The guy was fast, but I was faster. Three years of running had done that.
I caught up to him at the chain-link fence just as he tried to climb it. I grabbed his jacket, pulled him down, spun him around and pressed him face-first against the metal.
"Hands behind your back."
He struggled. I pressed harder and got the cuffs on. He was still talking, making excuses, saying he didn't do anything. I'd heard it all before.
Lopez caught up, breathing hard, hands on his knees. "Jesus, Reeves. You're like a machine."
"Clean living," I said.
"Bullshit." He straightened up. "How are you not even winded?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I patted the suspect down, found a wallet and a baggie of pills in his jacket pocket, and handed them over.
I keyed my radio. "Suspect in custody. Alley behind Morrison and Fifth."
The drive back to the precinct was quiet except for the suspect complaining about his cuffs being too tight. Lopez told him they were fine. I stared out the window at the city lights, the late-night traffic, people walking home from bars or night shifts or wherever people went at eleven PM on a Tuesday.
At the precinct, we processed him. The sergeant clapped me on the shoulder when we were done. "Good collar, Reeves."
"Thanks."
"You want to write it up tonight or leave it for morning?"
"I'll do it now."
He nodded and walked off. Lopez lingered by my desk, loosening his tie.
"You want to grab a drink?" he asked. "Martinez and Foster are heading to O'Malley's."
"I'm good."
"Come on, man. When's the last time you came out with us?"
I sat down and pulled the keyboard toward me. "Got paperwork."
Lopez watched me for a moment, then shook his head. "All right. See you tomorrow."
"Yeah."
By the time I finished the report, the squad room was mostly empty. Three years ago I'd been in uniform, going home to a wife. Now I had a detective's shield and no one waiting up.
I grabbed my jacket and headed out.
The drive home took twenty minutes through empty streets. My apartment was in a neighborhood that was trying to be nice, all new construction and clean sidewalks, a coffee shop on thecorner I'd never been to. I parked in my assigned spot and took the stairs to the third floor.
Inside, I flipped on the lights and stood there for a moment. Three years and I still hadn't hung anything on the walls. The furniture had come with the lease, the kitchen was mostly empty, and the only personal thing in the apartment was a photo of my parents on the bookshelf by the TV.
I opened the fridge. Leftover Thai from two nights ago, a six-pack with two missing, condiments I couldn't remember buying. I grabbed the takeout container and ate it cold, standing at the counter.
The TV went on out of habit. Some late-night show I didn't watch, voices filling the silence. I sat on the couch and stared at the screen without really seeing it.
My phone rang.
I almost didn't answer. It was past midnight, and the only people who called this late were work or wrong numbers. But then I saw the name.
Dad.
