Detective

4

"Damn it, Russ, we told you not to provoke him."

"We got answers, didn't we?"

"But look at the damn cost!" Leon snapped at me, running a hand over his short afro. "I swear, if you could see yourself..."

I glared flatly up at him with the one eye that I wasn't currently pressing an ice bag over. "I don't care. I got you your answers. Mafia druglord Vahlov Pretikov is the father of that little boy. He needs an heir, takes the kid, momma fights back, daddy doesn't like it. Daddy teaches mommy a lesson, but mommy has already taught daddy one. Baby boy is gone and now starts the grand search for where mommy hid him. So, with that summarized, give me a new case before I get bored again."

Leon scoffed, leaning forward on his elbows. "I'm not giving you anything until I'm sure you're back on your feet. Take a break, Russ, what you're doing isn't healthy. On top of your divorce—"

"I'm sorry, am I crying right now? Use your eyes and make your own goddamn deduction," I snarled, wincing as I stood up. "I should hope that the Miami police hasn't completely lost the ability to make one, even if the evidence is compelling."

"Watch it. We give you a long leash to play, but don't go acting all shit on us for worrying about you," Leon protested, standing up. His six-foot-five beat my six-foot-three, but even then I didn't find him intimidating. "We're just try'na look out for your superior ass."

I rolled my eyes and reached for my jacket after ditching the ice bag on his table. "Then get me a new case before I die of boredom."

"If you ever need a friend, just call," Leon called after me, after I turned and walked down the hall. I didn't bother replying.

I left the station and headed home.

~~~

"What the hell happened to you?"

I glanced over my shoulder from my kitchen to the door of my apartment. Amy stood leaned against the sill, watching my bruised topless body. I saw a slight frown of concern stain her face.

"Monday's," I curtly replied, returning to cleaning the wound on my chest by the kitchen sink. When I heard her step into my apartment, closing the door behind her, I added, "Please come in."

I felt her hands on my back, running over my shoulders, down my arms. Her lips pressed against the nape of my neck. "What happened?"

Gritting my teeth, I clenched the sponge in my hand and kept my focus on the wound by my rib, not the fact that she was only wearing boxers and a white transparent T-shirt. "A Russian mobster took a few swings at me. Nothing serious."

"That," She said, poking my swollen eye, "doesn't seem like nothing serious. Did you ice it?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

I turned around, catching her by surprise again and captured her in my arms. "Why do you care? Scared that one of your trophies got a dent?"

Amy glared up at me, pursing her lips. "You're not a trophy—"

"The hell I am. I'm another guy to your collection and you know it, so you can unclench. We're not dating and I'm not your boyfriend, so why are you really here?"

She glared, squinting her eyes a little at me. Then, slowly, she leaned into my ear and whispered; "You're the detective. You figure it out."