Most nights found them together, in fact, either at his apartment or hers, though occasionally, when first-thing-in-the-morning schedules conflicted, they spent the night alone in their respective apartments. She supposed she needed to sit down and try to discuss the issue with him, to at least find out why he knee-jerked every time she brought it up. But she had yet to find the right opportunity to do so.
Meanwhile, they had kept their relationship, if not completely secret, then intensely private and tightly under wraps. “Because I have a feeling we don’t need to draw attention to it,” Lee had told Maia, who had agreed; her own gut spoke to the same response – in Imperial City, retired IPD cops did well to keep their heads down, especially with shiny records like Carter’s.
This night had been one of the “separate” nights, due to the fact that Maia had an early shift start for a meeting, and Lee had a dental appointment, followed by a sparring session at the dojo where he trained. They’d had dinner together at her place, caught up on each other’s days, then Lee had gone home.
Now, after a very basic breakfast of the ubiquitous and ancient recipe for cold cereal and milk – though he had his specialties, in general Lee wasn’t as good a cook as Maia, so he kept it simple – he departed for that appointment.
He never made it.
After going along the hall and down the elevator to the lobby, Carter headed out the door of his apartment building and turned left, headed for the ramp down to the medical arcade level. He stepped aside, into the mouth of an alley, to allow his tired neighbor, loaded with shopping bags after getting off shift an hour earlier, to pass…
…And felt an arm go around his throat from behind, from the alley to his rear.
“Gotcha, Carter,” the assailant murmured in his ear in a deep, smirking, male voice, as he pulled him deeper into the alley, out of sight from the street. “You’re done.”
Lee Carter went into action.
He slipped his left hand inside the arm around his throat, turned his head and bit the inner, upper arm as hard as he could until he tasted blood, and simultaneously drove his right heel down on his assailant’s instep. This was immediately followed by driving his right elbow back with all his strength, into his assailant’s floating ribs; he felt several snap.
The man cried out, nearly screaming, as teeth penetrated skin, and tried to jerk back. Keeping his jaws tensed as tightly closed as he could, Carter forced the arm away from him, grabbing the wrist as he spun about, and spat torn cloth, raw flesh, and blood from his mouth. This time the other man did scream, but they were by this time deep in the alley and thanks to echoes off the masonry, any would-be witnesses would be uncertain of the sound’s direction.
Besides, Carter thought, I don’t really want anybody seeing me do this. Not if I want to survive.
A couple of solid punches with his right fist to his attacker’s face made a series of satisfying crunches, followed by a truly nasty-sounding pop, as the abused nose of Carter’s assailant broke in a gush of blood. Only then did the man drop the knife he had in his free hand in order to clutch his face, instinctively attempting to protect his nose. Carter kicked the knife aside, twisted, and threw the attempted murderer over his shoulder and into a nearby trash dumpster – there was a restaurant on the ground floor of his apartment building, and ordinances required exterior waste disposal and daily pick-up. He had no doubt but that it had been his intended resting place, but he slammed the open lid down and latched it without qualms. If his superiors or a passer-by happens to find him, fine, Carter thought. If not, I’m sure the trash compactor will take care of matters during pickup.
He fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulling out an old pair of exam gloves and an evidence bag he used to keep there for crime scenes and had never remembered to remove, then walked over to the knife as he donned one of the gloves. He picked it up in the gloved hand, stowed it gingerly in the bag and the bag equally gingerly in his jacket pocket, removed the glove, then headed for the maintenance passage into the arcade below, effectively disappearing to all and sundry.
Five minutes later, one of the restaurant workers came out to dispose of some waste, and was shocked to find someone inside the closed and latched dumpster, yelling and banging on it from within. He quickly opened the lid, and a man crawled out, cursing, his nose smashed to one side, blood streaming down his face and off the fingertips of one hand.
“What in the name of all that is holy happened to you?” the restaurant worker asked, horrified at the look of him.
“Damn mugger,” he grumbled, eyes darting to and fro. “Name’s Anton Davis. I just came from shopping and he took everything.”
“Shall I call the police?”
“…Yeah, you better.”
Half an hour later, and finally out of her bureaucratic meeting, Maia Peterson got an emergency call on the private VR channel she’d reserved exclusively for Lee Carter. She closed the door to her office and locked it, then sat back down and “checked out,” as she entered the channel. His avatar waited for her in the classic nondescript room adorned with two leather wing chairs, and which they’d discussed upgrading and had yet to get around to it…
…But Lee was pacing.
And trembling. Avatars
