"This is four-eighteen dispatch," came another voice on the box. "I'm clear on the last call, I'll take that assault."

"Ten-four, four-eighteen. I've got you en route at oh-one- hundred hours."

Good ol' Roger, he thought. Always the hustler. Always coming through to build his numbers. He clipped the handset back on the dash and turned back to the bar. The first few pinprick spots of rain began to pepper his windshield and glistened like sugar in the high parking lot lights. She'd be on her shift another two hours. Then she'd do her cleanup for the girls on day shift even if he did try to convince her to leave it for them. Then maybe he'd find out what the hell she'd been talking about earlier with that fucking P.I.

He rolled down his window and took a deep draw of night air and the smell of rain in the breeze. He watched an old Camaro pass slowly through the parking lot and then pull a rolling stop through the stop sign onto Federal. Oughta light that guy up right now, he thought. Even if there isn't any traffic. These punks who think they can break the law any damn time they feel like it. He watched the red glow of the Camaro's taillights wink and then fade into the next block.

He turned back to the bar and she was still talking to the guy on the end stool and he could feel the heat rise into his ears and the twitch in his back that made him shift in his seat. The leather of his belt and holster creaked. He picked his personal cell phone up off the passenger seat and hit the speed dial and watched her turn to the bar phone as soon as he heard the ring in his ear.

"Kim's, can I help you?"

"Only by getting off early," he said, using his sweet voice.

"Hi, baby," she answered, but turned away from the window, hiding the smile that was supposed to be his.

"You know I can't, even if I want to. I'm on alone."

He watched her turn and hold the mobile phone close to her cheek and then cup her elbow with her palm in a sort of self-hug. He liked the move.