illusions about the force, he holds on to his police job. Obviously, he isn’t there for the money. If he only worked here as Dungeon Master every third weekend and carried out a few missions a month for our Friendly Persuasion Agency, he could double his income.
"You're wasting your skills with those two-bit assignments they give you. With your talent for reading people, you're just what we need—"
"Save your breath," he says, interrupting my sales pitch. "Just know that lately, I've been giving it some serious thought, and I think you're right. It's about time I come into the family business."
I'm so surprised by his answer that I'm suddenly at a loss for words. He laughs—at the expression on my face, I guess—and he takes advantage of the situation to add, "Now that Cracker is thinking about stepping down, we'll both need someone to have our backs, and I can't think of anyone better suited to do that than a real brother."
"You're right." As I give him the answer he wants to hear, the face of another brother comes to my mind. David used to have my back, too. Through childhood, high school, and our Army years, I knew I could count on him. Always. I wonder if I’ll ever be as close to Everest as I was to David. I miss his sorry ass and his wicked sense of humor.
"Thinking about David again?" Everest asks, looking a bit sad.
That man is perceptive. Sometimes he's so right on the money, it's scary. Not that I have anything to hide from him, but still, it's unsettling to be an open book, even to a trusted brother.
"Would you please get out of my mind and close the door behind you," I tell him as I playfully punch his shoulder. I laugh, but he doesn't even smile. I guess I need to explain. "He's on my mind because I got a postcard from him today.”
"You what?" Everest almost shouts, stopping in his tracks.
"We had this joke that the first one who kicked the bucket would send a message to the other," I explain as I open my locker to retrieve my helmet and backpack. "Funny how I was kind of expecting it, and yet, it was a shock to get his postmortem card."
"I'm sure." Everest looks at me thoughtfully.
"I figure that at some point, probably before a crappy mission when we were in the service, he must have given the card to someone to send me for the anniversary of his death."
"Has it been a year already?" Everest frowns, probably trying to remember the date of David’s death.
"Not yet," I say.
"I see. So what did he write?"
"That hell was just like Florida. Hot, humid, crowded, and infested with mosquitoes." I pause, and since Everest can read my mind anyway, I think aloud, "I wonder to whom he gave the postcard."
"Where was it sent to?"
"The Tornadoes clubhouse."
Everest raises a questioning eyebrow as he opens his own locker to change into his leathers. I consider the choice of mailing address and shrug.
"It makes sense," I say. "The only other stable address I ever had was my mother's house, and sending it there was not an option. She would have recognized David's handwriting and freaked. The clubhouse was a logical choice."
"Maybe you're right." Everest’s tone doesn't match his words.
"Spit it out, bro. What's eating you?" I ask.
"I can't help thinking there's something fishy about David's death."
"What do you mean?" This is the first I’ve heard about this.
"First, there's the fact that his case should have been given top priority." He plops onto the bench to remove his riding boots. "The unspoken rule is that a cop's death never goes unpunished. It sends the wrong message to the perps, and it's bad for morale. So yeah, normally, there's almost no limit to the number of man hours spent on that type of case. No one stops until it's solved."
"And they didn't do that for David's case?"
"No. The top brass let it go cold, and no one except me seems to give a damn. Hell, even the captain, who's now married to David's mother, doesn't seem to care. So that started me thinking, and I asked around. You
"You're wasting your skills with those two-bit assignments they give you. With your talent for reading people, you're just what we need—"
"Save your breath," he says, interrupting my sales pitch. "Just know that lately, I've been giving it some serious thought, and I think you're right. It's about time I come into the family business."
I'm so surprised by his answer that I'm suddenly at a loss for words. He laughs—at the expression on my face, I guess—and he takes advantage of the situation to add, "Now that Cracker is thinking about stepping down, we'll both need someone to have our backs, and I can't think of anyone better suited to do that than a real brother."
"You're right." As I give him the answer he wants to hear, the face of another brother comes to my mind. David used to have my back, too. Through childhood, high school, and our Army years, I knew I could count on him. Always. I wonder if I’ll ever be as close to Everest as I was to David. I miss his sorry ass and his wicked sense of humor.
"Thinking about David again?" Everest asks, looking a bit sad.
That man is perceptive. Sometimes he's so right on the money, it's scary. Not that I have anything to hide from him, but still, it's unsettling to be an open book, even to a trusted brother.
"Would you please get out of my mind and close the door behind you," I tell him as I playfully punch his shoulder. I laugh, but he doesn't even smile. I guess I need to explain. "He's on my mind because I got a postcard from him today.”
"You what?" Everest almost shouts, stopping in his tracks.
"We had this joke that the first one who kicked the bucket would send a message to the other," I explain as I open my locker to retrieve my helmet and backpack. "Funny how I was kind of expecting it, and yet, it was a shock to get his postmortem card."
"I'm sure." Everest looks at me thoughtfully.
"I figure that at some point, probably before a crappy mission when we were in the service, he must have given the card to someone to send me for the anniversary of his death."
"Has it been a year already?" Everest frowns, probably trying to remember the date of David’s death.
"Not yet," I say.
"I see. So what did he write?"
"That hell was just like Florida. Hot, humid, crowded, and infested with mosquitoes." I pause, and since Everest can read my mind anyway, I think aloud, "I wonder to whom he gave the postcard."
"Where was it sent to?"
"The Tornadoes clubhouse."
Everest raises a questioning eyebrow as he opens his own locker to change into his leathers. I consider the choice of mailing address and shrug.
"It makes sense," I say. "The only other stable address I ever had was my mother's house, and sending it there was not an option. She would have recognized David's handwriting and freaked. The clubhouse was a logical choice."
"Maybe you're right." Everest’s tone doesn't match his words.
"Spit it out, bro. What's eating you?" I ask.
"I can't help thinking there's something fishy about David's death."
"What do you mean?" This is the first I’ve heard about this.
"First, there's the fact that his case should have been given top priority." He plops onto the bench to remove his riding boots. "The unspoken rule is that a cop's death never goes unpunished. It sends the wrong message to the perps, and it's bad for morale. So yeah, normally, there's almost no limit to the number of man hours spent on that type of case. No one stops until it's solved."
"And they didn't do that for David's case?"
"No. The top brass let it go cold, and no one except me seems to give a damn. Hell, even the captain, who's now married to David's mother, doesn't seem to care. So that started me thinking, and I asked around. You
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