The Power by Cynthia Roberts

thought in frustration. I work alone. I’m better that way, he thought as his light amber eyes washed over Bordello’s thick form across from him. Jack frowned. He hated this, hated being saddled with a partner, hated having to drag some unfamiliar, unwanted man along with him everywhere he went! Tapping a pen on his computer keyboard, Jack mulled over what little information they had gathered on the three slayings that had occurred within the city in the last month. None of the evidence taken from the crime scenes made any sense, and the only explanation Jack could come up with at the moment was the same explanation that the crazed city was saying behind closed hands: serial killer.
    Jack did his best to concentrate, but Lillian Saint Rose’s beautiful face kept popping into his mind. While he tr ied to read over the case files the words from the note she had left him at the coffee house trailed across his mind, “Call me if you ever get over your phobia.”
    Jack’s pen began to tap relentlessly. Phobia? Was he a snob? So the woman came from money? What should that matter? Why did it matter? Jack’s frown intensified. When he looked up, Tony’s dark gaze was narrowed on him suspiciously.
    “Sorry.” Jack grinned sheepishly.
    “Uh huh. Who is she? Is she hot? Tony pried.
    “She?” Jack cocked a brow curiously.
    “The girl you’ve been thinking on?” Tony’s Bronx accent dripped out.
    “Oh.” Jack mused. “Incredibly hot.” he breathed out. “But it’s more than that. I don’t know.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “I can’t stop thinking about her.” he confessed.
    “Should I call the church?” Tony joked.
    “Ha. Ha.” Jack threw his pen at the guy, and Tony skillfully caught it mid-air.
    “Nine to five, man. Work the case nine to five. Think on the hot girl later.” Tony glanced at the plain-faced, round clock on the wall behind Jack’s blonde head. Jack looked back at the clock as well. It was nearing on four-thirty.
    “Right.” Jack breathed out. “ Like we ever punch a time clock.” No, there was no time clock in this line of business, he thought. A cop lived and breathed his work. It was never done, never over, and even if they did manage to solve a case, there were always six hundred or more to take up after.
    “You want t o go grab a burger? I’m starved.” Jack stood to his tall height, shrugging into his jacket, and watched as Tony, a slightly bigger man, did the same.
    “If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to knock off early, surprise my wife. If you need me, you got my number.” Tony whipped on his jacket, a sleek, black leather coat, and nodded his farewells to Jack. Jack returned the sentiment.
     
    Sitting in the f ront seat of his car with his cell in his hand, Jack stared at the seven numbers he had already punched into the phone. All that was left to do now was to push the call button, he thought, feeling like a nervous teenager with his first crush. Did he really want to do that, he asked himself? Sure Lillian Saint Rose was an incredibly beautiful woman, but he was up to his neck in work. The families of the victims and Jack’s supervisors were on his back to wrap this case up, and quick, but these things took time, Jack reminded himself. It wouldn’t be a quick solve by any means. Sometimes cases took months or even tens of years, and worse yet, some cases went unsolved. There was nothing worse than giving up on something you had put your blood, sweat, and tears into for weeks, months, or even years, but Jack had been forced to do just that on more than one occasion. The sad reality of life was sometimes heartbreaking.
    So, what would dinner with a sexy woman hurt? A few hours of escape from the blood and the gore, from the constant racking of his brain, and the int erviewing of would-be witnesses just might do him some good, Jack reasoned. Then maybe, he could look at things with a fresh eye in the morning?
    Jack stared at the phone number he had