"You know I get jealous," he said. "It's just that you're so beautiful."

She knew she was not beautiful. It was a line she'd heard a thousand times from men on the other side of the bar, spoken on the scent of bourbon and beer. But his was different. He had been different. She'd liked it when he said it because it wasn't a joke, or some bad come-on. Even when he'd said it the first time, it was with a touch of passion that made her believe that he believed it. Now she knew too much about where his passion came from and she had to tighten the hold on her stomach to keep the bile from rising in her throat.

In the patrol car the radio squelched again.

"All units, officer in foot pursuit of a fleeing suspect in the nine hundred block of Third Street. Requesting backup."

The dispatcher had cranked her flat voice up a notch.

"Two-oh-four?"

His was the only specific call number she used.

"Two-oh-four responding," he answered into the set while turning the key in the ignition and gunning the engine to life. He'd left his cell phone connection open and said into the phone, "Gotta go catch some bad guys, babe," and then hit the light bar and siren and pulled out of the parking lot into the street.

He was smiling now, jacked at the chance to show off. She watched the red and blue lights flash across the south windows and felt the small jump of adrenaline nip into her blood.

"But you'll be back to get me, right?" she said, surprising herself with the coolness of the request.

"Sure, babe. I'll be back." He cut the siren at Ninth Street but kept up the speed, taking a corner with just enough control to keep the tires from yelping on the concrete. He was listening now to the radio crackling with the sounds of the foot chase and location of Roger's suspect. He could hear his fellow patrolman breathing hard while trying to talk into the microphone that all road officers kept clipped to the shoulder lapel of their shirts.