{Not all the grammar mistakes are my fault. When I tried to copy and paste it replaced all my " with ?, so it took a bit of editing, and I messed some stuff up, lol... I'm glad your enjoying it, and yeah, I'm a sucker for some noir, but I've never been able to find any noir fiction, as strange as that sounds... Next chunk...}

I sit at a desk in the squad room. I always hated the fluorescent lights, and that there are no windows.

An ocean of desks all around me-- it reminds me of the old days. I don't know how long I sat there, but it felt like all night.

"Nice collar, Rick," says a familiar male voice behind him.

I turn to face him.

"How's it going, Frank?"

He gives me an odd glare.

"Comfortable?" he says, nodding towards his occupied desk chair.

I shrug.

"You did us a real favor. This guy's low level, but I'm confident we'll flip him on his bosses."

"Who's doing the interrogation?"

"Looking to get back in the box?"

I shrug again, but don't say anything.

"I'll be doing it," he says.

I nod and stand up.

"Anything else I can do for you, detective? More papers to sign? Kittens in trees?"

"You can go."

I give a nod and go for the door. A commotion down the hall catches my attention. People running for the stairs, and crowding around the elevators. An alarm goes off, and I know the station's on lock-down.

Perfect!

I make my way for the stairs. I don't have to ask what the fuss is-- I already know. I calmly pick my way through the crowd, stopping in front of the holding cells.

And there it is-- Liam's body slumped over, blood pooling under him, huge gashes on his wrists, a shiv in his hand.

They should've seen this coming.

I turn around and find Frank standing behind me, slowly shaking his head.

I let out a slow breath, and brush past him, heading back upstairs. The official story will undoubtedly be suicide, but Frank and I both know what happened: Either another prisoner or worse, a cop on the take killed him.

{Basically, yeah. This is me throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks. I wasn't sure I had the chops to write this genre or narrative, so basically I'm testing myself, trying something I haven't tried before... Thanks for the grammar tips though. I know my grammar's pretty terrible, so bear with me...}

A few cups later and I finally see the door to the back room open. A dark orange haired woman emerges, arms crossed, jaw set. Must not like aiding her fugitive big brother.

Then a tall, guy wearing one of those shirts that shows off all his muscles and tattoos. That's him alright.

He looks like he's pleading with her, but she's having none of it. Smart girl.

He throws his arms in the air, and curses not so quietly as he turns to walk away. Here we go.

I leave a few dollars under my cup, then slowly start following Liam out, eyes moving quickly over the room, a plan forming. I spot what I'm looking for, and move towards the card table.

A mostly drunk guy sits leaning over, eying the large pot, a box of cigarettes next to him.

I brush past, on my way out the door, and snake the box of the table, then pick up my pace to catch up to Liam.

I pat the box in my hand, grabbing out a cigarette. Liam exits the pub a few paces ahead of me. I try to walk quietly, but his pace is too fast. I close in, one hand creeping inside the front of my coat, the other holding the cigarette.

He whirls on me fast, eyes on fire.

"You got a problem!?" he says with a thick Irish accent.

I lean to one side, then the other, unsteadily, then stumble towards him.

"Got a light?" I slur on purpose, close enough that he can smell the scotch on me.

I bring my hand slowly out of my jacket, holding my zippo lighter.

"Mine's dead," I say, brandishing the cigarette.

"Piss off!" he says, then turns around.

Okay, then.

I pull a stun gun out of another pocket, and mash it into the small of his back, careful not to touch any part of him. His whole body tenses, then collapses into a heap on the ground.

I lean down to check his pulse. Next thing I know, I'm on my back, rain tickling my face.

He'd kicked my legs out from under me.

I try to roll, but a large body crashes into me, knocking the wind out of me. I struggle to keep him from straddling me, then his fists start flying. Its all I can do to keep my face protected. I can't shock him with him touching me, unless I wanna get shocked too.

He winds up a bit too far for another punch and brings it down like a hammer.

I manage to avoid the blow, locking both my hands around his outstretched arm, then twist my whole body with every bit of strength in me.

We roll and now I'm on top.

I throw a punch to his gut, and he gives me one shove to the chest and I fly backwards off him.

I'm a grown man-- in good shape too, but he just shoved me like I was a little kid.

I hurry to my feet. He does the same.

I whip out my nightstick. It extends out with a satisfying click.

"Who are you? What do you want!?"

"I just wanted a light."

I rush him, and he starts swinging. All fury-- no brains.

He attempts a straight right hand. I duck it easily, cracking my nightstick against his exposed ribs.

He barely seems to notice and swings again. I sidestep to my left, lashing out a backhanded blow right in the side of his head. That one staggered him.

I press my advantage, rushing towards him, kicking him right between the legs as hard as I can muster.

He groans and drops to his knees, clutching his stomach. I rip out my stun gun and give him good long shock this time.

I kneel to check his pulse. He's alive.

I pull out some zip ties and tie his hands behind his back. It takes me few seconds, but I finally manage to hoist him off the ground, and carry him back to my car.

I put him in the passenger seat, and buckle him in.

I look around. No one seems to have seen anything. I hop in the car, start it up and drive out of the parking lot.

In a little while, I'll have him off my hands and be a few bucks richer. Maybe then, I'll be able to sleep.

{Yeah, of course. I'm a huge believer in show not tell. I fully intend to go back and flesh out the scenes, and I also intend to space out the "answers" more dramatically. See, its part of my process. The best way for me to get all the info straight in my own head is to write it into a scene. It might not make for the cleanest scene, but I can always go back and edit... I do think I do better in the next few scenes...}

I swerve around a corner, straighten out and slam my foot on the gas. The engine responds with a throaty growl and I get sucked into my seat. My radio blares on as I grab a few more gears. The highway streetlights blur past the wet windshield. I bob and weave, snaking around the few cars on the road at this ungodly hour.

I've a pretty good idea where to start.

The perp's name is Liam O'Connor. He's big with orange hair and a long beard. He has a half sister who runs a pub called The Shamrock near the docks. That's where I'll find him.

I pull off the highway and navigate backstreets. I pull into the pub's parking lot and kill the engine. I look around. Place seems busy for this time of night.

I head inside, brushing past a big guy at the door. Irish folk blares throughout the pub. Green shamrock everywhere, but then what was I expecting?

I look around. Don't see him. I make my way to the bar and sit down, keeping an eye on the large mirror to watch my back.

"What'll it be?" says the middle-aged man behind the bar with a slight Irish accent.

"Scotch. Straight."

"Comin' up."

I watch the room around me-- people shooting pool, playing cards, some dancing, some smoking and all of them drinking.

The bartender places a glass in front of me and fills it.

"Thanks," I say, placing some cash on the bar in front of me.

He takes it, and nods, then goes to serve other patrons.

In my peripheral vision, I notice a pretty redhead spot me, then approach, coming to the stool on my left.

"Hi," she says.

Now there's a great opening line.

I nod without looking her.

"Haven't seen you here before."

That could mean she's a regular.

"No," I say, "you haven't."

"First time?"

I shrug.

"My friends and I come here all the time."

I sip my scotch, considering my options, still not having turned to look at her.

"Well, maybe you'd like to come join us," she says, nodding towards a group of a few people.

"That's a kind offer," I say, finally turning to look at her," "but I'm supposed to meet a friend... Maybe you can help me out?"

I pause, choosing my words carefully.

"I'm a bit late, and I'm afraid he beat me here, and left already. Maybe you saw him."

"Oh, well, we've been here for a while. What's he look like?"

"Tall, orange hair, real big-"

"With a long beard?"

"That's him." I say, "feigning relief."

"Yeah, he's here a lot. I saw him a little bit ago. He usually goes in the back room with Fiona, the owner."

"Thanks."

What are the odds that the first person I talk to can lead me right to him?

Like I told you before: I don't know if I'm good or just lucky, but I know he's here now. And all I gotta do is wait.

If this were a movie, I'd go in there, knock everyone out no problem-- no matter how many of them are in there, tip my hat to his sister, apologize for the mess, and drag him out easy peasy.

Well, this isn't a movie, and going into a room blind with fists flying is a great way to get your rump kicked or worse.

I nod to the bar tender, and wait...

"Want another?"

"Can I get some coffee?"

"No problem."

{Wow, detailed editing!... I love it... Thanks so much! Yeah, I've definitely gotta read your post a few more times. My grammar's still not great, but it's come a long way. A real long way. I've already got a bit more written, I'll go ahead and post some more... The stylistic one is one of the few where I disagree with you. I was trying to convey that he's got a detective's mind. If the guy didn't pass him, then he was probably still there, or found another way out...}

 Frank made it-- barely.

The force let me go-- called it a medical discharge. They could have done worse, all things considered.

A few months later a pretty little rich girl went missing. Her family offered up a huge-- really huge reward.

Sarah, my last friend in the department called me. She said they'd gotten a tip. The department wouldn't follow up, something about an unreliable source, but she had a hunch. Anyway, she talked me into looking into it. I don't know if I was lucky or good, but I did find the girl, and I did collect the reward.

And that's what I've been doing for the last few months-- finding people-- victims, runaways, suspects, anyone with a price involved.

So that's it-- that's my big ol' sob story.

Was it everything you hoped it would be and more?

Of course it was.

I stare down at the drink. Ava's face, then the old man's face stare back at me. I down the scotch, then go to the large window-- the kinda window that might as well be the entire wall, and throw open the tall curtains. The city lights of the skyline glimmer in the pounding rain. I go to my study, and fire up my computer. It dings to life, and I wait... I'm not sleeping. Might as well see if I can't work.

One email from Sarah:

Hey, Rick, nice work last week. Hope your doing well... We should have a drink or something sometime, catch up.

My eyes scan the page. I find an attachment and click on it. The download starts right after.

A bail jumper, arrested for drunk driving. Previous convictions of assault and battery, and assault with a deadly weapon. Suspected mob ties. A low level leg breaker... Swell.

I print out a picture of his ugly mug, a list of known associates, and the addresses of his known haunts. I type Sarah a quick reply:

Thanks.

I hit send, then close out the pages, and click the monitor off. I grab a fresh shirt, my black trench coat and fedora, then my .45 semi-auto and put my holster on my hip, then get in the elevator, press P-1 and wait for it to move...

The doors open and I head into the multi- level parking garage towards my car, head on a swivel, making sure no one's waiting to ambush me. I pull a flashlight out of my pocket, and kneel down next to my red 66 Mustang, checking the under carriage.

I unlock the door, get in and put the key in the ignition. The engine turns over and comes to life with a satisfying growl. I put it in gear and go out into the rain-- into the night.

Wow, thank you very much! I appreciate that... I didn't mean for that to be the end of it. I do have more written. Think it has potential?

{I wasn't sure that I had the chops to pull off this off, so I figured I might as well give it a shot, and see what I can do.... Let me know what you think...}

I open my eyes and I see her.

Looking out the window at the sandy beach below. Her light brown hair flows behind her in the slight breeze of the open window. White curtains waft in front of her, lightly hitting her, then dropping back down.

I lie on my side, head against my pillow. Bright rays of sunshine obscure her slightly. I blink her into focus, fingering the wedding ring on my finger.

She turns to me, smiling contently.

"Hey, sleepy," she says.

Her eyes have this way of saying I love you. Even when her lips aren't moving.

"Hey yourself."

She winks at me, then turns back to window. She says something I can't quite hear.

I move to get up, then my eyes open again, and its dark.

I know that I'm no longer in the hotel room on the beach, but home in my high rise apartment. I know, because the dream is always the same.

I start to reach for her across the bed, then my own voice scolds me from within. No!... She's dead, Rick. Remember?

I shut my eyes and take a breath, ruffle my short hair, then roll off the bed with a groan.

I cross my large bedroom to the bathroom, fingering the ring on my finger, then splash some cold water on my face. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, but her face is all I can see.

She was killed-- murdered about eight months ago. We still haven't caught the guy.

I grab a glass from the kitchen, and a bottle from the fridge. I fill my glass and sit down at the table, head in my hands, staring down at the amber liquid in the glass, going over everything I can remember.

I suppose you wanna know what happened, right?

Well it goes like this:

I was a cop-- a pretty good one. I was in line to become the youngest detective in the department's history. Maybe I was really good or maybe I was really lucky and just wound up in the right places at the right times.

Either way, I made enemies-- Scarface kinda enemies.

You always think your invincible-- that it'll never happen to you.

We were watching a movie-- some romcom about a guy who couldn't admit that he was in love with some girl who... And you can get the idea.

She had a craving for pistachio ice cream. I had my jacket on, my car keys in the breast pocket, heading out the door when I got a call-- a work call. I needed to go through some file on my computer, and find some name. Simple enough, right?

She scrunched her nose in mock protest. She took my jacket, and put it on, motioned that she was gonna be right back, gave me that I love you look, then walked out the door.

I never saw her again.

Car bomb-- my car.

They came for me, and took her instead.

I lost it-- I went nuts. It was a good two months before I was cleared to work again.

My first week back my partner Frank, and I had responded to an armed robbery call. We chased the suspect into an alley. I went around to cut him off while Frank went in after him. I was nearing the other side of the alley when I heard the shot. I found Frank bleeding out in the alley. I knew the perp couldn't have gotten past me without me noticing.

Either he was still there.

Or he had found another way out of the alley.

I called in the Officer down, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. I heard a noise behind me, and drew my gun, spinning toward the sound. I could barely make out a shadowed figure. I called out Stop! I will shoot you! And stood ready to fire, waiting for him to make a wrong move.

All I could think of was the man who'd taken away my Ava.

I watched him raise an arm toward me. I could just make out the shape of a gun in his hand.

I aimed center mass and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked in my hands, and the brief muzzle flash illuminated my target. My heart froze in my chest.

It was an old man.

Homeless, holding an old cane, his face frozen in terror... And death.