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cuts, officers were not allowed to drive their patrol cars home and Brigit and I were forced to make our commute crowded into my metallic blue Smart Car. Thankfully, our drive was a relatively short one. At five till eight, my partner and I rolled into the lot at the W1 station. I lifted a hand to wave to Summer, a bubbly, curly-haired blonde officer who, like me, had joined the force right out of college. She had three years’ experience on me, though. She and I had gone out for drinks a time or two after the Fort Worth Police Officers’ Association meetings. She responded to my wave by aiming two finger guns at me and pretending to squeeze off a couple of shots. Bang-bang.
    As my partner and I climbed out of my car, Derek “The Big Dick” Mackey, my former partner, slid down from his black pickup a couple of spots down. Derek wore his flaming red hair in a short buzz cut, and sported a larger than average build. He also had excrement for brains and a personality that stunk just as bad.
    He snorted derisively as Brigit and I walked past. “’Mornin’, bitches.”
    As was my morning ritual, I whipped out my baton, extended it with a flick of my wrist— Snap! —and gave the rubber testicles hanging from his truck’s trailer hitch a solid whack .
    Derek snorted again, this time with laughter. “I can see that anger management class did you a world of good.”
    Okay, yes, I’d been forced to take an anger management class after Tasering Derek in the testicles a while back. And, okay, yes, I had an Irish temper, courtesy of my mother, whose maiden name was O’Keefe. But who among us doesn’t have some type of flaw? At least I’d decided to put my anger to good use as a cop. Not that I harassed people, mind you. I was more than fair. But when push came to shove and some jackass needed to be brought down to size, I could summon the ire to do it. Anger was like a source of fuel for me.
    I reached my specially equipped K-9 cruiser and opened the back door, reaching in to unlock the door to the metal mesh enclosure for Brigit. “In you go, girl. Another day, another dog biscuit.”
    My partner’s tags jingled as she hopped up onto the platform that had been installed where the backseat would be in regular cruisers. She wagged her tail and woofed once, ready to go out on patrol.
    My furry partner now situated, I climbed into the front and turned on the car’s radio, the laptop mounted to the dash, and the shoulder-mounted radio affixed to my uniform. I cranked the engine and headed out, turning west out of the lot. Another day, another dollar. Also, another day, another day closer to making detective.
    I’d studied criminal justice and become a cop for a number of reasons. My stutter had rendered me a quiet yet observant child, and I’d realized early on that the world could be a harsh, unfair, and dangerous place. If there was anything I could do to make it less harsh, more just, and safer, I wanted to do it. Around the same time, I’d stumbled upon mystery books in the elementary school library. I’d devoured them like candy, making notes and puzzling out the clues, thrilled when I could solve the mystery before the author’s big reveal. I hoped one day to make detective so I could put my investigative skills to work to solve crimes.
    I’d previously had the good fortune of working under a couple of FWPD detectives who’d recognized my abilities and dedication and allowed me to be involved in their investigations. I’d helped them take down a bomber and violent pickpocket. But who knew when I’d have the chance to work such a case again? In the meantime, I’d have to bide my time as a street cop, fighting for truth and justice as I racked up the minimum four years of police work required to apply for detective.
    A mere twenty minutes into my shift and a dispatcher’s voice came over the speaker. “Noise