The Night Detectives by Jon Talton

stale odor and the same old furniture. I dropped my briefcase on the floor and my Panama hat on my desk, crown down, and flopped onto the sofa to drink my mocha and eat a bagel. Remembering Sharon’s reaction to my gaunt appearance, I tried to make a commitment to eating more regularly.
    Peralta arrived fifteen minutes later wearing a Stetson and jeans. He peered at me over his sunglasses, surprised that I had beaten him into work.
    â€œHow ya feeling?” He tossed the cowboy hat on his desk, letting it fall where it landed.
    I told him San Diego had been a blast. He didn’t smile, disappearing into the Danger Room to either bring out more weapons or admire his prizes or whatever he did in there. How was I? I hurt like hell and the tension inside me was thrumming like a tuning fork. Otherwise, I was great.
    When he returned, he leaned against the doorjamb, all six-feet-five of him. Maybe half of a supermodel could have squeezed through the remaining space.
    â€œI’d like to bring Sharon into our practice. Is that all right with you? What the hell are you smiling at?”
    That last part was more like it. I wasn’t accustomed to Peralta being solicitous of my opinion. In the old days, he barked orders and made demands, alternating between the “good” Peralta who was a natural leader and inspiring peace officer, and the “bad” Peralta, who could be manipulative, micromanaging, and Vesuvius when he didn’t get what he wanted.
    In my office on the fourth floor of the old courthouse, I had been somewhat insulated from the worst of his personality. Getting laid had obviously done him a world of good. And his term “our practice” sounded both professional and ironically on target. We were definitely practicing. I told him none of this. Why was I smiling?
    â€œYou,” I said. “Of course, great if Sharon joins us. I love Sharon. Why would she want to work with us?”
    â€œWe need her expertise. She’s been consulting for San Francisco PD, you know.”
    I didn’t. I knew she had moved there to be closer to their grown daughters. She had stopped her popular radio show and quit writing the best-selling self-help books that had made her a wealthy woman.
    â€œSo you don’t mind?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œWe can put Lindsey on the payroll when she comes back, too.”
    That should have made me smile. We had no payroll besides the ten grand from Client No. 1 and Tim Lewis’ five hundred. Outside of business cards, our practice was only getting started. But I didn’t smile or answer directly. Lindsey wasn’t coming back, except to get her things and move away permanently to be with her lover or lovers to come.
    â€œAre you and Sharon getting back together?”
    He evaded.
    â€œNow I want you to think about this, Mapstone. Every police agency in Southern California is looking for that baby. It’s a big deal and we’re going to get in the way. The feds are investigating the explosion, who got his hands on a Claymore, and if we get in their way, we could compromise an undercover operation.”
    â€œWe have other strands we can follow,” I said. “Grace’s friend and parents. Her list of johns. Tim’s parents. Larry Zisman.”
    He nodded. “But we’re going to make enemies if we get on the wrong side of law enforcement. We might get prosecuted. Are you sure you want to stay on this case?”
    I was momentarily confused, recalling his insistence that we couldn’t allow our clients to be killed. But it didn’t last long. “I do.”
    â€œWhy?”
    I repeated his rationale back to him. Then, “I remember our names painted in blood on the apartment wall. Whoever set that Claymore was counting on me coming back. They watched me go into the apartment and get well inside it before they set it off. So we’ve made enemies whether we want them or not. Then there’s