him. "I don't know what you're talking about, McRae. Let go of me." He tried to force McRae's hands away, but McRae just grabbed him tighter.

"I'll break your fucking neck without a second thought," McRae said, slamming him again against the wall.

"OK, McRae, that's enough," Captain Morgan said, standing behind him. "We'll take him downtown and let the suits get it out of him." He pulled gently on McRae's arm. "A night in jail is sure to loosen his tongue." A look of fear came over Singletary's face. McRae didn't want to let go. He wanted to choke the man until he told him where Anthony was. "Come on, Matt, back off." McRae finally let go.

"You got nothing," Singletary yelled. "I didn't do anything. My lawyer will have me out before dinner."

"If you last that long," McRae said, and Singletary paled.

"Don't you see what's happening here, Captain? McRae's covering for himself! He knew the victim, and he talked to the kid before anyone else. It's only his word that there was somebody else at the crime scenes."

Captain Morgan pressed his lips together. "Tell it to the suits," he said.

Sharp walked over to him and put handcuffs on his wrists. "Frank Singletary, you are under arrest for accessory to murder, hindering prosecution, and anything else we can think of on the way to jail."

McRae watched as Singletary was led away, still yelling his innocence while Sharp continued reading him his rights. The other cops in the precinct watched in silence as one of their own was led away, but McRae didn't care about them. Anthony was still out there, and they were wasting time. McRae ignored the voice inside his head saying Anthony was already dead, a witness eliminated. He was determined to find Anthony, one way or another.

McRae and Sharp had been staking out the Desmonds' place for three days. Sharp left occasionally to check on Laura, who was recovering but still shaken up, but McRae never left. Singletary still wasn't talking, and he'd covered his tracks well. The only connection the investigators could find between Singletary and the Desmonds was McRae's viewing of them together, which was damning but not illegal. In fact, the investigators were now looking at him, and requested he be downtown at 9 AM Monday.

Waiting for the Desmonds to show up was their only lead, and it was quickly going nowhere.

Sharp left at 5 PM to drive Laura home from the hospital. McRae went into the coffee shop across the street to grab some food. As he was leaving, he saw a cab pull up and one of the Desmonds stepped out. He stopped and looked around. He wore a brown overcoat and a suit. His hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.

McRae jumped back inside the shop, bumping into a woman who was leaving and spilling her coffee. "Sorry, " he mumbled, peering out the window across the street. She said a few choice words at him and stormed out.

Desmond must have determined the coast was clear. He paid the cab and climbed the steps into the building.

McRae slipped out of the coffee shop, sticking close to an alley before he sprinted across the street. He climbed over a short chain link fence and ended up behind Desmond's building. The small courtyard was covered in garbage and rancid puddles. There was a back door, where the tenants obviously tossed out their garbage, propped open with a small triangle of wood. McRae approached it cautiously, alert for any movement, and entered the building. There was only one staircase and no elevator. He frowned as he looked at the dark staircase; he was going to be a sitting duck on those stairs. He walked back outside and glanced up at the fire escape. It looked rickety, but it was a better covert option. He pulled down the ladder, wincing at the squeal of rusted metal, but no one investigated. He pulled himself up and began to slowly climb to Desmond's third floor apartment.

When he reached the third floor, he slid along the wall until he reached the window to the Desmonds' apartment. The window was closed, but the stereo blasted inside. He peered slowly inside the window. Desmond was talking on the phone, yelling at someone and pacing, but suddenly he turned and looked out the window, right at McRae. McRae ducked, and seconds later bullets shattered the window. He pressed himself against the metal floor of the fire escape, glancing down at the ground. He was completely exposed up here. The best defense is a strong offense, McRae thought, and stood until he was right beside the window. He took a deep breath, checked his gun, and jumped in front of the window, ready to fire. Desmond had grabbed a duffle bag and was headed to the door.

"Freeze!" McRae yelled. Desmond turned around and fired again, and McRae returned fire. He felt a bullet graze his arm, knocking him back against the railing of the fire escape, which creaked and teetered ominously. Inside, he heard Desmond yelling, "You shot me, you fucking pig! I'll kill you, you hear me? I'll kill you!" McRae slowly climbed in the shattered window, his gun still held on Desmond, who was rolling on the ground, clutching his stomach, which was gushing blood.

"Stay still!" McRae shouted. He turned off the stereo, kicked Desmond's gun under the sofa, and grabbed his phone to call 911. Desmond continued to roll around, shouting, so McRae put a foot on his shoulder to keep him still. "You want to bleed to death?" he said. "Then lie still!"

After requesting the ambulance, McRae knelt by Desmond, who had finally calmed down and was lightly moaning. "Where's Anthony?" McRae said.

"Fuck you," Desmond replied.

McRae nudged Desmond's arm, causing him to writhe again in agony. "Where's Anthony?"

"I didn't take him," Desmond said through clenched teeth. "Jackie took him. It was my dumb fuck brother. I don't know what he did and I don't want to know. The stupid fuck ain't got a brain in his head."

"Where would he take him?"

"I don't know." McRae moved to push him again, but Desmond pulled away. "I swear, I don't know. Look, I ain't an upstanding citizen, but my brother is fucking crazy. I keep out of his business, and try to keep him out of mine. You want to know where he is, ask the cop he's got on a leash."

"Singletary?"

"Yeah. Guy's a cokehead. My brother gets him the shit, and he keeps my brother out of jail. Works out for both of them."

"Didn't work out for Desiree Simms," McRae said quietly.

"I told you, I don't know and I don't want to know. Live longer that way."

"Don't count on it," McRae said. He heard sirens and stood to wait for the ambulance.

McRae waited with his captain as Desmond was taken out in a stretcher. His captain was extremely calm, which McRae knew meant he was in deep shit.

"You can't use nothing I told you," Desmond yelled as the gurney was wheeled past them. "You didn't read me my rights. Hell, you broke into my house. You should be the one arrested." He was still yelling as the ambulance doors were closed and it pulled away.

McRae waited for his captain to say something. There was silence for a long while, which McRae assumed meant his captain was trying to get himself under control before he spoke. Oh yeah, he was in real deep shit.

"You should go to the hospital," his captain finally said. McRae clutched a bandage given to him by the ambulance crew to his arm.

"It's not that bad. Just a graze."

His captain nodded. "Where you hurt anywhere else? Maybe in the head?"

"No, sir," McRae answered.

"Because that's really the only justifiable excuse I can see for what you did here today. Did you just forget about little things we like to call warrants? Maybe you've heard of back-up?" His voice was rising as he spoke, and a red flush was starting at his neck and creeping higher. He took a deep breath.

"There was no time, sir. Desmond was a flight risk, and there's a nine-year-old boy missing."

"First off, it was the wrong Desmond. Second, you aren't working that case! I told you to stay out of it!" The other officers on the scene stopped to look as his captain's voice reached shouting level.

"Captain, I'm sorry. I've spent three days here, waiting for him to come home, and when he did, I had to act fast. It may not be admissible, but he told me about Singletary. Let's just go to the jail and talk to Singletary. The bastard knows where Desmond took Anthony."

"Singletary's not at the jail."

It took McRae a minute to register what his captain had said. "Then where is he?"

"He was released. Lack of evidence. The DA said..." But McRae wasn't listening. He was already heading towards the car. "McRae, come back here. You aren't on this. Let us handle it. McRae!"

McRae slammed the car door and sped away. Singletary was going to tell him where Anthony was, or else.

McRae walked calmly to the front door of Singletary's house and rang the bell. His wounded arm had started bleeding again, but he ignored the pain. The door opened, and Singletary stood in the doorway, wearing a bathrobe and holding a can of beer.

"Hello, Frank," McRae said, and punched him square in the jaw.

Singletary fell to the ground, and started to scamper away, but McRae grabbed the front of his robe. "Where's Anthony?" McRae said quietly.

"I'm not telling you anything," Frank stuttered, spitting blood. "I'm already off the force, so I got nothing to lose."

McRae's smile was cold. "You got a lot to lose, Frank."

"You can't do anything to me. You'll lose your badge too."

"I don't give a shit about my badge. I want to find that kid. If I have to break every bone in your body, you'll tell me."

Singletary stared at him defiantly. McRae grabbed his hand and snapped back the pinky. Singletary yelled, clutching his hand. "Where is he?" McRae said.

"OK, OK," Singletary said. "I don't know where the kid is, I swear."

"But you know where Desmond is, right?"

Singletary nodded. "You can't tell him I told you. OK? You won't tell him?"

"Where?"

"He's at his mother's place, over on 8th Street."

McRae shoved him away, and stood to leave. "Singletary, if that kid is dead, there isn't anywhere on earth you can hide." He slammed the door behind him.

McRae's phone rang as he headed towards 8th Street. It was his partner, Sharp.

"Matt, where are you? The captain is about to shit and fall in it."

"I'm headed to Desmond's mother's house, 1640 8th Street. Singletary said that's where he's hiding out."

Sharp laughed. "Did Singletary survive the inquisition?"

"Yeah, but he'll be eating through a straw for a while. Can you meet me there?"

"I'm leaving now. And McRae, be careful this time."

"I always am."

McRae beat the back-up there. The building was run-down but in a quiet neighborhood. There were flowers growing on windowsills, and kids' bikes chained to the staircase. It looked like a nice, clean place. No clue that there was a monster hiding behind its doors.

He reloaded his weapon and exited the car. Blood from his wound was dripping down his arm onto his hand, and he wiped his hand on his pants as he walked to the steps. An elderly woman hurried past, looking at him in surprise and fear.

He walked into the building's foyer and checked the mailboxes. L. Desmond lived in 4B. The inside door was locked but rusted, and swung open at McRae's kick. It was quiet inside. He proceeded up the stairs slowly, gun drawn. When he got to the fourth floor, he debated whether to knock or bust in. If the kid was still alive, he didn't want to startle Desmond into doing something stupid. But he also didn't want to chance him getting away.

He knocked, and yelled out, "Mrs. Desmond? It's the super."

A woman's voice answered "Just a second," and the door opened. He pushed his way inside.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"NYPD. Where's your son?"

She pointed to a room down the hall. McRae could hear the metallic sounds of a video game. "Wait here, and don't move," he said, walking down the hall.

He paused outside the doorway. "Come in, cop," a voice called to him. "We've been waiting."

He took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway, gun drawn. Desmond sat, lounging on the couch. He was holding a game joystick, pushing buttons frantically. Sitting next to him was Anthony, doing exactly the same thing.

"I see you can't take a hint," Desmond said. "Shame about your car."

"Anthony, I want you to walk over to me," McRae said.

Desmond smiled, and paused the game. The room got suddenly quiet.

"No, I don't think so," Desmond said, leaning back and putting his arm around the boy. His knuckles were cut and bruised, injuries he had received beating up Laura Sharp. Anthony leaned back too, his eyes meeting McRae's. He didn't look scared. He looked defiant.

"I see you've met my son. A real chip off the old block, isn't he?"

"Your son?" McRae said.

"Yes. His mother tried to keep me from seeing him. She didn't even tell him about me. But a boy needs a father, don't you agree?"

"Too bad you'll be in jail," McRae said. "Anthony, come with me."

Anthony shook his head.

Desmond laughed. "Anthony is your only witness to that brutal attack. Forcing him to testify against me would be awfully traumatic for such a young boy. He's already lost one parent, so I don't see him helping you put away the other."

"Lost her? Because you killed her!" McRae looked down at Anthony. The boy's posture mimicked his father's. "Anthony, I know this is hard for you. What he did is wrong, and we need your help to make sure he gets punishment for his crime."

"Ain't testifying," Anthony said.

"You won't be in any danger, Anthony. Just come with me now, and I'll protect you, just like I said." Desmond laughed at that. "Shut up!" McRae said to him.

"Are you deaf, cop?" Anthony said. "I ain't testifying against my father."

"He killed your mother."

"Bitch had it coming," Anthony answered.

Desmond grinned and patted Anthony on the shoulder. "That's my boy," he said. "Now, unless you got something else to say, we're in the middle of a game."

McRae watched the scene unfold and felt sadness envelope him once again. He had lost another child to the streets. Anthony was going to end up like the others: Diquan Mitchell, Shawn Collins. McRae had tried to help all of them, but wasn't able to pull them out. Hell, maybe he even pushed them along. He wished not for the first time for the cynicism that other cops had, so he wouldn't care anymore. He would just do his job, catch bad guys and leave his conscience at the precinct. These weren't even his kids, and nobody had asked for or even wanted his help. Maybe this case would be the one to push him over the edge and sever any amount of compassion he had left in him. As he looked at Anthony playing video games with the man who brutally killed his mother, he knew he was kidding himself. He did still care.

He walked over to the TV and kicked in the screen, then aimed his gun at Desmond. If this was going to be Anthony's choice, then he was going to have to see what he was choosing. "Get on the floor, Desmond. Now! Put your hands over your head. You're under arrest for the murders of Desiree Simms and Officer Robert Whitten, and the attempted murders of Laura Sharp and Officer Greg Allen." When Desmond didn't move he yanked him from the couch and tossed him to the floor, cuffing his hands behind his head. "Don't move, Anthony." He heard someone pounding on the front door, and called out to let Sharp know where he was. "You're going down for this, Desmond. I guarantee it."

Desmond didn't say anything. Anthony backed himself against the corner of the couch. "Don't worry, kid," Desmond said. "Just keep your mouth shut and nothing will happen."

"Shut the fuck up," McRae said, pushing Desmond's face into the carpet. When Sharp entered the room, he pulled Desmond from the floor and shoved him at Sharp. "Take this piece of shit downtown. He's the one who beat up your wife."

Sharp answered with a cold smile. "This way, sir, if you please," he said.

When they were gone, McRae stared at Anthony, still curled on the couch. Anthony was shaking, repeating, "You broke the TV," over and over. McRae wished he knew what to say. All he knew was that locking up Desmond was the only way.

McRae felt a light touch on his arm, and turned to see Anthony's grandmother standing behind him.

"Let him stay here," she said quietly. "I'll talk to him, see if I can't get him to testify."

"Against your son?"

"He stopped being my son a long time ago." There was a sadness in her eyes.

"Here," he said, handing her a business card. "Call me for anything." He walked over to the couch and rested his hand on Anthony's head. "Be strong," he whispered, and then left the apartment.

The murder trial of Jackie Desmond wasn't going well. It was still up in the air whether Anthony would testify. His grandmother had put him in counseling, and they were living in a safe house in a good neighborhood. She also told McRae he was skipping school, getting in fights, swearing, and threatening her.

The night before the trial she had called him in a panic, because Anthony hadn't come home from school. McRae and Sharp searched but couldn't find him. McRae finally had to give up and go home to get some sleep, only to find Anthony curled up in front of his apartment. He was shivering. "I wanted to go home," he had told him. "But somebody else lives there now." McRae gave him some hot tea and wrapped him a blanket, letting him sit on the couch and watch Cinemax before taking him back to his grandmother's.

"I can't do it," Anthony said. "I just can't."

Apparently Anthony's therapist agreed. She said it would be too traumatic for him, but the prosecutors didn't care; they wanted a conviction.

The day McRae was to testify, he dressed slowly in front of the mirror. He smoothed back his blonde hair, trying to look somewhat professional. He hated suits with a passion, and waited to strangle himself into a tie until the last minute.

The apartment had been redone after it had been trashed the first time. Sharp and his wife, and Anthony and his grandmother had pitched in to clean and paint it. Anthony's grandmother gave him an afghan she had knitted, and Anthony supplied a poster of Outkast that went above the couch, as Anthony watched smiling. "You're goofy, cop," he had said.

Laura had done the most. In fact, in McRae's opinion, she had gone nuts. She had bought all new dishes, in light blue no less, and put a plant, an actual living plant, in his kitchen. He also had aromatherapy candles, a jar filled with shiny marbles, and little soaps shaped like shells in the bathroom. It was like being married again, except he didn't have a wife to come home to, just all the little knick-knacks.

McRae kept them anyway. It was actually quite homey for him, with his rap poster and his lavender throw pillows. When he got home, the first thing he did was light one of those damn candles, instead of pouring himself a drink. Good God, he thought, what's next? Wind chimes and bubble baths?

He finally put on his tie and left for the courthouse. It would be his first time seeing Desmond since his arrest. McRae knew the defense was going to try to tear him to shreds. The prosecution had warned him. They were so worried they even considered not having him testify, but he was the arresting officer, and if he didn't defend his actions, the defense's claims of police brutality and harassment were going to look feasible to a jury.

Five hours later, McRae was ready to brutalize and harass the defense lawyer. Walter Crupp was one of the highest paid lawyers in the city, so what he was doing defending a second-rate drug dealer was beyond McRae, and he didn't care. The man was giving him a headache, and trying to ruin his career to boot.

"Detective McRae, isn't it true you stalked my client for days before his arrest?"

"No."

"You didn't sit outside his home for three days?"

"Yes, but that was a stakeout, not stalking. He was wanted for questioning in a kidnapping and a murder. It was standard police procedure."

"I see. And is it standard police procedure for one officer to remain at the stake-out without a break for three straight days?"

McRae inwardly groaned. He knew where this was headed, and he had walked right into it. "No," he responded.

"Isn't that what you did?"

"Yes."

"You don't consider that stalking?"

"No. Desmond kidnapped a little boy. I wanted to bring the boy home."

"This little boy. You mean his son?"

"Yes," McRae answered.

"So you wanted to rescue a boy from his own father? His legal guardian, by the way."

McRae tried to control his anger. "Only because the bastard murdered his mother."

"Move to strike, your honor."

The lawyer was getting smug. The prosecution's fears were coming true, McRae realized, and he was helping it along. He took deep breaths and waited for the next question.

"Detective McRae, what was your official role in this investigation?"

Oh well, McRae thought, there goes the case. "I didn't have one," he said quietly.

"Excuse me, detective? I didn't quite hear that."

"I didn't have one," McRae repeated louder.

"Why not?"

"It wasn't my call."

"Isn't it because you were under investigation as well? Under investigation for the same crimes my client is accused of?"

"No."

"No, it's not true? I have documents which say otherwise."

"I was cleared of that. Desmond had a cop on the take who made those allegations." McRae rubbed his eyes.

"Move to strike, your honor."

"Granted," the judge replied.

Crupp was practically grinning. "So you weren't officially part of the investigation. Yet you participated in the stakeout, and burst into my client's mother's apartment claiming to be from the NYPD."

"I didn't burst in. I knocked."

"Did she ask you in?"

"No."

"But you went in anyway?"

McRae sighed. He wanted to loosen his tie so much it was killing him. "Yes," he answered. "There was a kidnapped child in that apartment."

"You mean his son? The one he had legal guardianship of?"

They were going in circles. McRae was sorely tempted to tell the lawyer to fuck off. He glanced at Desmond, leaning back in his chair, looking extremely pleased.

"No," McRae replied.

"No what, Detective?"

"No, he doesn't have legal guardianship. He killed the legal guardian. That means he negated any rights to be the boy's guardian. He just used him as a pawn..."

"Detective, when you were stalking my client..."

"He killed that boy's mother while he was watching. He terrified him, bullied him, bribed him, anything to keep him from taking the stand."

"Your honor, please." Crupp was turning red.

"And it worked. He terrified a nine-year-old into being afraid to bring justice for his mother. That's why he's not here to testify, and why he won't."

The judge banged his gavel. "Detective McRae, please be quiet."

"But if you let that bastard free, he will hunt down that little boy, his own son, and shut him up permanently."

"Detective McRae, I will arrest you for contempt of court if you say another word."

McRae stopped talking. He had said his peace. Whatever the jury did now, at least he'd been able to warn them of the consequences, but it had possibly cost him his job in the process.

Desmond's fury was obvious, his hands clenched into fists on the table. The lawyer was wiping his brow, while the prosecutor looked like he wanted to crawl under his desk.

"Your honor, I move for a mistrial," Crupp said.

"I'll consider it. We're adjourned for the day."

After McRae climbed down from the witness stand, the prosecutor stopped him and said, "What the hell was that?"

McRae pushed past him without answering. The bailiffs were just leading Desmond away as he passed. "You going home sweet home?" Desmond said with a smile. "Better hurry."

McRae watched as he was lead away. Now Desmond was threatening him directly. Too bad the jury would never know about that.

As he left the courtroom, Sharp was waiting. "That went well," he said.

"Do you think they'll wait for me to leave the building before firing me?" He nodded up ahead at his captain who waited by the doors. He looked furious, a look McRae was rapidly growing familiar with.

"If they do fire you, I got dibs on your desk. It doesn't wobble like mine."

"Thanks, buddy," McRae said as they reached the captain.

"McRae," he said, deceptively calm. "Please tell me you have a rational explanation for that performance inside the courtroom."

McRae shook his head. "Sorry, captain. I guess I lost my cool."

"You lost your cool? You're about to lose your job. The DA wants your head on a stick."

"I understand, captain. This case was tough on me. But you have to do what you have to do."

Captain Morgan sighed. "I haven't played patsy to the DA yet, and you sure as hell aren't going to be the first."

Sharp smiled. "You mean he's not fired?"

"No, he's not fired. But he's taking a vacation. A much-needed long vacation, and leaving his gun and badge with me. And seeing a shrink."

"But..." McRae started to interrupt.

"No buts. You're fried. And when you get unfried, you can come back to work. Deal?"

McRae and Morgan stared at each other for a few tense moments. McRae was tempted to tell him to go to hell, but then sighed. This job was his life, and his captain knew it. "Deal," he said.

Morgan patted him on the shoulder. "You're a good cop, McRae. Don't give up on that."

McRae smiled wryly. "Thanks, Captain."

"Hey, how about a beer? On me," Sharp said.

"Sounds good," McRae said.

"I could use one," Morgan said. "But I'll buy. I'm the one making the big bucks."

McRae finally left the bar around midnight. The rest of the precinct had joined them after they got off shift, congratulating McRae on his Academy Award winning meltdown, but he took it all in stride and Michelob.

On the subway home, he checked his cell phone messages. There was one from Kelly.

"Hi, Matt. It's Kelly. I didn't want to leave a message, but I can't reach you directly. I wanted to tell you I'm getting married. This Valentine's Day. His name is Ted, and he works for Citibank. I think you'd like him. Right, who am I kidding? You'd hate him. I hope you're OK with it, and wish me happiness. Take care of yourself, Matt."

McRae felt like he'd been kicked in the balls. He known she was seeing someone, but he didn't know it was that serious. He always thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that they'd get back together. Shit, McRae, who are you kidding? She wants a house and a dog and someone to cook dinner for who'll be home on time to eat it. You are too addicted to this shit work you do to ever make her anything but miserable. He knew he should let her go and wish her well, but it still hurt.

He slowly climbed the stairs to his apartment. Once again the door had been kicked open. He reached for his gun, but the captain had taken it from him. He slowly glanced inside, hoping that it was Anthony in a fit of Cinemax frenzy, but what he saw made him yell in anger.

His apartment had been torn apart again. All the accessories Laura had brought were smashed, the dishes shattered, and the afghan given to him by Anthony's grandmother shredded. Even Anthony's poster was torn into pieces. They had pissed all over his new furniture, destroyed his TV and stereo, and written "Home sweet home" in red paint over the wall above his bed.

"Desmond, you bastard!" he yelled. "I'm not leaving, do you hear me? This is my home, God damn you, and I'm not leaving!" His words echoed through the empty apartment and out into the hallway. McRae took a deep breath and wiped away unshed tears of frustration. He wasn't going to lose to that monster. They were going to have to kill him, because he wasn't going to let them win. He grabbed a trashcan and began cleaning up the mess.

The next day, McRae woke early to get dressed for work, then remembered he was on "vacation." He'd slept on a sleeping bag in the closet, the only relatively clean spot in the apartment. He started to clean, but the smell and damage got to him. He went out for breakfast, taking a long time to finish his eggs and coffee. After that, he still didn't want to return home, but he didn't really have anywhere to go.

He started to read the report of his testimony in the paper, under the headline "Blown Away":

NYPD Detective Matthew McRae exploded in anger while testifying in the murder trial of Jackie Desmond yesterday, warning jurors that if Desmond was freed, he'd kill his own son. Detective McRae's outburst probably will result in a mistrial...

McRae crumpled the paper and tossed it away. He decided to visit Anthony, and try to explain his actions.

Anthony's grandmother answered the door, shaking her head. "I don't know where he is. He wasn't at school today. You can try the park near the high school."

There were several kids gathered on the basketball court when McRae approached. Most were older than Anthony. One was bouncing a ball. The others circled Anthony as he held up his hand.

"And so the cop comes in shooting away at my dad, and my dad isn't about to take that shit. So he fires back. The cop goes down, and my dad leaves, right, laughing 'cause he killed a cop. The cop gets off one more shot, but I jump to stop him, 'cause it's my dad, and the cop shoots me instead."

The kids were impressed. One of them glanced up and saw McRae leaning against the fence, and the others turned to look.

"I seem to remember the story a bit differently," McRae said. The other kids ran off. Anthony stayed, glaring at McRae.

"What you want? I'm busy here."

McRae stooped to pick up the basketball that rolled to his feet. "I can see that. Your grandmother's worried about you." He bounced the ball a few times and shot it at the net-less basket. It went in dead center. McRae smiled.

"She ain't gotta worry about me. I can take of myself."

McRae picked up the ball again, and tried another shot, which also went in. "Two for two," he said. He threw the ball at Anthony. "Your turn."

Anthony let it drop. "I got places to be."

"Like school?"

"Why don't you leave me the fuck alone, cop? You done enough. My mama's dead, my father's in jail, and I'm here living in fucking Candyland with grandma. So call it a day's work and go home."

"My home was trashed. Again. All that work we put into fixing it up was ruined," McRae said.

Anthony couldn't meet his eyes.

"Do you know anything about it, Anthony?" Anthony started to walk away, but McRae grabbed his arm. "You're headed down the wrong path, kid, and you know it. If that's where you want to go, it'll lead you to jail or an early grave. I can't stop you. I can't even help you, unless you want me to. But you can't stop me caring what happens to you, just like you can't stop your grandmother from worrying about you." He let go of Anthony's arm and turned back to pick up the ball. He dribbled it and shot, and missed. He listened for Anthony to walk away, but he didn't.

"I'm sorry about your place," he said quietly. "I didn't know they was going to trash it so bad. I didn't do nothing, just stood at the doorway. I saved your plant."

"My plant?"

"Yeah. Thing was nearly dead anyway. Don't you know you're supposed to water those things, cop? My gram's got it now."

McRae reached out and squeezed Anthony's shoulder. He didn't pull away. "How about you come help me clean the place up? Again."

Anthony nodded.

On the way back to McRae's apartment, his cell phone rang. It was Sharp.

"Desmond's been denied a mistrial. The judge told the jury to disregard your testimony completely." McRae thanked him and hung up, relating the news to Anthony.

"Does that mean he'll get out?" Anthony asked.

"I hope not," McRae answered.

After a few moments, Anthony said, "Me too."

Three weeks later, the trial of Jackie Desmond ended. The jury deliberated for four days before returning a verdict. Desmond was found guilty of the assaults on Laura Shay and Officer Allen, and the murder of Officer Whitten, but he was acquitted of the murder of Desiree Simms and kidnapping Anthony. McRae wished Desiree could have justice for her death, but he was glad that Desmond would be going away for a long time. The DA's office was even asking for the death penalty for the murder of Whitten, and McRae wished he could be there when they pulled the switch.

He drove out the safe house where Anthony and his grandmother were staying to tell them the news personally. He'd been out there a few times for dinner over the last few weeks, and Anthony was back attending school.

As he approached the door, he felt something was wrong. The house was quiet and dark. He felt a knot grow in his stomach as he climbed the front steps. The door was open and he pulled his gun as he stepped inside. The house was empty. All the big furniture remained, but anything belonging to Anthony or his grandmother was gone, packed in a hurry by the look of it. He found a note on the kitchen counter, under his resurrected plant.

Detective McRae,

I'm sorry we have left like this without saying good-bye, but I want to make a clean start with Anthony, and I feel the fewer people who know where we are, the better. I know you'll miss Anthony, and maybe someday when things have calmed down, we'll contact you. For now, we're going far away from this city and its memories. Please take care of yourself.

It was signed Lynette Desmond. There was a short post-script added at the bottom.

Stay goofy, cop. Anthony.

McRae smiled. Maybe Anthony was going to make it after all. "Stay safe, kid," he said, pocketing the note and tucking the plant under his arm. He then left the empty house for home. Maybe on the way, he'd stop by the bank and see if the pretty teller was free for dinner. He realized with a start that he was slowly moving on, and for the first time in a long time, he looked forward to it.

THE END