“So. You two drove this guy here. All the way from Iowa?” Lawson shook his head, yawning. “Get any sleep?”

“Get any sleep?” Detective Adam Murray’s tone dripped with sarcasm, his eyes narrowing. “You are a piece of . . .” Murray lunged at Lawson, ready to beat the snot out of him.

“Knock it off, kid.” Prescott grabbed Murray’s shoulder, preventing him from doing what his hotheaded kid partner might do. “No, Lawson. We didn’t get that much on our trip out here. And I sure didn’t get much last night. From the sounds of it,” he thumbed Murrary, “the kid here didn’t get that much either, did you kiddo?” Prescott spun his partner around, “How about it, Murray? You need a nappy nap now?” He playfully slapped his face once. “Wake up, Murray. We got work to do.” Prescott turned his attention back to Lawson. “How about you? Looks like a quiet neighborhood.”

Lawson shrugged, yawning again. “A bit, here and there. But nothing to write home about.” He pointed at Murray, “At least you got to sleep in your bed last night.”

“You here all night?” Murrary asked. In his short time on the force and working with Prescott, he’d never been on a stakeout longer than a few hours. Certainly not overnight.

“Prescott.” Lawson snapped his fingers. “You! You are the one who shot that woman who thought she was invincible! I heard about it over the radio. I never thought I’d meet you.” He reached out for Prescott’s hand, shaking it hard. “Not sure what I would’ve done in your position.”

“That’s what IA said after reviewing the case.” Internal Affairs and an independent review board appointed by the Oregon governor to review policing came to similar conclusions. The lead investigator at Internal Affairs insisted Prescott hesitated to fire his weapon, choosing negotiation instead. In contrast, the independent review board said Prescott failed to fire his gun because he was afraid of the repercussions from his supervisor. The truth was Prescott hesitated because he didn’t want to hurt her. Did Detective Prescott unholster his weapon more times than he cared to remember? Yes. But other than shooting it once on the range and the two shots into the drug-addled woman? No. Prescott refused to fire if he could help it. Lawson let go of Prescott’s hand. “The kid here? He may be green,” Prescott winked at the kid, “but he’s got the makings of a great detective. If we can keep that anger in check, he’ll be amazing. Maybe he’ll take my job.”

“You need to tell the boss that, boss.”

“He knows, kiddo. Trust me. He wouldn’t partner me with just any green rookie. He sees something special in you.” Prescott heard his mentor’s words coming out of his mouth and remembered hearing the same thing from his first partner, a seasoned detective who became a close friend.

Lawson lowered his voice. “You guys wanna know something about this Patterson guy? He’s loaded!”

“No. No, Lawson.” Prescott studied the floor for a few seconds, not noticing the food wrappers and garbage all over the floor. Inside, the central part of the home was dim, not dark. Enough light came through the covered windows to get a little ambient light. But not until he was standing in what he could only assume was the dining room did he notice. Prescott visited multiple homes in Portland, all with similar architecture. But slovenly behavior? It was the one thing Prescott hated about stakeouts; officers who, while on duty, were slobs. Lawson was one of those guys. “He’s not.”

“No, really, he is! Told me himself.” Lawson plopped into one of four folding chairs in the empty room. A few fast food wrappers littered the floor. Burger King. McDonald’s. Wendy’s. And, of course, Murray’s favorite, Burgerville. A Portland fast food staple. Burgerville is Portland’s version of the Southern California chain, In-N-Out Burger, only not quite as good. Like Starbucks was a Seattle staple, Burgerville was found only in Oregon.

“He tried to tell us that, too,” Prescott looked appalled, kicking the trash in Lawson’s direction.

“Oh, yeah.” Lawson tucked his hands in his jean’s pockets. “Sorry about the mess. I’ll get that before I leave today.” He motioned to the trash with his head.

“Kid.” Prescott pointed to the wrappers. “Help him out,” Prescott pointed at the trash.

“You can’t be serious,” Murray protested.

“Oh, I am.” Prescott pointed at the garbage. “Get to it.”

Murray shook his head, methodically kicking the trash into a small pile. “Got a trash bag, Lawson?”

“Yep.” He left the room, returning with a few plastic Fred Meyer bags. He handed the three bags to Murray.

“Dude! Seriously?”

“Hey, it’s all I got, kid.”

Murray muttered to himself through clenched teeth.

“So, what other kinds of BS did Patterson feed you?”

“Other than being loaded? Not much. Misses his dairy farm, Heaven Sent Dairy. Even said he loved some of those cows.”

Murray scrunched up his face after touching a hamburger wrapper sticky with ketchup and mustard. He looked at his jeans, considering wiping his hands on them. Instead, he used one of the bags, which didn’t work much better.

“Where is he?” Prescott asked, looking around. “I’d have thought all this commotion, and he’d be out here poking around, trying to figure out what was going on.” Prescott listened for Floyd’s snoring, something he and Murray agreed on; it was downright annoying!

“That’s what he was like driving out here?” Lawson asked. “Does that dude ever stop snoring?”

“Worse on the drive. But the snoring?” Prescott rolled his eyes. He and Lawson stopped long enough to watch Murrary trying to scoop up all the fast food wrappers without touching them with his fingers. It was comical. “You should help him,” Prescott motioned with his head to Lawson, pointing down to Murray, who was working all the wrappers into the plastic bag.

“Hey, kid.” Lawson walked back into the kitchen, coming back with a broom. It looked like it was brand-new, barely used. From the state of the safe house, it probably was new. Murray glared at the two older detectives.

“You had this the whole time?” Murray snatched the broom from Lawson. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Lawson smiled, winking at Prescott. Prescott just shook his head. “Probably should check on the farmer.”

“I ain’t no farmer,” Floyd said, walking where the detectives were. “I raised dairy cows. Worked on a dairy. I ain’t one of those durn blasted farmers!” His shouting took Lawson and Murray off-guard. Prescott was used to it, spending most of his time in the back seat with Floyd. “Where is the coffee, ‘tective Lawson?”

“In the kitchen, Floyd. Need help making it?”

Floyd stared a hole through Lawson, pointing at Prescott. “This man thinks I’s dumb or somethin’ or ‘nother? Prescott, you is good people. This one?” He pointed at Lawson. “He be some kinda lazy. See all that?” He pointed at the now clean floor, Murray taking care of the last few fast food wrappers. “T’ain’t even got the good sense to pick up after hisself.” Floyd shuffled into the kitchen, his feet sliding over the wooden floor. “You brought the kid back, witcha?” During the drive to Oregon, Floyd didn’t smoke a single cigarette, which was a feat in and of itself. He spent over thirty hours in the SUV, and Floyd didn’t grumble once. Well, except that one time in a diner in Salt Lake City. They only served decaf coffee because caffeine went against local religious beliefs. At least that’s what the young girl server told Murray, Prescott, and Floyd Patterson. Prescott got Floyd to calm down after promising to drive through the salt flats in Utah. “Always wanted to see them,” Floyd said to Prescott. The detective knew they were driving through the flats so it wouldn’t be out of their way. Prescott even let them stop long enough for Floyd to get bored of looking over miles of dried-out salt. “Don’t like ‘im, no sir,” Floyd said, referring to Murray. “Nope. Not a bit.”

Prescott whispered to Lawson, “He’s shuffling. He didn’t do that when we dropped him off three days ago.”

Lawson shrugged. “I got here thirty-six hours ago.” Lawson checked his watch. “Make that thirty-seven hours, forty-six minutes, and,” he waited three seconds, “fifteen seconds as of now.”

“Thirty-six hours? And you made this mess that fast?” Murray’s whisper was harsh. “Glad we got here when we did!”

“He’s been doing that since you saw him?” Prescott asked.

“Since I’ve watched him move around?” Lawson asked. “Yeah. Why?”

Prescott shook his head. “It’s new. He wasn’t doing that when we picked him up. He was getting around fine with no problems at all. I wonder if slowing down is making Floyd age faster. He looks a lot older, doesn’t he Murray?”

“Slob like you, and I have to watch your back? It’s . . .”

“Murray!”

“What? Oh, yeah, right. Age. Yeah, Prescott. He looks A LOT older than when we dropped him off.”

“CONFOUND MACHINE!” Floyd shouted. “WORK DANGNABIT!”

Prescott looked at Murray, pointing at the kitchen.

“Seriously? Come off it, Prescott. Can’t you take this one?” Prescott shook his head no, Lawson chuckling to himself. “You guys suck,” Murray mumbled, moving to the kitchen.

“Do you think it’s a problem?” Lawson asked Prescott.

“Only if he starts to have signs of having a stroke.”

“Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen,” Lawson said. Prescott rolled his eyes, knowing that no one outside God Almighty could make that happen. And he wasn’t too sure about that, either.

Shuffling out of the kitchen, Floyd came to the detectives, sitting in one of the folding chairs. “Now what?”

Murray came out of the kitchen, face beet red, clenching his teeth. “There’s water everywhere.”

“So? Clean it up, kiddo,” Lawson said. Prescott nodded in agreement.

“I did.” He came out and sat down in one of the other chairs. “Sheesh. Can we get some better chairs?”

“Yous wants better chairs? We’s gots the best chairs in Iowa. Not like these blasted things,” Floyd said. “Hardback. Wood. Made from the finest oak trees.”

“I didn’t see any oak trees in Iowa,” Murray said. “Where were they, Floyd, huh?”

Floyd waved his hand at the kid. “Best wood. Solid. Sturdy.”

“And the most uncomfortable chairs to sit in,” Lawson replied. “We had a stakeout once where we had to sit on the old school wooden chairs, you know what I mean, Prescott? Like the ones we had in elementary school? Hard. Solid. Would break you before they would break!”

“Yep. Those were’n the best seats. Wish’n we had some of those here.”

“Sorry, Floyd. Nothing like that in ‘the big city,’” Murray made air quotes around the big city. “You got to suffer with these ones. No more money in the department.”
Prescott rolled his eyes, taking the last empty seat. “Murray, go get the transfer paperwork. Lawson, which bedroom is it in?”

“That one,” Lawson said, pointing to the doorway on his right, opposite the kitchen door.

“Should’ve known it’d be close to the kitchen,” Murray spat. “Figures.”

“Knock it off, Murray. Just get the paperwork.”

“Fine,” Murray said, stomping out of the room.

“That coffee dun, yet?” Floyd asked, stretching in the folding chair. Pulling an unopened pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he ripped it open, tapped one out, and lit it, letting it hang loose from his lips. Lawson stood up, each of the vertebrae in his back popping.

“You okay there, son?” Floyd’s expression was filled with concern and wonder. He’d never seen or heard anything like that before, even though he’d spent the last two days with Detective Lawson. “That din’t sound too good.”

“Oh, but it felt wonderful,” Lawson answered. “I’ll get that coffee for you. Prescott, you want some?”

“Hmm?” Prescott was lost in thought, thinking through whether or not Floyd was okay or just getting old.

“Coffee. Do you want some or not?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Prescott blinked a few times, then rubbed his eyes. “Black is perfect.”

“Yep. Black for me.” Floyd said. “Not near as good as Janice’s, but y’all don’t know good coffee outch here.”

Prescott rubbed his eyes again, grateful Murray hadn’t found the paperwork Lawson needed to sign off on.