The wind blew with a fury in the chilling October night. The usual street debris that usually lined the streets in the dockyard district were swept along the old, brick paved streets and sidewalks. Dark clouds gathered their forces over the churning ocean. Boats, anchored amongst the netting of aging wooden docks, rose and fell with the waves. More than one would be lost to the air's wrath that night. The creaks and groans of the old structures could be heard well into the city. The buildings along the docks were as black as the rest of the night. All of them except the popular bar Das Boothaus. Its' intrepid owner, Martin Carbone, had kept it open like every night since he had opened it nearly thirty years ago. The lights emanating from the bar marked a safe harbor from the night's rage.

Renso walked along the sidewalk of 42nd Street. The tawny fur on his face waved, buffeted by the wind. The black fur running down his back stood on end. His one ear was held flat against his head. He clenched tightly at the heavy, grey trench jacket he wore. It was his father's from the Great War over a decade earlier. Under the heavy coat he had a cheap charcoal suit. His old scuffed wingtip shoes made a slight clicking noise on the stone sidewalk. A grim scowl and squinted eyes looked out at the world as the wind whipped around him. Renso stormed forward, pushing his way against the wind to the light coming from the bar not far down the road. He had business to attend to in that bar; important business.

Martin Carbone was one of only two people in the bar that night. The storm blowing its' way in had kept most of the customers away. The burly bovine stood cleaning a tiny shot glass and looking at himself in the mirror. Age was catching up to him; he was nearing fifty years old. Grey fur had sprouted up on his formerly ruddy muzzle. He patted his growing gut. He had been the big man on the docks, a champion fighter in the local gyms. Now his former physique was being lost to age. A sigh escaped his throat and he turned back around to set the shot glass on the counter. Wiping his wet hands off on the apron tied around his waist he watched the only other customer in the bar, a lynx playing pool in the corner. Marty compared the clothes the lynx was wearing, red dress shirt and pressed black pants, to his white short sleeve shirt and faded dungarees. The lynx noticed Marty looking at him. The two nodded to each other. The lynx went back to playing his solo game and Marty started cleaning the countertop. The clacking of the billiard balls was the music of the night.

The bell above the door dinged as someone entered the bar. Marty looked up sharply. It was a jackal in a heavy coat. Marty eyed him up and down and noticed the newcomer was missing his left ear. Marty knew that this guy only meant bad news and kept an eye on him as the jackal strolled over to the lynx. He watched the jackal mouth something under his breath to the lynx. The lynx shot a quick look to Marty and walked out the door quickly. Barely getting his jacket on as he ran into the night. Marty knew what this was but he was not going to just let it happen. He stepped out from behind the bar and strode across the floor to the jackal. "Who the hell do you think you are, scaring off my patrons like that?" Marty bellowed as he bore down on the jackal.

"I don't like witnesses," Renso replied. One hand tore open the heavy jacket. A sawed-off shotgun hanged from a loop in the coat. His other hand grasped for the stock. He grabbed the gun as the bartender's fist backhanded him across the face. At a height of five-foot-eleven and weighing in at about one hundred seventy pounds, Renso was a good sized individual but he was dwarfed by the bull whose fist just sent him tumbling over the pool table he had been standing next too. He landed on the floor in a heap. "Shit, the lug can hit like a truck," Renso thought. He pulled the shotgun from the coat and clutched it close to him. Looking under the table, he could see the bull was walking around to him. Renso rolled under the table as his target came closer. He jumped to his feet as quickly as possible and leveled the shotgun at the bartender and fired. The pellets tore through Marty, a red mist painting the rack of cue sticks on the wall behind him. Marty stumbled back and leaned against the wall, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Renso ejected the spent shell and reloaded quickly. He fired again. Marty's body jolted against the wall and slid to the ground. Renso reloaded the gun slowly this time as he walked around the table to check on his target. "Nice hit, old man, but your time is up. This is what you get for running your mouth like that," Renso told the dying man, his voice as smooth as the barrel of the gun in his hand. Renso lifted the shotgun again and pressed it against the bartender's head. He pulled the trigger.

Brick Malinois sat in the office under his apartment on Center Street in the heart of Brandt city. The canine detective was going over the files of his last case; consulting the Brandt city police department in a recent murder investigation. He scratched at his muzzle without thought. Like most of his breed he had a black muzzle and ears but the rest of him was a lighter buckskin shade. He wore the usual outfit of his profession; beige slacks, white collared shirt, black suspenders and tie. His matching blazer, overcoat, fedora, and shoulder holster hanged on the coat rack by the front door. The office itself was sparsely furnished. A desk, a few filing cabinets, a couple chairs, a large grandfather clock, and the coat rack were all that was in the room. The wood paneled walls were devoid of any pictures. The room was silent save for the constant ticking of the clock. The day had sunk into a deep monotony.

The telephone rang. Brick jumped from his absorption in the case file and grabbed for the receiver, almost knocking the phone over. He fixed the phones base before taking receiver in hand. "Malinois Detective Agency, Bernard Malinois speaking," he said into the phone.

"Brick, this is Detective Montressor. I think we have something you should take a look at. We're at Das Boothaus. You know where it is," the voice on the other line said. It was Harmon Montressor, one of the city's homicide detectives.

Brick hung up the phone and lay back in his chair. He covered his eyes with a hand. He had a feeling he knew what had happened. "What did I get you into?" Brick asked the walls. He pushed himself up out of his chair and headed to the door. He strapped his revolver on before throwing his blazer and coat on. A quick look around his office and Brick was out the door.

Detective Harmon Montressor shut the door of the red police box. A sigh escaped from the young ferret. He never thought he would have had to make that call. Carbone had been a known informant for years but police presence had kept him alive. Something had gone wrong last night. Harmon took off the straw boater hat perched on his head and scratched at his ear as he walked to the curb from across the pub, Das Boothaus. An old model truck rumbled past and kicked dust onto Harmon's suit. Harmon shrugged it off since the suit was the same color as the dirt. He jogged across the street and to the building. A few cruisers and an ambulance were parked along the street. Harmon was not much taller than the cruisers he ran past. There were two beat officers milling around outside the bar to keep voyeurs away. They let the detective in without a second glance.

Inside the bar, the crime scene was as hot as a bonfire. The room had not changed since the night before. Nothing was disturbed at all. A photographer was in the corner, taking pictures of Martin's body. The photographer, an all white feline with a silver badge on his suit lapel, finished and started packing up his equipment. Harmon walked around the pool table and looked down at the body. The killing was a gruesome one; most of the bartender's head was missing. Harmon shook his head slowly and caught the eye of the photographer. The cat nodded to the corpse. "I'll put in the order to get him packed away on the meat wagon. You've walked the scene, right?" the cat asked.

"Twice, actually. Don't put that order in yet, James. I have a specialist coming in to get a look at it. He's got a connection to the crime," Harmon answered with a nod to his partner.

James took the answer with a knowing nod. "Calling in Brick, huh? You sure that's a good idea? I mean, he's good and all, I remember working with him back when he was behind the shield. He was one of the best homicide men in the city. This is different though. Marty was Brick's friend. I know you haven't known Brick as long as the rest of us but you had to have noticed his temper," he explained. James slung his equipment over his arm and started to leave. He turned back to Harmon when he reached the door. "Har, do what you want. Just remember, Brick is rough one. You might be opening up things you don't want to be," he said before leaving Harmon alone in the bar.

Harmon stood in the bar for what felt like years and eventually decades before the door opened again. He turned around and watched Brick walk into the bar. Brick looked numb, not a way he usually looked. Harmon walked to the detective slowly; Brick was almost a head taller than he was and probably had forty or fifty pounds on him. He did not exactly want to be the guy that set Brick off. "I'm sure you know why I called you," was his greeting.

"It wasn't too hard to figure out. Marty had been giving away information for a while, not just to me either. He should have been expecting this. Just give me a rundown of what you've picked up," Brick said, devoid of emotion. The detective walked into further into the bar, Harmon followed.

"This was a hit. The money in the register and safe in the wine cellar were left untouched. Weapon used was a shotgun, buckshot load. The victim was shot three times, last one being point-blank to the head. We don't have any witnesses, or at least no one's coming forward with any information," Harmon explained to Brick as he followed the canine around the bar.

The private detective was stone silent as he moved slowly among the old wood tables and booths, eventually making his way to the Marty's corpse. Brick crouched down in front of his friend's body and gave it a quick examination. Everything Brick had seen in the bar pointed out that everything Harmon told him was right. This was a hit, and he knew who had ordered it. Brick tried to keep the rising tide of anger from growing in him. He took a breath and stood back up. He walked to the door of the bar and looked back toward Harmon. "Yes, this was a hit. You're absolutely right. You can go fill out your paperwork and continue the investigation. Just wire me my usual consultation fee," he said flatly.

"You know something that you aren't telling me. I'll bet there's a reason for not talking too. I'm not going to let you go vigilante on anyone. We do this by the book. Understand?" Harmon said, his voice reflected his seriousness. He had expected that the detective would know something more, but he could not let the man get revenge that way. Even though he was small, Harmon stood as tall as he could when talking the Brick, stretching his ferret body as much as possible.

"Yeah, by the book," Brick replied, tonelessly. "You go ahead and get him shipped off to the iceboxes. I have my own leads to catch up on." The door creaked as the canine opened it and walked calmly out into the sunlight.

"You don't allow us to follow procedure, Brick, and I will have you brought in!" Harmon shouted after Brick. Standing alone in the stifling room, he looked down to the floor and took his hat in hand. "I don't want to have to take you in, Brick. I really don't," he told the floor.

Brick walked out of the bar and toward his car, a black Hudson sedan. The sounds of workers fixing the destruction of last nights storm could still be heard in the distance. The winds that tore through the dockyards were still now, in stark contrast to the storm of rage running the gamut of Brick's mind. Deep in his mind he knew who had killed Marty, and who had ordered that killing. Both of them would pay for what they did, and they would pay through the nose for it. Brick tore open the car's door and threw himself inside. He kicked the engine to life, spun the small car around, and roared down the road.

Things were quiet farther down 42nd Street that day. Many of the old warehouses in the district had withstood the winds and little damage had been done. The air hung still as the black car, driven by Brick Malinois, pulled to a stop outside one of the larger buildings. The sedan's door swung open and Brick climbed out of the vehicle. Brick drew his revolver and looked over the chambers, all loaded. A snarl crept along his face as he stormed to the door along the side of the building. Brick pounded on the rusted, steel door; the echo ricocheting throughout the warehouse district. Brick panted, seething. A heavy clank told the detective that the door would open soon. He clutched the gun and held it low. The heavy door opened slightly. Brick could see an eye peering out to him from the darkness of the building. "What do you think you're doing here?" snarled the voice from the darkness.

As the doorman spat out his question, Brick kicked at the door with all his might. The metal door swung open. The door cracked the man behind it square in the nose, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Brick stepped in from outside, leveling the barrel at the man on the ground. "Don't move a muscle," the detective snarled eyes wide with rage.

The rat on the ground shivered in panic at the end of Brick's gun. He was young and his clothes were ill-fitting at best, loose overalls, an old cotton shirt, and boots. Blood ran down his brown fur from his nose. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps. "Don't shoot! Oh God, please don't shoot," the rat shouted, waving his empty hands in the air. Still trying to settle his heart, the young rat picked himself up slowly. "Whatever you want, buddy. Just tell me what you want and I can do it," he explained, his voice quivering.

"Holmburg. Bring me to Holmburg," Brick said tonelessly. He looked the panicking rat up and down. The kid was no more than sixteen, probably just recruited into the fold. He would be easy to coerce. Brick forced the kid around and planted his gun to the kid's back. "Walk," he whispered into the kid's ear.

The kid obliged. He meandered in and amongst the stacks of crates and boxes in the warehouse. Some stacks were set up to make small rooms to afford even more hiding areas. It was generally dark throughout the entire warehouse. Save for a few areas that glowed with light throughout the warehouse, but blocked off by towers of makeshift barriers. The kid, Brick following close behind, walked into an open area. In front and above them a catwalk ran by what was the foreman's office, now Frank Holmburg's base of operations. Brick jabbed the gun into the kid's ribs to goad him on forward. A click echoed in the large building. Brick and the kid stopped in their tracks.

"Put the heater down, detective Malinois," a voice called out from the darkness. Frank Holmburg stood on the catwalk, a rifle in his hands leveled at Brick. He wore a white pinstripe suit, the white in stark contrast to his black as tar fur, the pinstripes serving to lengthen his already elongated body. By his side was a mahogany cane, a cane Frank had needed since Brick had blown away his left knee over a year ago. The look on the dachshunds face shown how serious he actually was.

Although Frank's skill with the rifle could be questioned, his willingness to shoot could not, so Brick listened and lowered his gun. The rat seized his opportunity and ran off to other parts of the warehouse. Brick paced in the open area, Frank never took his gun off of him. Frank spoke first. "I know why you're here. I didn't kill Marty."

"How the hell do you know why I'm here?" shouted Brick

"I run this part of town, I knew before the blue-coats did. But that doesn't mean I killed him."

"Bullshit, shylock. You wanted at me but were too cowardly to do it yourself?"

"Marty was just as much a friend of mine as he was to you. I always used his place to run business. I'm even giving his God damned eulogy. Why would I have him killed?"

"He was an informant. The whole damn city knew that. You had to shut him up. So you had him iced."

"You're right; everyone in Brandt City knew Marty ran his mouth. He had enemies everywhere. I took my protection down on him. I didn't kill him but I'd be damned if I was going to die for some middle aged bartender pigeon. Now get the hell out off of my property. You have no case."

Shooting Frank Holmburg then and there crossed Brick's mind many times but it went against his better judgment. Frank was right; he did not have a case and had to leave the thug well enough alone. Holstering his gun, Brick took the long, quiet walk from the warehouse. "Let the shamus walk!" Frank shouted from his perch, no doubt he had muscle ready to plug Brick as soon as he made a move towards their boss. Other than the single order, the walk out of the warehouse was deathly silent.

Frank Holmburg sat the rifle down against the railing of the catwalk and grabbed his cane. He walked his way back into his office, across the plush carpeted floor, and into the large leather chair behind his desk. He sighed to himself and pulled a cigar out of the top drawer. While Frank cut and prepared his tobacco the room stood silent, except for the constant tick of a grandfather clock in the corner. Frank lit the cigar and the room filled with the heavy aroma. Frank sat like that for what seemed like an eternity before his office door opened and a familiar figure walked in. A jackal, dressed entirely in black, walked to Frank's desk. Taking off his hat, revealing a missing ear, the jackal nodded reverently.

"Malinois was here. I don't want to have to diffuse a situation like that again," Frank spoke through Renso as much as he did to him.

Renso nodded quickly. "I understand. The job was done though. The barkeep is dead, and it was messy enough to make a show to others. You should be in the clear until your plan is complete," he said quietly.

"Good. Some good news is always acceptable. You lay low for a while, if I require your services I'll let you know," Frank said, dismissing Renso with a wave of his hand.

Renso nodded, put his hat back on to cover his missing ear, and left the office. Frank Holmburg stared off into the darkness of his office; the smoke trail of his cigar circling above him.

The door to the Malinois Detective agency crashed open. The thundering rain and driving wind, an aftershock from the night previous, echoed through the empty office. A drenched Brick Malinois walked in from the storm. He did not even stop to remove his coat or hat as he stormed through his office and up the flight of stairs behind his desk. "The bastard," thought Brick, "He did have Marty killed, I'll be damned if he didn't. It was probably that jackal, the same hit man he used before. Damn it, I'll make the bastard pay. He'll be begging for mercy when I get through with him." Brick threw the door of his room open, a small shard of wood splintering off of the door jamb. The room was nearly empty, just a bed, an old trunk at the foot of the bed, and a nightstand table beside it. The only other door in the room led to a bathroom. Swearing under his breath at breaking the door, Brick tossed his coat and hat to the floor and sat on his bed. He began to take his shoes off as a ring cut through the tense silence. Brick pounded on the bed with his fist and walked downstairs to get the phone. "If it's important, they'll wait," he thought. Brick yanked the receiver up and set it to his ear. "Malinois Detective Agency," he barked into the telephone.

"Brick, this is Joe. It's about Marty," the voice on the other line said. His voice was dead of emotion.

"I know about Marty. Detective Montressor called me this morning. He has me on the case," Brick replied, his voice not far off form Joe's.

"No, Brick. I'm calling to tell you to stay back. Leave this to us. Marty's funeral is in a couple of days, if you can make it through then, I'll have the boys put in your name to put you on the case. Until then, I'm going to have our patrols in the dock area's keep an eye out for you. I don't want anyone seeing you there. Got me?" Joe was stern. He meant business.

"Yeah, I get it. You won't see me until the funeral," Brick answered. He scratched the back of his ear with his free hand. He had to agree, there was no other choice in the matter. He hung the receiver back up and sighed. Defeated, he walked back up the stairs to his bedroom.

Brick fell, sitting on his bed. He looked around his room for something, anything to take his mind off of the killing. His eyes stopped at the revolver in his shoulder holster. He drew the gun and looked it over, examining every last bit of it. He let the drum drop out of the gun and looked at the bullets in the chambers of the drum. "That bastard will pay for what he has done to the city, to Marty, to me. Under the law or not, I will bring him down," he thought, locking the drum back into the gun with a click and setting it on the nightstand by the bed. He did not even bother removing the rest of his suit and lay down on his bed. It was hours before sleep finally took hold.

The next few days went off without a hitch. Brick did what he was told and remained off the streets. Even though he was no longer working on the case, beat officers stopped by his house every night with a brown paper package. The package contained the same thing every time, a days pay for his services. A part of Brick did not necessarily mind getting paid to not do work for a change. Brick may not have done any detective work those days but he was not doing anything. For days he planned his moves. Noting the route the procession would take, studying the layout of the cemetery and the location of the plot. Finally, he knew where Frank Holmburg was to give the eulogy. The funeral was going to be for Martin Carbone, but Martin was not going to be the only dead body there.

The air was calm and still the morning of the funeral. Brick Malinois stood on the sidewalk in front of his office. He was dressed in a customary black suit, burgundy tie, and a matching fedora on his head. Under his blazer, his Colt Python was in his shoulder holster. Around his ankle, concealed by his pant leg, a smaller holster held a small snub-nosed .38 special revolver. Brick paced anxiously along the window looking into his office. He looked up to see a long black car roll to a stop in front of him. The back door opened up, inside was Joe Kepler in dress uniform. The orange of the feline's fur in stark contrast to the deep blues of the uniform he wore. A single gold bar was pinned on the shoulders of his uniform. Joe waived for Brick to get into the car. The private detective climbed into the car and sat down across from his friend.

"Hello, Brick," Joe Kepler said as the car pulled its way into traffic, "I want to thank you for listening to me and staying home the last few days."

Brick barely even nodded. "You paid me to stay put, don't bother thanking me," he said coldly

Joe shook his head. "We didn't pay you a dime. None of us did," he explained, a genuine surprise on his face.

Brick shrugged his friend off and looked out the window. He knew the police's stance on payments; they never said it happened, so it must not have happened. "Alright," he said suddenly, "What about the case? Where is it headed?

Joe did not look confident. He picked absentmindedly at imaginary lint on his pants. "South, I'm afraid. It's stone cold. Holmburg was our number one suspect. That trail ends with Harold O'Donnell. Apparently, Holmburg was out on a fishing trip with O'Donnell that night," he said quietly.

"Bullshit," Brick muttered. He turned and leaned towards his friend. "You and I both know O'Donnell runs the north gangs and Holmburg is his little protectorate. You don't expect me to believe that he was out fishing at the time. Even if he was, both Holmburg and O'Donnell have more than enough muscle to take someone out," he argued.

"Doesn't matter. Without any solid evidence that either of them did anything, they're free to go. Did Holmburg have Marty killed? Yes, yes he did. Everyone that has any idea what's going on knows that. De facto and de jure are two different things, you damn well know that," Joe said. He spoke harshly, frustration in his voice, "We don't have shit on Holmburg. At least, nothing that we can do anything about."

Brick leaned back into the seat. Frank was right; there was nothing that could be done legally. Brick was not looking to settle things legally today though. He sat his hands in his coat pockets and looked out the window, remaining silent.

The two in the car sat silent as the black car pulled past a wrought iron gate reading "Saint Luke's Cemetery" and onto the large grounds. A small group of mourners stood not too far off in the distance. Inside, Joe nodded to Brick. "OK, give me your gun," he said.

Brick's eyebrow cocked upwards. "Excuse me?" he asked.

"Don't pull this with me, I know what you're planning, just give me your gun and I'll let you out."

Brick knew he was beat. He reached into his coat and pulled his gun. Handing it over he said, "Fine, take it." He knew full well this was going to happen and remembered the smaller gun strapped to his ankle. Apparently, Joe had not seen that one.

Kepler took the gun and pocketed it. "Good. Now just sit quietly and don't to anything rash. Keep things going smoothly, I don't want bullets to start flying. My wife and kids are out there. Got it?" he whispered in a severe tone.

Brick nodded. Joe opened the car door and climbed out, immediately heading towards his wife, daughter, and son. Brick took his brief second of solitude to draw the pistol on his ankle and dump it into the large front pocket of his blazer before climbing out. He strode across the grass and took the one of the last available seats in the front. He thought about what he was about to do. Everything was planned, he would not leave here a free man, but he would have done his job. Brick looked around; Frank Holmburg had not even arrived yet. Holmburg would arrive soon enough though. Brick just had to keep patient.

A few minutes passed and a white limousine pulled into the cemetery. The long car stopped as close to the site as possible. Brick looked over the chauffeur that got out of the limo, a brown male terrier in a blue suit and gloves, probably was not a bodyguard. The chauffeur opened the car door and from inside the expensive vehicle Frank Holmburg emerged slowly, using his cane to assist him. He was dressed entirely in white, from his double breasted suit and wide brimmed fedora, to his highly shined shoes. Save a deep crimson tie the suit served to contrast his already dark fur. "This time I'll take more than your ability to run, Holmburg," Thought Brick as he watched the dachshund make his way past the rest of the mourners and into the only other empty seat, the one directly next to Brick. Holmburg did not even bother to look at Brick; he just stared straight at the coffin bearing Marty.

Brick thought about killing Frank there and then but opted not to. No, he wanted this to be good, one hell of a punctuation mark at the end of the eulogy. The shylock would get a reprieve, for now. A priest was up, preaching about a man he never knew. Brick ignored him; instead his mind was numb, waiting only for the moment he would end the bane on his life that was the dachshund sitting next to him.

The priest, a rather large Bengal tiger in the stark black clothing and white collar of his brethren, finished his piece and announced, "And now, we will receive some words from the good, Mr. Franklin Holmburg." Holmburg stood and walked to a small stand set up next to the coffin. He smiled to all of the gathered mourners at the funeral. He began his speech slowly and methodically. "We are gathered here to remember a good friend, Martin Carbone??"

Brick's mind wandered while Holmburg talked. He had to, or else risk getting angrier at the shylock pretending to be an old friend of the dead man. Brick's hand slid into the pocket that held the small revolver. He grasped the handle and set his thumb on the hammer. He kept his eyes on the speaker to avoid attention. As he sat, he felt a jab in his lower back. "Do not pull that steel, Bernard. I'm warning you, I will shoot if you move a muscle," a voice whispered in a harsh rasp. It was Joe Kepler, using Brick's own gun. The tone in his friend's voice made Brick halt but not let go of the gun. He sat there, unmoving, watching Frank Holmburg continue his speech.

"??In keeping with Martin's steadfast nature, I have purchased the Das Boothaus pub and, like Martin, it will remain open at all times. It's what he would have wanted. Thank you," he finished his speech and stepped down, taking his seat next to Brick. Brick still did not move and Detective Kepler pulled the gun away and hid it again. The priest once again stood up and gave final rites and the casket was lowered into the ground

The mourners stood and begin to disperse. Frank Holmburg had slipped away during the lowering of Marty's body. Brick stayed in his chair until only he and Joe Kepler remained, Joe's family had left along with the others. "What the hell were you doing?" Brick asked his friend.

"Saving you from making the biggest mistake of your life," Joe replied. He handed Brick's gun back to him. "Here, you can have this back. I know you enough that you won't be using it now. Let's get you home," he said.

Brick stood and stared at the significantly smaller Kepler, who stared right back at him. "No. I'll walk home. I have some things to think about," Brick said solemnly. He turned his back on Kepler and walked off towards the far exit of the cemetery grounds.

A jackal in a black coat and hat, carrying a guitar case on his back, walked along the sidewalk. A long white limousine pulled alongside the road next to him. The door swung open and the walking man ducked inside. Frank Holmburg smiled across from his new passenger. The man in the coat took off his hat. There was only one ear on his head. "So Malinois decided otherwise?" Renso asked.

"Yes, it seems so. I believe it had more to do with his friend, Detective Kepler, than anything else. I'm beginning to get to him at least. He wanted me dead today. But, you weren't going to let that happen, right?" Holmburg said, drawing a cigar from a small box on the seat next to him.

Renso patted the guitar case. "I had him in my sights the entire time. He wouldn't have stood up, much less gotten a shot off before I took him out," he said with a laugh.

Frank smiled. "Good, now that I have that thorn in my side shaken enough, let's discuss the bigger fish on the menu, shall we?" he laughed as he held the cigar out for Renso to light. The white limousine continued down a dark section of 42nd street, among the rusted hulks of the warehouses.

AFTERWORD: Joe saved my life that day. I was making a mistake, letting raw emotion get the better of me. I will not go after Holmburg like that again. I do not want to stoop to his level. I will win on my terms, on the laws terms. But I will win. I am also going to have to pay Joe back for what he has done for me. Someday I will. For now, this case is closed.

Det. Bernard Malinois