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Sportster. It’s killer. Such a beautiful machine, crystal blue in color with a fiery Asian demon in flight painted along both sides of the gas tank, courtesy of an aspiring artist buddy, Frank Kitchens.
    When I reached Dickey’s office, Fiona had already parked the Camaro in the driveway. Its forest green tint almost blended with the painted gate that led to the building’s side entrance. She opened the driver side door to greet me, after I parked my bike nearby.
    The coroner’s people were still on the property, but the forensic crew had left. The news folks from several TV stations and a number of tabloids, including USA Today, were there too. Since obvious we wouldn’t gain access inside the building to have a casual look around, I reminded myself it wasn’t the reason I came out here anyway.
    It always gets my heart pumping whenever I see my wife dressed to the nines, which she must do every day for the bookstore she works for. Today that included a form-fitting skirt just above her knees and a blouse that revealed…well it left a little less to the imagination. Not trashy, but definitely something that left no mystery as to how buxom she is. And we’re not talking over-the-top stripper sized…she’s just ‘right’. At least that’s the general consensus among the dudes I roll with.
    The males in attendance all took notice when she walked over to where I parked. It made me feel a strange mixture of pride and humility that I’m her guy. But then I saw Ed Silver exit the passenger side of the Camaro. My blood ran cold, despite already noticing his unmarked cruiser parked on the other side of our car. It’s not because of any mistrust of Fiona. Ardently faithful in nature, her fooling around on me ain’t even a consideration. But Mr. Ed? …Now there’s a player for sure, like many a dude wearing the deep blue and a badge for our protection. Only he’s usually dressed in a suit, being a high-ranking detective and all.
    I could tell he’s less than thrilled with my presence. The poor bastard is such an easy read, his eyes flashing a peculiar mix of anger, longing, and the irritation that seems to be a hallmark for most veteran cops. He’s probably hoping against hope to bone my woman, judging from the slight bulge in his trousers. What a frigging dreamer.
    Granted, the dude’s attractive, I guess. No doubt many women admire his strong build on a six-foot frame, and a full head of dark hair along with a toothy smile underneath his pussy-tickler mustache. A sharp dressed man too…I sort of said that already. The dude’s straight out of a Z-Z Top video from yesteryear. That might be his biggest problem, since he was probably my age back in the nineteen-eighties when that band was last popular. Detective Ed’s definitely around the half-century mark by now.
    “ Hey, hon,” said Fiona, reaching out to hug me as I secured my helmet to my handlebars. “I can’t believe this is happening. We just saw Dickey last weekend at Terri’s place….”
    She began to weep, her shoulders heaving.
    “ I’m here to take care of you, babe,” I assured her, holding her close. “I’m so sorry…so sorry.”
    She cried harder. Meanwhile, Dick Tracy seemed to get more and more annoyed. Probably in a hurry to avoid the increasing crowd of news reporters and paparazzi, and surely just as anxious to curtail Mr. and Mrs. Alea’s tender embrace.
    “ You better get on in there,” I told Fiona, tipping my shades to Ed, who nodded gratefully to confirm my suggestion. “I’ll be here when you get out.”
    She smiled after pulling away, wiping her tears before walking with Ed to the main entrance. Two uniformed police officers stepped aside to let them through, and I caught a glimpse of Ed’s arm moving to usher her in through the doorway from behind. Again, trust on my part, and I could picture her stiffening from the slight invasion of her personal space.
    “ Man, I believe everybody who’s ever spoken with Dickey is