2:14am

I was heading home after closing down the paperwork of a drug raid in East Harlem. It wasn't my usual beat of homicide investigation, but I like working in narcotics occasionally as the confessions tend to come quicker. You get to say things like "Hmm, this looks like criminal possession of a controlled substance in the first degree – that is an A-one felony, punishable by up to 25 years, maybe life." The new kids, weeks into their new job of drug hustling, start tattling on each other, and it becomes a matter of getting paperwork for plea bargains filled out.

All way below my paygrade, but I like to help out sometimes. My home is so empty since I lost Jackie. I can't sit there alone, and right now I can't stand the idea of dating again, the shallowness of a new relationship compared to the intimacy of knowing and loving a woman to the core of her being.

So work was my life now.

Even in a city that never sleeps, the road and sidewalks clear out in the middle of the night, and driving becomes a routine activity, a passive movement from gas to brake pedal without much attention.

That was why, even though I saw him immediately in my peripheral, it took me a moment to realize that I saw Malcolm Bright walking on the sidewalk of E 33rd Street. Cops are trained to notice everything, and I slowed the car, observing him from about ten feet behind.

He was wearing a coat (thank goodness, the outside temp read 45˚on my car's dashboard) and shoes, and he walked at a steady stroll, neither fast nor dawdling. A fine pace for a Sunday afternoon in Central Park, but not down a dark New York street in the middle of the night.

My next thought was he might be sleepwalking. Usually in those night terrors, he moved erratically and defensively, but . . .

He came to the end of the sidewalk, glanced both ways at the crossing street, and passed on the crosswalk when the walk sign lit up. He was fully awake.

I have always been called a calm, cool guy. My go-to in anger tends to be stern disapproval with crossed arms and direct gazes at the target of my displeasure. Hardened cops turn into shamefaced kids when you approach them that way, no yelling, just stern looks and short directives. Twenty years ago I was almost killed, so I can't go through life erupting into rages. I've worked underbosses who threw fits and hurled binders and pens at walls, cursing and spitting, and they always got heart-attacks early. You show up a few minutes late on a Tuesday, ducking down in hopes you won't get reamed out for your tardiness, and your partner pulls you aside, whispering, "Did you hear? Jacobs had a massive pulmonary last night. He's in ICU, but it's touch and go. We're signing a card to send."

I often feel angry at Malcolm, frustrated by his choices and carelessness, but I don't allow myself to do more than the stern disapproval act.

Until that moment.

I flipped the siren for a short whoop and felt a moment's bit of satisfaction when he jumped.

He looked around, those huge blue eyes scanning for danger, and when he saw me in the cop car, he came over.

I parked the car on the sidewalk and swung out.

"Hey," he slowed, scanning for clues, "what's going on? Are you okay? Do you have another case?"

"What are you doing out here? It's two in the morning, and you are wandering the streets of one of the most dangerous cities in America. The murder rate is up 3% this year!"

"But it's trending lower this decade than it has since the 50's," he countered, doing that nervous thing where he gives contradicting information with a half-embarrassed laugh. I'm sure he meant to be endearing, but it only irritated me further.

"Tell me at least you have your cellphone."

Reflexively, his hands went to his pockets, but when they came up empty, he turned those blue eyes on me with more half-embarrassed laughter. "Well, I uh . . . seemed to have misplaced it. Calling, Malcolm Bright, calling –" he trailed off at my expression.

I didn't speak; I caught him by the bicep and pulled him to the car. While he isn't very tall, Malcolm is strong from daily fitness routines, but he went along with my movements, even ducking down to get in the passenger seat and pulling on the seatbelt.

I got in the driver's side, buckled, pulled the car forward, and kept an even speed as I started my questions.

"When I saw you this morning, I asked if you slept because you seemed slow and clumsy. You said you did, you were just unnerved following the case. Did you sleep?"

"I did some."

"More than three hours?"

Silence with the only movement being that he picked at a thread on the seatbelt.

"Are you taking medication that would interfere with your cognitive abilities?"

"No, I take the prescribed amounts."

"But how serious are these drugs? If I switched places with you and you drove this car, would I be safe in the passenger seat?"

A sulky pout and deliberate yanking at the thread with two fingers.

"If I performed a standard police psych eval, would you pass or would I be notifying a hospital for you to be committed?"

"Those things don't allow for represented memories from serial killer fathers!"

"All right. Here's an easy one. If I called your mother right now and reported that you were wandering the streets without a cellphone, what would she say?"

He tugged hard enough and the string snapped off. "That's not fair. Mother doesn't understand me either. She thinks because it's her loft, and her money, and her family name, and because she's my mother she gets to be in charge of me. She's so bossy and controlling and she won't stop talking."

"You won't stop talking," I returned.

"Yes, but I have important things to say! I know I'm smarter than her, but she keeps making retorts and I can't always think of something to say in reply and if I did it would hurt her feelings and I don't want that."

I refused to be distracted by the repressed-child bait that he so obviously wanted me to follow. If he couldn't convince you, Malcolm liked to make you feel sorry for him. All big teary eyes and trembling lips. I wasn't buying his flippancy, his arrogance, or his self-pity tonight. "Would your mother approve of you wandering the streets like this?"

He stiffened in the seat, torn between pouting and throwing a tantrum. "I'm a grown man. If I want to walk outside, I can. See, look –" he pointed to a group of guys leaving a bar –"they can stay out as long as they like. No one's calling their mothers."

"Is that a fair comparison? Should I stop and ask them if they have a serial killer for a parent? Should I ask if they are on heavy medication for anxiety and PTSD? If they have tremors and night terrors so bad they have to be restrained at night?"

I slowed the car and angled it slightly toward the men, bluffing that I was actually going to stop. They looked about Malcolm's age, probably worked in finance, and were finishing up conversations before sharing taxis home. Suits and loosened ties, cellphones in hands, friendly banter – one was laughing at whatever his friend was saying. The epitome of normal that Malcolm couldn't stand to encounter in ordinary conversations where their averageness make him twice as awkward and nervous.

"No, Gil, don't!" he ducked his head, hiding his face behind his hands.

"So am I right or are you right?"

"You're right," behind splayed fingers.

"I'm taking you home, and I'm going to wear you out until you're ready to go to bed and finally sleep."

"Ugh, that sounds rapey."

"It's not."

"Then it sounds like you're going to beat me up."

"No."

I let a second of silence fall as I turned onto another street, now blocks from Malcolm's loft.

"I'm going to spank you."