Tim Maleeny - The Weight

Both men laughed. Sam shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. Rodriguez waited for his friend’s smile to fade before draining the last of his beer and standing up.

“How you gonna sleep tonight, Sam?” he asked.

Sam looked at his ex-partner.

“Like a baby, Danny,” he said. “Just like Mikey.”

Rodriguez nodded. “I told you the guys in the lab found something?”

Sam nodded back. “The needle wasn’t clean?”

“Wasn’t just smack in there.”

Sam didn’t say anything.

“It was insulin,” said Rodriguez.

Sam rubbed his prosthetic leg slowly, digging his fingers into the knee where the metal clasps wrapped around the plastic. “You think the killer would use his own needles?”

“He might have improvised at the scene,” replied Rodriguez. “I would.”

“Maybe Shortball was diabetic.”

Rodriguez shrugged. “It’s a possibility.” He nodded at one of the photos on the mantel, the gangly girl beaming as she stood between two smiling policeman. “That picture right there of Sally-she’s a couple years older now, but she still looks the same.”

Sam worked his jaw. “I guess she does.”

“Absolutely,” said Rodriguez. “Anyone would recognize her.”

Sam looked at the picture but remained silent.

“You gave me a copy,” said Rodriguez. “I still have it.”

“Did I?”

Rodriguez moved his right hand to his hip, wrapping his fingers around the contours of his gun.

Sam looked up at him. “You always were a good cop, Danny.”

Rodriguez moved his thumb across the safety strap and snapped it home, securing the gun. His hand came away from his waist and dangled loosely at his side.

“Still am,” he said simply, bending to pick up his empty bottle. “Thanks again for the beer.”

Sam looked up at his ex-partner with a curious expression. “You didn’t finish your story.”

“Didn’t I?” Rodriguez frowned.

“This guy you think killed Shortball,” said Sam. “What did you say to him?”

Rodriguez leaned down and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Be more careful next time, partner.”

Rodriguez turned and set his empty bottle on the kitchen counter. Without turning back he crossed the small foyer to the front door and silently let himself out.

After a few minutes Sam leaned forward and eased the snub-nosed revolver from the small of his back. He stood awkwardly and crossed the room slowly, pausing to set the gun on the kitchen counter. Checking his watch, he pulled open a drawer, dropped in the gun, and pulled out a set of car keys. School was over at three, and he hated being late.

Tim Maleeny was born in New Jersey, the second son of an organic chemist and a registered nurse.

After graduating from Dartmouth College with a degree in Computer Science, Tim attended Columbia Business School in a vain attempt to figure out what he wanted to do when he grew up. Deciding it might be better to forestall growing up altogether, Tim pursued a career in advertising.

But after years of claustrophobic conference rooms and endless meetings, Tim began to daydream of murder and mayhem. Rather than act out his impulses, he figured it would be more socially acceptable to write them down. His clients and colleagues greatly appreciated his restraint and have been incredibly supportive of his writing ever since.

Tim was a resident of Manhattan for a number of years but has traveled all over the world. Today he lives in San Francisco with his beautiful wife and two lovely daughters.