Page 16 of Captive

"Well, I can put you back on traffic patrol with Winston. Like the good oledays."

Silvana knocked weakly on the door. His jowly cheeks peered around the corner. "Hey, Cap'n, you wanted to seeme."

"Yeah, come on in, Detective." Clark looks coldly my direction. He's a good captain, but he gets his trousers in a bunch when someone questions his authority. Something I do on a regular basis. His mouth is twisted tight signaling that I've pushed him to the edge. "Detective Maddox finds himself temporarily without a partner, so you're filling in forTennyson."

Silvana has those big, bushy kind of eyebrows that make him look as if he's wearing permanent joke glasses only there are no glasses. They bunch up like fuzzy caterpillars as he casts me a wary look. "Maddox? Really?" I can't tell if he's fearful or excited, but I know exactly how I'mfeeling.

"Yeah, really. Now both of you get out of my office. I'mbusy."

I stand up and loom over his desk for a second. Clark doesn't lookup.

"I'll get my stuff," Silvana saysenthusiastically.

I turn to Silvana and stick up three fingers. "Three rules. You don't talk to me. You don't shoot that damn gun . . . ever. I don't want to end up like your last partner with a bullet in my ass. And if you fart, you're riding in the fuckingtrunk."

Silvana nods emphatically. "Right. But just to let you know, I've been working on my target practice. I'm like Sundance Kid these days, without the Redford good looks," he chuckles. "And the doctor gave me something forthe—"

I point at him. "Not a good start, Silvana. You're already breaking rule numberone."

"Right. Goodpoint."

I yank open the office door hard enough that it swings open and smacks the adjacent wall. Silvana plods quickly out behindme.

"Hey, Maddox, how is this gonna work," Silvana sputters between breaths. "You know—partnering withouttalking?"

"Rule number one," I remind him but hecontinues.

"Just one thing so I know what's in store for the day. I hear you and Ten were working on some drug ring that was pushing tainted heroin. Is that what we're workingon?"

"Sure," I say after a pause. "But first we're going to findTen."

10

Angie

The guyI know only by his first name, Rowan, a name that might very well be an alias like Tawny, has pulled his shirt off to catch the few rays of sun squirting through the viscous clouds overhead. The rain has left behind the fragrance of soggy asphalt and wet tent canvas. The sweet, pungent smell of marijuana drifts up from the joint tucked between Rowan's fingers. He has a smattering of tattoos across his knuckles, but I can't make themout.

I slip the coat off my shoulders as I sashay over to the park bench that is chained to the sidewalk a few feet outside his tent. The bench has every inch of its blue surface covered with graffiti. I drop my coat over the back of it and sit down on an artist's impressive felt tip drawing of a pirate ship. I turn and put my feet on the bench and bring my knees to my chest. I don't say a word and wait for him to speakfirst.

Rowan takes a long drag on his joint. His chest, also covered in tattoos, puffs out as he holds the smoke in before releasing it with a single cough. He squints at me through the stream of smoke curling up into the cold, humid air. "Where are you from, Taw-nee?" He pronounces the name with a slow, southern drawl even though I don't detect any genuineaccent.

"Here and there." I spin on my bottom and put my feet on the ground. I motion to the joint. "You going to smoke that all byyourself?"

His faint smile is appealing. Just like with Yoli, it's hard to fathom how someone like Rowan ended up living in a tent in a remote city park. He sits back on the rickety beach chair, stretches his legs out and holds the joint towardme.

I get up slowly and add a little shake to myshakeas I walk toward him. He boldly watches my lower half, then lifts his gaze to my face as I take the joint. It has been a long time since I've had a hit of pot. It burns my throat as I inhale. I have to work hard to subdue the follow-upcough.

"Thanks," I mutter as I hand it back to him still trying to stifle the cough. I haven't eaten or slept much in two days, and the pot goes straight to myhead.

The chair creaks with each movement. "So you've got secrets then, huh Red." It's not a question. "I like your hair down. Better than those country girlbraids."

I shrug to let him know I'm not that easily wooed. Even though something tells me he's a highly skilled wooer. The flaps on his tent are pinned open. Never able to leave my detective's curiosity behind, I glance inside. A large downy sleeping bag and fluffy pillow are piled in the corner. A small table is set up with toiletries, toothbrush and paste, a comb, which from the looks of it, he rarely uses. There's even a razor. "Nice set up," I comment. "Do you have a sugar momma somewhere keeping you comfy out here in the park?" My teasing provocation is deliberate. I've found it's always easier to pry secrets out of someone who is on the defense, but Rowan seemsunfazed.

Rowan dabs the joint out on the cement near his feet and pushes it into his pocket as he stands up. His pants drop low on his hips, and his rock hard abs roll out in an impressive six pack. He walks toward me. It's hard to read his expression. I stand my ground to show him that a muscular build and cool, even stare don't intimidateme.

He's close enough now that I can smell a dab of aftershave on his skin. He's either a fastidious, extra vain homeless person or he really is being kept by someone. He steps closer. I look him right in the eye. His gaze shifts down to mylips.

"That is a million dollar mouth, Red. You could be making a fortune just with those damn lips. What exactly are you doing out here in thispark?"

---