Stake-Out

“So, do you think he’s guilty?” said Tracy, almost idly, looking out the side window.  They were parked outside the apartment building, waiting.

“I know we need to talk to him,” said Nick noncommittally.

She turned her head.  “Well, yeah.  That’s why we’re here.”  She craned round to look out the rear window.

“It’s pretty quiet.”

She murmured an agreement, then reached over the back of her seat, brushing against Nick’s sleeve as she stretched to grab a paper bag.  As she turned back, she caught his quizzical look.  “What?” she said, a bit defensively.  “You saw me dump it there when I got in!”

He said nothing as she unrolled the scrunched down top, and reached in for a can of Diet 7-Up.  She pulled the tab and took a swig.  The almost perfumed scent of sweet lemon-lime rose percept­ibly—at least to vampire senses.

“Want some?” she asked.

“No, no!” he said quickly.  “No, that’s all right, Trace.  I’m not thirsty.”

She shrugged and took another swig, then reached into the bag and brought out a maple-glazed doughnut.  The sight brought back so many memories.  As she attended to her snack (or meal, or whatever-it-was), Nick turned his eyes away, sighing almost imperceptibly.  The view out the driver’s side window was no more informative than the rear view had been:  the suspect was nowhere to be seen.  Still, the movement hid his face.

He let his memory drift.

How many doughnuts had Donut Don scarfed down in the Caddy?  He had a vampire’s memory; but there was no way he could keep track.  A lot, anyway.  There was no arguing with that figure.  Maple-glazed, chocolate-glazed, honey, cinnamon, sprinkles:  Schank had been pretty eclectic in his tastes.  Nick’s partner in Chicago had preferred crullers.  Cops and doughnuts might be a cliché; but it was only because it was true.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked suddenly, turning back to see Tracy with only a bite or two left to take.  She nodded.  “Why do you drink a diet soft drink with that?”

She swallowed, and took a sip of the 7-Up to wash it down.  “Why not?” she asked simply.

“Well, you’re getting a lot of calories from the doughnut; so I can’t see that you’re saving much.”

“Are you saying I need to lose weight?!”  The look on her face was dangerous.

“No, no!” Nick said quickly.  If there was one thing he’d learned down the centuries, it was that the fastest way to get a woman angry was to suggest she was over-stout.  What constituted “stout” might change with the fashion; but “over” would get them every time.  “No, Trace, it’s because you don’t need to diet that I was wondering.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, clearly believing not a word.  “You said ‘calories’.”  She waved the last of the doughnut under his nose.

“You work them off?”

“Damn right I do.”  Defiantly, she stuffed the last piece in her mouth.  She might thus be rendered incapable of speech; but her eyes told him much.  Prudently, he looked through the windscreen, as if checking for the suspect, and then changed the subject.

She swigged the last of her drink, and—there being no convenient garbage bin—scrunched up the paper bag and shoved everything into the glove compartment.  (Nick stifled a wince.)  Then she licked her fingers clean, somewhat ostentatiously.

“I really don’t care whether the Oilers beat the Canucks,” she informed him.  “How the Leafs are doing, that’s all that counts.”

“Don’t they always lose?” said Nick naïvely.

“Doesn’t matter.”  With a sideways look, she added, “You moved here from Chicago, didn’t you?  Are you secretly a Blackhawks fan, and hope I won’t find out?”

“If I told you I never learned to skate…?”

She snorted.  “I suppose you got everything you just said off last night’s news, did you?  Anything of it make sense?”

He grinned ruefully.

Her attention was caught by a shadowed figure far down the street.  It was moving their way.  Absently, she said, “Actually, I believe you.  Apology accepted.”  She leaned forward for a clearer look.

Nick followed her eyes.  Vampire vision pierced the gloom.  “You’re right,” he said.  She was a good cop, he thought.  Young; but, in her own way, as good as any partner he’d ever had.  She made no move to open her door, but gave a quick check to her gun.

They waited patiently.