Temporary Partner

CHAPTER 1

RE YOU GONNA MAKE a move or stare at the pieces all night? You can ponder all you want, kiddo, but it ain't gonna change the outcome. Should I wind up for my winner's dance?"

Retired Detective Sergeant Abraham Valor's stormy gray eyes were focused on me and not our game. A knowing smirk teased the corner of his mouth. He'd won, and he knew it. Either I accepted the loss or played out the final moves until his queen and rook trapped my king.

Three wins in a row. It was embarrassing. I was better than this.

"I'm telling you. It's checkmate in two. You don't believe me? Have at 'er." He started with a seated butt-shuffle, arms pumping like an old locomotive's wheels.

"Just give me a minute. Let me think. I swear your tactic is to distract me with your bad dancing so I make a mistake. There has to be a way out." I squinted, scanning each piece, maneuvering them in my head, strategizing and playing through the various outcomes.

But he was right, as always. Game over.

Dad chuckled and flopped back on his chair, the wood creaking and complaining at the joints. "Always stubborn. Can't admit to losing to your old man even at your age. Some things never change."

I tipped my king, forfeiting the game. "I'm done. No more. This is humiliating. You're a cheat." I shoved the game board toward him with a playful scowl as I shook my head. "Winner cleans up. I'll start dinner."

The chair legs scraped against the linoleum as I pushed away from the small kitchenette table. Late-afternoon sun spilled through the windowed nook and over the old hand- carved chess pieces as Dad fit them into the individual slots of an old wooden box. The wooden chess board sat on top. This particular set had once belonged to my grandfather, a treasure he'd brought home from one of his countless trips overseas when he'd served his country. A family heirloom that would one day be mine if Dad and I didn't wear it out first.

We'd been competing for as long as I could remember. I had yet to beat him. The day that happened, he'd probably never touch the game again. I got my stubbornness from him.

"I'm afraid to ask. What's on the menu tonight?" Dad stood with a groan, clutching his thigh above his bum knee as he hobbled over and joined me at the open fridge, peering over my shoulder.

"Lemon and herb grilled chicken breasts, roasted asparagus, and baked sweet potatoes."

"Wrapped in bacon?" "Not wrapped in bacon."

He sighed, long and heavy. "What?"

"Can I have sauce on my grilled chicken?" "Yes. It's called lemon."

"That isn't sauce."

"Sauce is full of salt and sugar. It's not good for you."

"Some of us like salt and sugar... and bacon," he said as an afterthought.

"Your organs don't. Trust me. I'm doing you a favor." "How about a nice juicy hamburger?"

"No."

"French fries? I'll concede to having them baked in the oven even though it's not the same."

Ignoring my old man, I pulled the chicken breasts from the fridge, setting them aside before searching the crisper for the asparagus I'd bought on my way home from work the previous night.

"We could make some spicy chili and smother it with cheese. Eat it with those corn chips I like." Dad was always trying to change the menu.

"It's thirty-two degrees outside. I'm not making chili. Ask me again in February."

"You're a miserable child. Want me to fire up the grill?" "That would be helpful. I have a new blend of spices I

could try on your chicken instead if you want. It has sun- dried tomato and garlic in it. It will taste good. I promise."

He grumbled as he limped toward the patio door. "You said that about the tofu shit you fed me last week."

"It wasn't that bad." "It wasn't that good."

Years working the long hours that came with being a detective had encouraged too many bad habits in my father's diet. When the doctors showed concern over his high blood pressure after a transient ischemic attack nine months ago, he'd begrudgingly started following a healthier menu plan, including cutting salt from his diet.

Since his waistline had expanded with retirement, I'd decided to cut most of the saturated fats from his diet as well, at least when he ate at my house. What he did on his own time was anyone's guess. A greasy bacon burger from Wendy's had always been his favorite.

Not on my watch.

I found a cutting board and reached for a knife in the butcher block as my phone rang on the table behind me. My shoulders stiffened, and I froze with the bundle of asparagus halfway unwrapped.

The phone kept ringing, and I gritted my teeth while waging a war of indecision.

"Your phone's ringing." Dad liked to state the obvious. "Yeah. I hear it."

It kept ringing.

"You gonna answer it?"

I debated checking the caller ID in case it was work, but the previous day, Staff Sergeant Edwards had stated quite firmly that I was to take a day off. My first in over a month. So it was more plausible the unexpected caller was my relentless ex, Jack, ready to play the woe-is-me card.

Again.

He was the last person I wanted to talk to.

"Quaid," my dad shouted from the back porch as the phone kept ringing. "Answer the damn phone."

"It can go to voicemail."

Three more rings and the device fell silent. My shoulders relaxed, and I sagged, rearranging the spears of asparagus into neat lines on the cutting board as I prepared to cut the ends.

The phone rang again with the persistence of a wailing newborn demanding attention. It knew it was being ignored and shouted, Pay attention to me, you son of a bitch!

Dad shuffled back inside, his face stern. Annoyed. "It's probably your goddamn sergeant. You can't ignore work.

Answer the blasted phone already."

"It's not work. Edwards made it very clear I'm off today, and I'm not to go in under any circumstances. It's Jack, and I don't want to talk to him right now."