Chirping. A constant, not altogether unfamiliar chirping sound. Eyes half opened, having laid down to get some sleep minutes earlier, the sound was less aggravating and more irritating. Like nails on a chalkboard, Brad reached for the bedside table, searching for the annoyance to silence it. Permanently.

Finding the cordless phone, he considered shutting it off but not before he checked the digital display to see who was calling. He once called Caller ID a nuisance. Through his blurry eyes, he recognized the number and shook his head. He didn’t answer it immediately, instead gritting his teeth, knowing he’d regret answering the call, even with Caller ID. “Yeah, boss. It’s Keyes.” Rubbing his eyes, he started to lay his back on the pillow. “What?” The shout reverberated through his two-bedroom apartment, rattling two posters hanging askew on the hollow walls. One was a print of Van Gough’s Starry Night.

The other was a print of French words written beside and between a cat. In English, it read, “The Tour of the Black Cat with Rodolphe Salis.” The French words, “Tournée du Chat Noir avec Rodolphe Salis,” on the print were fantastic. Not that it mattered to Justin. He thought it looked cool and bought it for that blank wall. The rest of his apartment was plain and boring. A small kitchen table. Four chairs, one on each side. The sink was clean, not a single dish waiting to be washed. Being single had its privileges, like cooking. Making food for one was much easier than making enough for four or five people. He had the obligatory television and home video game system, a Playstation II, and three games: Civilization II, Grand Turismo II, and NASCAR 98. He wasn’t much of a gamer, but when he wasn’t working, he’d spend hours tinkering with the settings on various cars he had obtained playing GT2. He had a tiny futon, big enough for him, and a date, which he hadn’t had in his place in three years. He liked dating women, but the job separated him from a social life.

Being on-call for the last four years meant he’d be first in line for a promotion if any of his superiors ever retired. More officers retired from the Beaverton Police than those retired by a bullet. Beaverton wasn’t known for its violent crimes, more like strong-armed robbery, fraud, and forgery. Shoplifting was a regular occurrence; most of the time, it was young teen girls trying to prove themselves to older girls. Showing themselves tough and independent, they committed impetuous offenses, many of which Keyes wished he could’ve let them walk away from. But if they were over the age of 18? And if the store pressed charges? Then Keyes’s hands were tied; he’d have to make an arrest. But it didn’t mean that he had to like it.

“How long ago?” he asked, rubbing his eyes and grabbing his clothes from the floor beside the bed. “Yeah. I can get there.” Glancing at his watch, cradling the phone between his cheek and shoulder, “Twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen if I can get through traffic. ” Pressing the talk button again, he tossed the cordless phone back on the bed, ending the call. Shaking his head and glancing at the ceiling, he said, “Maybe your bad luck after all, kitty.”