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Turk made a soft, coughing noise that Faith recognized as his version of laughter. She rolled her eyes. “Boys.”
She walked to the window and sipped her coffee. Like most police stations, the coffee here was barely acceptable in terms of flavor. Apparently, being located in Seattle didn't guarantee Seattle PD the best coffee in the world.
But it was hot, and it had caffeine, and that was enough for Faith right now.
She looked out of the window at the city lights ahead. Seattle was about half the size of Philadelphia, but it was still a large enough city that traffic never completely died down. Somewhere out there among the thousands of people still awake and active was a killer who thought he was going to kill another innocent person. Little did that killer know that in this very room, Faith was leading a team of people who were just waiting for the first squeal of his stupid little whistle.
Then Faith would introduce him to her dog. He could learn firsthand how little Turk cared for those damned whistles.
Michael returned a few minutes later. “Here’s your Italian club,” he said. “I got you a water bottle too.”
She took the sandwich and smiled. “Thank you.”
He grinned. “You’re welcome, sweet—”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Yeah, that was getting old anyway,” he said before taking a bite out of his own sandwich. “Damn. I’m gonna get shot for saying this, but I kind of like the West Coast style of cheesesteak. It’s about as Philly as I am Korean, but it’s pretty damned good.”
“I’m happy for you,” Faith said, “but if the cheese isn’t whiz, it’s not a cheesesteak.”
“Says the girl eating an Italian club with pizza meat. I don’t see any prosciutto in there, and if I’m not mistaken, that’s jack cheese.”
“It’s provolone, actually. But your point is well taken. Do they even eat sandwiches in Italy?”
“Hell if I know. Do calzones count?”
“Do they eat calzones in Italy?”
“I don’t know. Panini! They eat paninis in Italy. Those are toasted sandwiches.”
“Good to know.”
They fell silent for a few minutes as they ate their sandwiches and looked out the window. When Michael spoke again, he was serious for the first time since they’d arrived here. “You think we’ll get this guy?”
“I do. I think we have him this time.”
Michael nodded. “I hope so. I still feel bad for these girls.”
“We all feel bad for them.”
"Yeah, but… I guess I'm still sticking on the superpower thing being what killed them. When I was growing up, we had a kid named Zeke in my middle school. The kid was developmentally challenged. Some sort of birth defect. He also had to wear these thick goggles to see anything. I remember kids used to pick on him for it. He'd keep taking them off, but the teachers made him wear it because he was blind as a mole rat when he didn't. Finally, Mr. Raitt, our chemistry teacher, told Zeke that he wasn't supposed to tell him this, but those goggles gave him superpowers. All superheroes wore goggles, and Zeke needed to wear his so he could be a superhero. Kid's eyes lit up like he'd been given a puppy."
“That’s sweet,” Faith said.
Michael sighed. “Yeah. It was. Three years later, Zeke jumped out of his second-floor window and broke both of his legs. He was trying to fly.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Mr. Raitt found out about that and ended up leaving the school. Last I heard, he had to go to rehab after he nearly killed himself from alcohol poisoning.”
“My God. Does this story have a happy ending?”
“Not for Zeke or Mr. Raitt. Not for our victims either. But it’ll make me happy if we catch this fucker and put him where he belongs. So maybe this story can at least have a silver lining.”
Faith squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “It will. I promise.”
He smiled softly. “There you go promising again.”
