P Tracy - Play To Kill aka Shoot To Thrill

McLaren stopped drooling over Chelsea Thomas for two seconds and regarded Gino with a candid eye. 'You're really negative this morning, Rolseth.'

Yeah. I am.' The great thing about Gino was that once he got something off his chest, it was business as usual. 'By the way, how did your date go last night?'

McLaren gave them a vague shrug, but didn't offer any more information, which both Magozzi and Gino took as a good sign. With a guy like McLaren, who ran off at the mouth about how every woman he'd never met wanted to be his love slave, silence was telling. Maybe the little leprechaun might have something going after all.

John Smith was gazing out the Monkeewrench office window at the same tree that had recently inspired genocidal frog thoughts in him. As ambivalent as he'd always been towards any sort of flora, he realized he'd grown genuinely fond of this particular tree in the past few days, and he was going to be sorry to leave it.

'What the hell, Smith?' Harley bellowed from the other side of the room, where he and the rest of Monkeewrench were still working. You hung up with Washington five minutes ago and you're still staring out the window. Did your boss in D.C. put you in a fugue state of boredom, or is there a naked centerfold out there I should know about?'

Smith smiled a little, then put on his game face before he turned around. 'I've been called back to Washington. My flight is tomorrow afternoon.' Suddenly, he had four solemn pairs of eyes on him, and he had no idea how to respond to that.

'Seriously?' Roadrunner finally asked.

'Yes.'

The room stayed silent for a few moments, until Harley put his jackboots up on the ledge of his desk and pushed away with a big grin. 'Well, then, my friend, tonight is the night for those belly dancers and cigars I promised you. We're gonna send you out in style.'

Smith nodded graciously. 'I appreciate your generosity, but I do have things to attend to…'

Yeah, yeah, yeah. You have to get back to your shit-bag motel and prepare for a debriefing, whatever. Do it hung- over on the plane tomorrow, dude. Tonight, you're ours.'

Smith's mind quickly flashed through his time spent here with these strange and brilliant people, and every slippery- slope step he'd taken along the way; then he thought again about the tree and the frogs and the bad people he was fighting, hand in hand with good people who seemed to have their own definition of justice, and their own way of administering it.

'I would be honored,' he finally said. 'And if you don't mind, I'd like to invite Detectives Rolseth and Magozzi as well.'

Grace smiled at him. 'I'll call them.'

When Magozzi saw Grace's name on his cell, he lunged for it and knocked it off the desk.

Gino glanced over at his partner scrambling after it on his hands and knees and nudged McLaren. 'Grace,' he said, and McLaren nodded.

'That's really sad.'

'Kind of.'

Magozzi finally caught his sliding cell and flipped them the bird as he answered. 'MPD Homicide, Magozzi.'

'Very dignified, Magozzi.'

'I am a very dignified man,' he said from the floor, and Gino burst out laughing.

'Two things, Magozzi. First, John's been called back to D.C. tomorrow so we're taking him out for a farewell dinner. He specifically asked for you and Gino to come along.'

God, he loved listening to her voice. He felt a slobbering moon face coming on and stiffened his jaw so he'd look macho. 'I guess we could do that. What restaurant?'

'That Greek place on Kellogg.'

'I don't think I like Greek food. That's the stuff with the funny olives that taste bad, right?'

'It's Greek/Mediterranean/American. They've got squab. You like squab.'

'I love squab. Remind me again, is that a fish or a mammal?'

Grace chuckled. 'It's a bird.'

'Oh, right. What was the second thing?'

'I'm faxing you a thread from a creepy website Huttinger visited all the time. We think it might be how this whole series of Web murders started. Somebody put up a virtual hit list – every victim's name and location, posted before any of the murders happened.'

'Holy cow. Can you trace whoever put it up?'

'No, not a prayer.' She was quiet for a moment. 'But… we're working on something. See you at nine.'

Judge Jim hadn't driven much since his last revocation due to an unfortunate alcohol-related traffic incident a few years back, but damn if his big SUV didn't fire right up – a testament to the importance of a superior battery. But now that he was back behind the wheel again, he remembered how much he loved cruising the freeway with all the windows wide open, the sublime, aftermarket sound system cranked up to ear-bleed level. It brought him right back to his high school days, when he'd worked summers as a bag boy at the SmartMart in Bemidji – the day he'd quit that job was the day he'd finally earned enough money to upgrade the stereo in his green, Bondo-bucket, AMC Rebel.

This morning, he was in a much pricier vehicle, with a much pricier stereo, but the feeling was the same as when was sixteen. He'd selected the overture to Tannhäuser as the theme music of the day – a piece he felt was the perfect accompaniment to his ultimate and impending victory over a grave injustice that desperately needed rectifying.

His former yard looked fairly well kept, which was a surprise; in fact, there were even some new plantings in the gardens. Perhaps Number Four had actually sacrificed a modest portion of her generous monthly subsidy to invest in a little home improvement. Why she would do such a sensible thing was beyond him, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the age and physique of the gardener who'd been responsible, because she would die before she lifted a shovel or touched dirt of any kind.

There was also a new sprinkler system – he'd learned that the hard way, tripping over one of the heads during his relocation project.

The chair was heavy, but in this glorious moment of final closure, he felt like he could lift the world. Once the Corbusier was in place, near the bay windows of the sitting room, he looked to the sky with a big smile, then looked to his fly with an even bigger smile, and proceeded to engage a sprinkler system of his own.

'Judge, you're killing us.'

'That wasn't my intention. Do I know you?'

The young officer sighed. 'Probably not, but I sure know you. You make way too much work for us.'

'I've heard something along those lines from a couple detectives with whom I'm rather well acquainted.'

'Right. Look, I can haul you in for indecent exposure, public urination, vandalism, trespassing, illegally disposing of property, driving after revocation…'

'And that's all?'

The officer was clearly frustrated, but he kept his wits, which Wild Jim appreciated.

'Listen, Officer. I understand your aggravation, and I want you and all of the MPD to know that this was my last act of childish rebellion. And that is a solemn promise. Justice has been served, finally, at least in my world. So, if you can find a way in your heart to grant me a reprieve, you won't be doing forty hours of paperwork.'

The cop shook his head. 'You just had to urinate on your ex's lawn?'

The judge smiled. 'Technically, I pissed on a piece of my property I was magnanimously gifting to her. And sometimes, spontaneous urination just can't be helped. You're too young to be suffering from prostate maladies, but I have occasional incontinence issues.'

The officer kept his face stony, but there was a twinkle in his eye. 'I have an ex-wife, too.'

'Ah. So perhaps you understand my bladder-control problems after all.'

After his near scrape with the law, and an hour or so spent navigating a significant amount of bureaucracy and the wrath of Number Four, Judge Jim retreated to his condo. He changed into his best black suit, which had been languishing in a plastic dry-cleaning bag in his closet for God knows how long, poured himself a brand-new bourbon he'd selected from the connoisseur's stock at Cherry Hill Fine Wine and Spirits, and, at last, began tidying things up once and for all.