Chapter 4 Cologne Like a Weapon
Luke
The quiet between us had a pulse. A heartbeat. Thirty seconds and counting.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Knuckles white as droplets hammered the windshield. His cologne filled the car like a weapon. Too strong. Too deliberate. Specifically engineered to suffocate me in this space. Just like everything else about my new partner.
Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven.
Leather creaked as he shifted beside me. The deliberate intake of breath signaled preparation. People like him never lasted long in quiet. Only a matter of time before he combusted into the silence I was trying to keep.
"So." His finger tapped against his knee in a rhythm that made me contemplate driving off the bridge.
"Bar fight at a Korean BBQ place in Koreatown.
Guy pulls a knife. Other guy gets stabbed inside the restaurant.
" A glance outside, casual. "Back at 52, this would be an easy cleanup. Smoothed over before breakfast."
My gaze stayed on the road. "This isn't 52."
"Clearly." He examined the modest buildings of Cabbagetown passing by. His lip curled slightly. "Point is, this is straightforward. Drunk people. Bad decisions. Someone pays the price."
"Nothing is straightforward when alcohol and weapons are involved. The victim's in surgery with a subdural hematoma."
A dramatic sigh. Like I'd personally arranged the brain injury to inconvenience him. "Still. This is our chance to show Inspector Murphy we can handle a simple case quickly. Get back in his good graces. Stop this partnership idiocy." A sidelong look. "Unless you enjoy living with me?"
That smirk was designed to provoke. It was working.
My teeth clenched hard enough to crack a molar.
I refused to dignify the question. What I wanted was to get through probation with minimal complications.
Follow protocol. Stay under the radar. Get back to working alone, without cologne-drenched pretty boys invading my space.
Specifically, the Service-assigned apartment we were stuck sharing.
The housing assignments were clearly designed to punish someone. Probably me.
"I was thinking we could split duties at the location. I'll handle witness statements. I'm good with people. You can process the physical remains like the robot you are."
"No."
"No?" He twisted to scrutinize me. Eyebrow arched in mock surprise. "That's it? Just 'no'?"
"We work the scene together. Standard protocol."
"God forbid we deviate from your precious protocol." Loud enough to ensure I heard every word. "Look, Hawley. We're stuck with each other whether we like it or not. Dividing responsibilities makes sense."
"What makes sense is established protocol. Not improvising because you think charm is a substitute for competence."
"And not suffocating a case with regulations because you think being a hardass is a personality. I've read your file, Hawley. You're not exactly known for your cooperative spirit."
An edge crept into his voice. "I'm trying to cooperate here. Which is more than I can say for you."
The light turned green. My acceleration slammed him back against his seat.
"Jesus! Did you get your license from a cereal box?"
"Cooperation doesn't mean doing whatever you suggest. It means working within established protocols."
"Protocols." He mocked the word. "Is that what they call it these days? Is that what you were doing when you went solo into that hostage situation? Those protocols?"
My jaw clenched so tight I could hear teeth grinding. "You don't know anything about that."
"And you don't know anything about me. Yet you've already decided I'm just a pretty specimen who can't do real police work."
"I don't assume. I observe." I turned onto a narrower street. Neon signs of restaurants and bars reflected in the wet pavement. "And what I've seen is someone more concerned with appearance than substance."
"Oh great. The infamous Bear of 51 thinks I care too much about appearances. At least I bothered to learn your name before judging you. Your colleagues have a betting pool on whether you even know theirs."
"That's rich coming from someone who refuses any input that isn't his own." His pitch rose slightly. "You're so determined to work alone that you'd sabotage us both."
"I don't sabotage." The words came out colder than I'd intended. "I eliminate variables that might compromise the outcome."
He stared at me. "Was that a threat, Detective?"
I hadn't meant it that way. Before I could clarify, something unexpected happened. He laughed. Not nervously. Genuinely. The sound filled the car.
"What's funny?"
"You. You actually talk like that. Like some robot programmed for police work." Still smiling. Somehow more irritating than his anger. "Do you have an off switch, or do you just power down at night?"
No response seemed adequate. I concentrated on finding parking near the scene. The downpour had intensified. Drumming against the roof.
"Look. We both have something to prove to Inspector Murphy. I'm not your enemy here."
Half a block from Hangang BBQ, I pulled into a space.
The stretch of Bloor West that ran through Koreatown was a single dense strip of late-night restaurants, their signs leaning out over the sidewalk in three languages and the smell of grilled meat carrying even through the closed windows.
Blue and red lights flashed ahead from the patrol vehicles.
Their colors smeared across the wet pavement.
I put the car in park and turned toward him.
"Do your job. That's all I need."
He unbuckled his seatbelt. "You know, for someone who doesn't talk much, you've got a real talent for being condescending."
"And for someone who talks constantly, you've expressed nothing of value."
I grabbed my raincoat from the back seat. Opened my door. The sound of the rain immediately grew louder. He muttered what sounded suspiciously like emotionally constipated asshole under his breath as we stepped into the downpour.
Our shoes splashed through puddles toward the scene. The restaurant's lights glowed yellow through the dark. They lit a small crowd of officers and onlookers gathered outside. My partner matched my stride despite his shorter height. Determination in every step.
His robot comment didn't warrant a response. There were witnesses to interview. Clues to collect. A case to solve. That's what mattered. Not his opinions. Not his cologne. Not the way his hair somehow still looked perfect despite the weather.
Not the way I wanted to mess it up just to see if he'd still seem untouchable.
Just the job. Everything else was noise.
The interior of the covered patio looked like someone had shaken a snow globe.
Overturned plastic stools. Soju bottles scattered across the floor, some intact, some shattered.
The metallic tang of blood hung in the air.
Mixing with grilled meat and alcohol. Rain pattered against the awning overhead, a steady rhythm under the chaos.
I moved through the space methodically. Cataloged each detail.
Crimson spatter on the far wall, medium velocity, consistent with a slashing motion.
A trail of drops leading toward the exit.
Broken glass beneath one of the tables. Every element told part of the story.
I just needed to arrange them in the correct order.
Constable Doyle approached, notebook in hand. A respectful nod.
"Detective Hawley. We've got statements from the owner and two patrons.
Victim is Mark Donnelly, thirty-four, construction worker.
Currently in surgery at St. Michael's with a severe neck wound and head trauma from falling.
Suspect is Kyle O'Hara, twenty-nine, unemployed.
Witnesses claim Donnelly provoked him verbally, then O'Hara pulled a knife. "
"Where's the suspect now?"
"Fled. We have a description and his address from a witness who was present."
A nod. "Any surveillance footage?"
"Owner claims there's a camera above the entrance, plus one from the convenience store across the street that might have caught the suspect leaving."
"Get the footage. And secure the perimeter. The weapon might still be nearby."
Constable Doyle moved away. Carlson was removing his coat, draping it carefully over his arm despite its dampness.
He loosened his tie. Unbuttoned his top button.
Ran a hand through his damp hair. The transformation was subtle but deliberate.
Polished detective into approachable confidant.
So calculated I could practically see the gears turning in his head.
"I'll start with spatter analysis. You document the witness statements from the owner and..."
"Actually, I think our first priority should be the victim's girlfriend. She's traumatized and probably our best witness. I'll handle that." A vague gesture toward the chaos. "You can do your... forensic thing. Spatter patterns or whatever."
My blood pressure spiked. "We establish the physical remains first. That's basic protocol..."
But he was already moving toward a young woman huddled under a blanket near the back of the patio, tears streaking her face. The victim's girlfriend. Based on her proximity to the paramedics who had treated Donnelly before transport.
"We need to establish the physical remains first before..."
He either didn't hear me or, more likely, chose to ignore me. He crouched down to the girlfriend's level. Offered a gentle smile that somehow appeared genuine despite how calculated I knew it to be. The entire display was infuriating.
My jaw clenched so hard I thought a tooth might crack. Constable Doyle glanced between us, then quickly looked away. Suddenly very interested in his notes. Great. Our dysfunction was already station gossip.
I went back to my work. Photographed the spatter from multiple angles. Measured distances. Noted the pattern of destruction. But my focus kept splitting. One eye on my task. One on Carlson. I hated that I couldn't ignore him completely.
His body language was open. Sympathetic.
Soft words. Nodding as the woman talked between sobs.
Their conversation was inaudible over the ambient noise.
But she gradually relaxed, shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch.
As much as I wanted to dismiss his methods as manipulative, they were clearly working.
"Detective," Constable Doyle called from the entrance. "We've got the CCTV footage ready to view."
At a patrol car, a laptop displayed grainy footage of the restaurant's entrance. The timestamp showed 21:47. About twenty minutes before the first emergency call.
Two men emerged from the patio, shoving each other. The larger man, Donnelly, based on the description, pushed the smaller man against the wall. Words were exchanged. Donnelly's stance was aggressive. Shoulders squared. Finger jabbing toward the other man's face.
"Can you enhance this section?"
As Constable Doyle worked on the footage, Carlson appeared at my shoulder, peering at the screen. The scent hit me again. Stronger now in the confined space. I shifted away slightly. Irritated by my own awareness.
"Find anything useful with the girlfriend?"
"Besides everything you missed while counting drops? She claims Donnelly was minding his own business when O'Hara attacked him unprovoked. Claims O'Hara was jealous because she used to date him."
A nod toward the screen. I ignored the jab. "That contradicts the video. Donnelly clearly initiated physical contact."
"Thank you, Detective Obvious. I have eyes." He leaned closer to the screen, intentionally crowding my space. "See how he's leaning forward, center of gravity shifted? That's not defensive posturing. That's an aggressor."
I blinked. Surprised by the accuracy of his read. It was precisely what I'd observed. Which somehow made it more annoying coming from him.
"And look at O'Hara's hands. They're open, not fisted. He wasn't preparing to fight until Donnelly cornered him."
The footage continued. Donnelly pushed O'Hara again. O'Hara stumbled backward. Then reached for something. The knife, presumably, though the angle made it impossible to see clearly. The men moved back inside the patio. Out of the camera's view.
"She's protecting Donnelly. Trying to paint O'Hara as the bad guy when her boyfriend likely started it."
"People lie to protect those they care about."
"Or themselves. He mentioned they were all drinking together earlier. I think he might have been the catalyst for the fight."
Again, his insight matched mine. A slight reassessment was unavoidable.
Maybe there's something to him after all.
The thought was as uncomfortable as it was unexpected.
He caught me studying him and raised an eyebrow. "What? Surprised I can do more than look good, Detective?"
Before I could respond, an officer called from the alley beside the restaurant. "Detective Hawley! We found something."
I moved quickly to the narrow passage between buildings. Pointedly didn't check if Carlson was behind me. The officer pointed to a broken soju bottle, the jagged edge dark with what appeared to be faint crimson drops. He was holding his umbrella over it.
"Not a knife. A broken bottle."
"Amazing deduction." The comment came from behind me. "Next you'll tell us water is wet."
A glacial stare over my shoulder was my only response. "Bag it, Constable. And check the dumpsters for any discarded clothing. If the suspect cut himself in the process, there might be trace remains on his clothes."
I addressed the officers gathering around me. "Doyle. Coordinate with the hospital for updates on the victim's condition. We need to bring in the girlfriend again. Her account needs revision in light of the video. And dispatch two officers and check the suspect's known address."
They dispersed immediately, moving with purpose. When I turned around, Carlson was studying me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"We make a decent team when you're not freezing me out." A hint of real surprise colored his tone.
"And you'd be useful if standard protocols weren't just suggestions to you." The heat had faded from my delivery.
His eyes widened slightly. At what might have been the closest thing to a compliment I'd given him. "Careful, Detective. People might mistake that for civility."
I moved past him to keep processing the area. Felt his attention on my back. Observant. Thoughtful. Unsettling, the feeling that he was studying me. Analyzing my methods the way I analyzed crime scenes.
Being a puzzle for someone else to solve didn't appeal to me. Especially not someone like him, who read people as easily as I read spatter.
The rain kept falling, washing traces from the alley. I worked faster. More methodical. Concentrated on what could be salvaged. On what could be controlled.
Unlike my new partner, who remained the most unpredictable element in the rain, the noise, the wet neon, and the slow inventory of everything I couldn't yet name.