believe the truth always eventually reveals itself. I hope so, because I would not and did not say these things. My mother just saw it on TV. She told me.”
“Really?” Danko spat sarcastically.
“Frank, why would I do this? I never spoke about Professor Jafri to anyone. We’re working on a separate matter, which may now be related, but you cannot find a person on the planet that will testify that I ever even discussed anything about Jafri. This is bullshit, Frank. Think about it. Why would I recklessly ruin my career on the force? Someone wants me off this case.”
“Well someone succeeded, Dom,” Danko hissed. “I’ve been honest with you all along. This time, the decision is mine.”
“How couldn’t you? I understand. But if it takes me until the day I die, I will clear my name with you, Frank.”
“That may be so. It doesn’t really matter what I think,” a less acerbic Danko replied. “It will be your most important case, because if not, your career’s likely over. If I may say, it would be a shame—waste of a good detective.”
“Thanks, Frank. Do me one favor? Nail the bastard, or bastards, behind the murder of the priest and cleric. This thing’s become a full-blown crisis. Save the city, and it’s possible you may save me.”
“I don’t know what to think. I was angry, still am. But …” he trailed off. “Let me go,” he said slowly.
“Okay. Thanks and good luck, Frank.”
“Yeah.” Click.
Presto looked at his receiver. There was a message, which he retrieved. It was Jack Burton.
“ Holeeey sheeeet ,” Burton’s charred voice began. “Dom, Dom, Dom, what is going on? Get back to me, buddy. This is NG. Not good. Tipton called. I’m to inform you that you’ve been suspended. You’ll be reviewed in two weeks to determine your fate. There must be some explanation for this. I hope. Oh yeah, the order to keep the cleric’s murder quiet came directly from Commissioner Tipton, but my guess is it was really that spineless mayor’s decision. Call me immediately.”
It was official. The fight was over. TKO.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I N THE DAYS THAT followed, Presto moped around like a dethroned prizefighter. Dispirited, even his mother’s sunny disposition did not penetrate the dark gloom. She had Mr. Stagnuts deliver a few comedy movies, but none brought that carefree, booming laughter that she knew so well.
Presto felt helpless. He had no idea how he could clear himself unless he was allowed access to his accusers. Even then, he knew that his reputation was forever tarnished. Not that it was ever sterling to begin with.
Life’s normal pleasures were no longer fun. Feeding Aphrodite was a chore. His cherished Trident maple bonsai almost died from lack of watering. In spirit, the tree represented his current state—small, pruned, and neglected.
His meals tasted bland. He thought nerves suppressed the appetite, but his calorie intake was consistent. He just didn’t gorge with his usual zest. Food was fun. Now it was a necessity.
Even his books, which provided so much escape through the years, could not puncture the melancholy. The characters seemed as bland as his food within their cardboard settings. Fiction could not change reality.
After feeding his mother, he retired to his office. For once, his mother did not suggest another fun homespun remedy to break his gloom. He loved her for trying. They’d watched movies and sports and ordered the best take out in town, but none of that was going to recapture what he lost—his reputation, his pride, his calling.
Presto believed that each of us is born with gifts. Some of us unwrap them; others never realize their concealed, but inherent potential. It could be athletics, engineering, medicine, law, teaching, politics, mechanics, technology, singing, or any of the other professions in the grand game of life.
It was this belief that nagged at him. He was born to be a detective. He may have hated the politics of being a cop, but he
“Really?” Danko spat sarcastically.
“Frank, why would I do this? I never spoke about Professor Jafri to anyone. We’re working on a separate matter, which may now be related, but you cannot find a person on the planet that will testify that I ever even discussed anything about Jafri. This is bullshit, Frank. Think about it. Why would I recklessly ruin my career on the force? Someone wants me off this case.”
“Well someone succeeded, Dom,” Danko hissed. “I’ve been honest with you all along. This time, the decision is mine.”
“How couldn’t you? I understand. But if it takes me until the day I die, I will clear my name with you, Frank.”
“That may be so. It doesn’t really matter what I think,” a less acerbic Danko replied. “It will be your most important case, because if not, your career’s likely over. If I may say, it would be a shame—waste of a good detective.”
“Thanks, Frank. Do me one favor? Nail the bastard, or bastards, behind the murder of the priest and cleric. This thing’s become a full-blown crisis. Save the city, and it’s possible you may save me.”
“I don’t know what to think. I was angry, still am. But …” he trailed off. “Let me go,” he said slowly.
“Okay. Thanks and good luck, Frank.”
“Yeah.” Click.
Presto looked at his receiver. There was a message, which he retrieved. It was Jack Burton.
“ Holeeey sheeeet ,” Burton’s charred voice began. “Dom, Dom, Dom, what is going on? Get back to me, buddy. This is NG. Not good. Tipton called. I’m to inform you that you’ve been suspended. You’ll be reviewed in two weeks to determine your fate. There must be some explanation for this. I hope. Oh yeah, the order to keep the cleric’s murder quiet came directly from Commissioner Tipton, but my guess is it was really that spineless mayor’s decision. Call me immediately.”
It was official. The fight was over. TKO.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I N THE DAYS THAT followed, Presto moped around like a dethroned prizefighter. Dispirited, even his mother’s sunny disposition did not penetrate the dark gloom. She had Mr. Stagnuts deliver a few comedy movies, but none brought that carefree, booming laughter that she knew so well.
Presto felt helpless. He had no idea how he could clear himself unless he was allowed access to his accusers. Even then, he knew that his reputation was forever tarnished. Not that it was ever sterling to begin with.
Life’s normal pleasures were no longer fun. Feeding Aphrodite was a chore. His cherished Trident maple bonsai almost died from lack of watering. In spirit, the tree represented his current state—small, pruned, and neglected.
His meals tasted bland. He thought nerves suppressed the appetite, but his calorie intake was consistent. He just didn’t gorge with his usual zest. Food was fun. Now it was a necessity.
Even his books, which provided so much escape through the years, could not puncture the melancholy. The characters seemed as bland as his food within their cardboard settings. Fiction could not change reality.
After feeding his mother, he retired to his office. For once, his mother did not suggest another fun homespun remedy to break his gloom. He loved her for trying. They’d watched movies and sports and ordered the best take out in town, but none of that was going to recapture what he lost—his reputation, his pride, his calling.
Presto believed that each of us is born with gifts. Some of us unwrap them; others never realize their concealed, but inherent potential. It could be athletics, engineering, medicine, law, teaching, politics, mechanics, technology, singing, or any of the other professions in the grand game of life.
It was this belief that nagged at him. He was born to be a detective. He may have hated the politics of being a cop, but he
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