Chapter 1: The New Partner
Detective Frank Moretti winced as the fluorescent light above his desk emitted a high-pitched, dying buzz. It was the same sound his knees made when he stood up too fast. He took a slow sip of tepid coffee, the bitterness a familiar comfort in the chaos of the precinct bullpen. His desk was an island of organized clutter—neat stacks of case files against a sea of stained coffee cups and a single, framed photo of his ex-wife’s dog, which he kept out of sheer spite.
The chief’s door, a scarred slab of oak at the far end of the room, swung open.
“Moretti. My office. Now.”
Chief Holloway’s voice cut through the ambient noise of ringing phones and cursing detectives like a knife. It wasn’t a request. Frank grunted, hauling himself out of his chair. He could feel every one of his fifty-two years, and the thirty pounds of donuts and regret he carried around his middle, as he made the walk.
The briefing room smelled like failure and lemon-scented disinfectant. Holloway stood behind the battered table, her arms crossed. Next to her was a problem.
Frank stopped short, his worn shoes squeaking on the filthy floor.
The problem was a woman. She was also, and this was the primary issue, approximately the size of a commercial refrigerator. She had to be eight feet tall. Her police uniform, the standard issue navy blue, looked like it had been tailored by a sadist; the shirt strained across a frankly improbable chest, the trousers were taut over thighs that could crack walnuts, and the whole thing was topped off with a riot of scarlet hair cut into a pert, bouncing bob. She smiled. It was a warm, eager smile that somehow made her seem more terrifying.
“Frank, meet your new partner,” Holloway said, her tone drier than the dust in the evidence locker. “Officer Veronica Steele. Graduated top of her class at the academy. Multiple martial arts certifications. A real asset.”
Frank’s mustache twitched. He slowly turned his head from the mountain of muscle and enthusiasm back to his chief. “Patty,” he said, using the familiar name he knew she hated. “What is this?”
“This is your new partner, Detective. The city’s pushing for more integrated field training. Ronnie here needs a seasoned eye to show her the ropes.”
“I don’t do babysitting,” Frank said, his voice a low gravel rumble. He jabbed a thumb toward Officer Steele without looking at her. “And I don’t need a… a gondola cop cramping my style. My style works. It’s why my clearance rate isn’t a punchline.”
Officer Steele’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it softened. She looked down at him—way down—with big, earnest eyes. “I promise I won’t be a burden, Detective Moretti. I’m a fast learner. And I’m very strong.” She said the last part like it was a secret, her voice surprisingly soft and melodic, completely at odds with her physique.
Frank finally looked up at her, his perpetual squint narrowing further. “Strong,” he repeated flatly. “Sweetheart, the people we deal with? They carry Glocks and grudges. They don’t care how many push-ups you can do.”
“It’s Officer Steele, Detective,” she said, still politely. “Or Ronnie.”
“I’ll call you when I need you,” Frank muttered, turning back to Holloway. “Chief, be reasonable. Look at her. She’s a landmark. We try to do a low-key stakeout, we’ll cause a solar eclipse. It’s not practical.”
Holloway leaned forward, planting her palms on the table. The gesture was quiet, but it silenced Frank more effectively than a shout. “What’s not practical, Frank, is a detective with twenty-eight years on the job who still thinks ‘reasonable doubt’ is something you yell at a bartender. The world changed. You didn’t. Consider this a mandatory update.” She straightened up, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Steele, you’re with him. Don’t let his Neanderthal grunting scare you. He’s actually good at this, when he’s not being a relic.”
Frank opened his mouth, closed it, and settled for a disgusted exhale that made his mustache flutter. He shot a glare at Ronnie, who was now beaming at the chief as if she’d just received a medal.
“Fine,” he grumbled, stomping back toward his desk. “But you drive. And you buy the coffee. And for God’s sake, try not to break anything.”
“Yes, sir,” Ronnie said, falling into step beside him. Her strides were long and effortless; he had to take two for every one of hers. Her shadow enveloped him completely.
He slumped into his creaking chair, pointedly opening a cold case file. Ronnie hovered, uncertain, before carefully lowering herself into the rickety visitor’s chair opposite. It protested with a sharp groan.
“So,” she said after a moment of tense silence, her voice still that soft, gentle contrast. “What are we working on?”
“I am working,” Frank said, not looking up, “on the unsolved B&E from the pawn shop on Seventh. You are working on not distracting me.”
He could feel her watching him. It was like being scrutinized by a friendly, incredibly sculpted owl. He scratched his cheek, the bristles grating against his fingertips. The words left his mouth before he could stop them, born of decades of habit. “Look, dollface, this job… it’s not all car chases and kicking down doors. It’s paperwork and dead ends and staring at junkies until your eyes cross. It’s ugly. You’d be better off in traffic. Safer. Nicer scenery.”
He expected indignation. A fire back. A complaint to Holloway.
Instead, he heard a quiet, almost delighted sigh. He glanced up.
Ronnie was looking at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated warmth. Her cheeks had flushed a delicate pink. “That’s… really considerate of you, Detective,” she murmured, her giant hands clasped delicately in her lap. “Worrying about my safety. No one’s really done that before. Not like that.”
Frank stared. He felt a strange, tipping sensation in his gut, as if the floor had shifted slightly. He’d been patronizing her, and she’d taken it as chivalry. This was uncharted territory.
Before he could formulate a response—a correction, another gruff dismissal—the radio on his desk crackled to life.
“Units in the vicinity of River and 15th, reports of a 10-54. Possible DB in a vehicle. First unit on scene requesting detectives.”
A dead body. Frank was on his feet in an instant, the case file forgotten, the weird social puzzle of his new partner shoved temporarily aside. This was language he understood.
Ronnie rose too, a seamless, powerful uncoiling of muscle. Her expression had shifted from dreamy to focused, her eyes sharp. “A death investigation?” she asked, all business.
“Yeah. Welcome to the show, rookie.” He grabbed his worn leather jacket off the back of his chair, shrugging it on. He looked her up and down, a quick, professional appraisal. “You got a vest?”
“In my patrol car, sir.”
“Go get it. Put it on. And Ronnie?” He met her gaze, his own tired eyes dead serious. “This isn’t the academy. Whatever you see in that car, you keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. You listen to me. You do not touch anything. You understand?”
She nodded, that earnest intensity back. “Yes, Detective.”
He watched her stride toward the door, having to duck slightly to clear the frame. He shook his head, muttering to the empty air. “A giant. She’s a giant with a crush.” He picked up his radio, his thumb pressing the transmit button. “10-4, dispatch. Moretti en route. With my… partner.”
The word tasted strange. He followed her out into the grimy hallway, the buzzing lights and the scent of old violence fading behind them, replaced by the immediacy of the call. The city, ugly and breathing, waited. And for the first time in a long time, Frank had no idea what was going to happen next.