The lights were flickering in the Kelly household. I looked up at the light fixture praying the lights wouldn’t go out again. The kids were in bed, and Annabelle was upstairs in our room. I shuffled through last-minute cases, even though my mind was completely elsewhere. I looked at the last stack of cases dismissively debating between work and pleasure. I sighed submissively and picked up the stack of cases. I shuffled through the first few with apathy and indifference. When I started at the Police Academy 10 years ago, I didn’t sign up for sifting through cold cases at 12 in the morning.

There was one that caught my eye; it was from 9 years ago. I rubbed my eyes pushing the sleep away, and coughed at the dust that flew at me when I turned the page. There wasn’t much in this file, except the criminal record of the boy. According to the file, his name was Frank MeCurtha Jr., and in his free time he liked to sell illegal drugs, beat the living crap out of anybody who was in his way, and drive stolen vehicles. There was nothing else: no record of the defending lawyer’s statement, evidence against him, or the scene of the murder.
            I flipped through the pages hoping something would pop out at me. Where was all the evidence? I’ve written several case reports, and if mine was as bad as this one I’d be out of the Police Department quicker than you could say sayonara.             
The clock chimed on the hour, and I looked up. It was 12 in the morning, and I was still looking through the same case file. It was only eleven pages long, but I kept flipping back and forth cross-referencing with my own knowledge on case reports and cold cases. But nothing matched up. I wracked my brain for a reason, and double-checked everything I came up with. The only thing that I could come up with was that something wrong.
It was pitch black outside, and even our porch light went out an hour ago. This report wasn't going to give me any more information, but I couldn't bring myself to put it down. It went way past just finishing the stack; I was committed to this report. I flipped through the pages, holding it like a flip book, hoping something would pop out at me. Something…anything.

I remember when this case was still "fresh." I was still in my first year of the academy, and the case was given to the senior officer, McAliss. When the case went to court, there was one day of trial with no recess, and Frank was sent to jail. Even the defense attorney knew there was no way to win the case. Frank was from the "wrong side of town," and he sold drugs.
The only thing that seemed odd was one date. One wrong date. The only reason I even knew it was wrong was because it was referred to twice. Once as December 10th, and once as December 11th. But why? The only logical reason I could come up with is that the head agent made a typo. That one date was the only reason I held on to the case. That one date would change everything.
            McAliss still worked in the office. He was senior to me by about 30 years, and he never let me forget about it. Every chance he’d get, he’d let me know about the “diverse” cases he’s handled at the department, and how he had the most experience here. That was usually my cue to ask him why he wasn’t head officer, to which I’d never get a reply, but instead some meaningless grumbles. I’d shrug him off with a chuckle, and get back to work.
            Today was different. When he came over to me to start yet another pointless conversation, I took a different turn. I took the case file out of my briefcase and handed it over to him. Without a word he opened it. If I hadn’t been looking at him so closely, I might have missed the alarmed look on his face. He looked up from the report and practically yelled, “Is this some kind of joke? This case is from TEN YEARS ago. What are you doin’ with it now, boy?”
            “Cold case files, you know. I’m doing them for the next month, helping out the rookies.”
            “But why this one? You got some beef with me, son?”
            “None at all, but I have a coupla’ questions.” Last night, it finally dawned on me that McAliss stopped mentioning this case a long time ago. If I had an open-and-close case like this, no one in the office would ever hear the end of it. And if McAliss had a case like this, no one in this country would ever hear the end of it. How was it that this case seemed to disappear of the edge of the earth ten years ago?
            “Whatdya want?” The sly grin that was usually plastered on his face was replaced with a snarl. His weakness was also his strength, and that would turn around to bite him in the back sooner or later.  
            “What happened? If you’re going to tell me what’s in that report, forget about it. I want to know what really happened. Why isn’t it in the report?” I looked at him with newfound disgust as I realized that he wrote the report. He had chosen to leave out information. He ruined the same justice that I risked my life for everyday.
            He wasn’t there. Yes, he was there physically, but he seemed in a daze. “Do you honestly think right now is the right time to talk about this?” 
            “I don’t understand why not,” but of course I did. I was putting him in an awkward situation, and we both knew it. If he said that he wanted to talk outside of work, it meant there was obviously something he did wrong. If he talked right now, we’d both know what he said would be lies.
            Finally I sighed. “The Tavern on 6th Street at 8.”
            “Sounds good,” McAliss replied in relief and turned on his heels. As he walked away, we both knew that nothing about this meeting could be “good.”

           That evening, while driving home the only thing I could think of was my dinner with McAliss, What would he say? What would I say? Was I going to bring it up? Or would he just tell me?
            I sat in my driveway for a couple of minutes collecting all my thoughts before I walked inside. Before I could put the key in the lock, the door creaked open. I looked down to see the grin of the cutest kid in the world.
            “Let Daddy in, Martha!” I could hear Annabelle coming up to the door from down the hall. Martha opened the door all the way with her small hands, and moved over just enough to let me squeeze by.
            “Hi honey, how was your day?” I kissed Anabelle on the cheek, and smiled down at Martha.
            “Today I learned to add! 1+1=2, 2+2=3, 3+3=6, 4+4=8, 5+5=10!”
            “Oh, yeah? What’s 1983+9639?”
            “Daddy, you’re silly! That’s not fair, I didn’t learn that yet!”
            I chuckled and picked her up, ready to swing her around. “Where’s your brother?” I asked.
            “He’s upstairs! Today he got a recorder from school, and he won’t stop playing it. Daddy, tell him to stop!”
            “Jason!” I called, “Come downstairs! I want to see this new recorder you got!” I said as I winked at Martha.
            He trudged down the stairs, as if he had the third grade blues. “Hi Daddy.”
            “What’s wrong? Let me hear you play your recorder!”
            “You can’t.”
            “Why not?”
            “Because it’s gone.” Jason looked down at the floor unhappily.
            “What do you mean it’s gone?”
            “I mean I broke it.” Jason looked up at me, and I could see the tears welling up in his eyes.
            “It’s okay. Accidents happen,” I looked down at Jason with reassurance.
            “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
            “C’mon Jay, it happens to everyone!”
            “You mean everybody breaks their recorder, Daddy?” Martha was looking up at me wide-eyed.
            I looked over at her, and laughed. “No honey, but everyone makes mistakes. Come here, Martha!”
            She ran over to me, and jumped on to my lap. We were in a happy, jumbled mess, but Jason still had that somber look on his face.
            “Jason, I know what’s going to make you feel better.”
            “What?” Jason said, finally looking up.
            I looked at Martha expectantly with raised eyebrows.
            Martha matched my eyebrows with a sly grin and yelled, “THE TICKLE MONSTER!”
            It took all of 10 minutes to forget my dinner with McAliss until Anabella came back in the room, and asked, “Are you here for dinner, or do you have a meeting?”
            I sighed, put my hands on my knees, and got up. “I’m going to have to leave in 30 minutes. I have a work dinner at The Tavern at 8.”
            “Okay, we’re just having spaghetti for dinner; I’ll put some in a casserole in case you want some when you come home.”
            “Thanks honey.”

            I’d gotten there 15 minutes early just to make sure he wouldn’t be there before me. As soon as I got there, I started sweating. I knew this wasn’t an ordinary care, something was wrong. But I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that McAliss could have done that. When I first read the case file and asked him, all I hoped for was for him to say that he made a mistake. That he’d rushed when writing the report because he was late for his anniversary. That he’d read the date wrong because he forgot his glasses at home. Anything else, but what he’d actually said...or not said.
            He didn’t try to deny it. He’d looked at me alarmed. If I’d ever seen such a guilty face, it was that one. I looked up at the dashboard. 7:55.  I’d made a reservation at work a couple hours after I talked to him. I’d hesitantly made the reservation, not exactly sure if he’d show up. If he didn’t, he knew I’d think he was guilty. If he did, he’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.
            Walking up to the restaurant entrance, I passed by McAliss; he was leaning against the sidewall nonchalantly.
            “When did you get here?”
            “A couple minutes before you did."
…Oh. Well then he’d seen me sitting there for ten minutes doing nothing. He knew I didn’t want him to be guilty. He knew that I wanted to be wrong. But we both knew that wasn’t the case. We both knew there was a lot to talk about. But who would bring it up first? 
Once we got to the entrance of the restaurant, he opened the door and waved his hand forward, signaling for me to go first. Walking up to the concierge, I let her know I’d made a reservation a couple of hours ago.

“It should be under the name Mike Kelly.”
The concierge smiled eagerly at me, and casually moved her hair over her shoulder and turned around, letting her ever so present tattoo, even more noticeable.
McAliss chuckled, letting me know that he had seen it too. While walking us to our table, she walked in front of us. She swung her hips from side to side, and casually looked back to see if we were enjoying the show. I was amused by her attempts, and McAliss sure as hell was getting a kick out of it.
As we got to our table, she helped us into our seats and gave us a pair of menus. She leaned down, just enough, and alluringly asked me if there was anything she could do to help. She added “Mr. Kelly” at the end for great effect.
All I could do was laugh, as I let her know that if I needed anything, I would ask. She turned on her heels walking away, swinging her hips, in the same direction we’d just come from.
“Seems like the women follow you everywhere. Tell me your secret,” McAliss joked.
“My secret is that I’m not a fat 50 year old man, still acting like I’ve got moves from high school.”
            This got a dry laugh as we opened our menus. I looked down hard, trying to figure out what I wanted to eat, but it was pretty hard since McAliss was staring at me, almost appraising me. I wasn’t a senior officer, at least not like him. He wanted to know if I had the guts to do my job well. 
            I looked up at him, and stared him right in the eye. The mood of the evening suddenly changed. We both knew we didn’t come here to make jokes. “So, what really happened?           
My dad was a corrupt cop. It’s not an accusation or an assumption. It’s a fact. He used to take bribes, and skim money off the force. It was as easy as that. In fact, he was in charge of finding the rat in the force, but the entire time it was him. Ironic, huh? Everyone knew I was his son, and everyone knew what I was capable of. When I first joined the force, they told me they wouldn’t “judge me for my dad’s mistakes” or “make presumptions” or “let it hinder their abilities to make decisions about my work ethics.” Little did I know that it was a bunch of BS. I was so naïve when I joined the force that I actually thought that they’d treat me like anybody else. Little did they know that I was actually one of the best. And McAliss knew that. He knew that this was case was so close to home, and he knew he’d pushed my buttons.
 
“Where’s the overwhelming amount of evidence you need in order to accuse me of whatever it is? I mean, if you even want this to go to court.” A smile was playing on his lips, and it took every nerve of my body to restrain myself from smacking it off his face.
            “When this goes to court, you better damn well know why you’re there. Let me spell it out for you; you put an innocent man in jail for the rest of his life so you could get a little more.”
            “And if this goes to court, how will you prove it?” Damn it, he knew. The only evidence I had was the lack of evidence.  
            “When this goes to court, I guess you’re going to have to wait and see.”

I knew that I could tell her anything. She always knew exactly what to say, and that's half the reason we're married today. I could tell her anything, and count on her to help me out. She wouldn't give me an answer, but it wasn't the generic crap I got at work. She’d talk me through what I was trying to say, even when I felt like I couldn't formulate my own words. She knew how I felt even before I told her. She knew me like the back of her hand, and she never let me forget that. And when I didn't do what she said, and if backfired (trust me, it always backfired), she'd laugh.
However, I didn't want to bring my sour mood home. She was too good to me. Before even going to this meeting, I was tense, and she knew it. She complained occasionally complained about the amount of cases I took, and joked often. But I knew she never meant it. She loved that I loved what I was doing, and that made her smile. Coming home after putting another criminal in jail, and making San Francisco a better place day by day was my life. It was never for the money, I mean let's face it; who could live on a police officer's salary? There were hard times, I'm not going to lie, but I never felt the need to do what my father did. He threw away everything he worked towards for fifty years, just so he could get a little more. His impulsive actions had grave consequences, and ‘fessing up to them was a part of growing up.
I knew it broke her heart more and more everyday I went to work. I knew she was staying up, trying her best not to go to sleep, on those few nights I came home late. She never called; she didn't want me to worry. But I knew she was gripping her book, her knuckles stark white. She said she never knew if I was coming home that day, and that scared her. However, that never stopped her from being the most supportive person in my life.
I was in the driveway for over ten minutes when I saw the porch light go on.
“Mar, are you home?’ The familiar pet name hit hard in my heart. We weren’t in to terms of endearment, but she called me Mar and I called her Bellie. There were no fake or superficial “honeys” or “sweethearts.” I remember when she first called me Mar.
I met her at the country club I worked at over the summer of my sophomore year in college year. Of course the country club couldn't spell "Mark," and so it said "Mar" on my nametag. She didn't work at the country club. She owned it. Well, at least her parents did. She was at the pool reading Great Expectations. It wasn't exactly the light reading you'd do poolside. She walked up to the bar, and asked for a light beer. I gave her a look, well aware that she wasn't 21 yet. But she was testing me. She knew I knew she was the daughter of Jacks Corporation, so even though she wasn't 21, I'd still give her the drink.

However, 21-year-old "Mar" was in the mood to flirt. "Oh, you're 21?"
She chuckled. "Oh, I don't look it?" gesturing to a well-toned body.
"Mm, you definitely look it, don't get me wrong. The last thing I'd want to do though, is get caught serving to an underage little girl. Nevertheless, Mr. Jacks’ little girl."
Her eyes gestured to my nametag. "Mar, is it? Join me by the pool. Oh, and bring a couple of cokes, if you want," she winked and left.
Hmm, let's see. Annabelle Jacks asked me to sit with her by the pool. Half of me knew I was just the bar boy, but the other half wanted to know what she wanted.
My curiosity got the better of me, and soon I was following her through the maze of beach chairs to the far side of the pool under one of this umbrellas you only thought existed in movies. Of course, I didn't forget the cokes.
"Great Expectations, huh? You didn’t strike me as that kind of girl."
"Well, Mar there’s a lot you don't know about me. After all, I met you just a couple of minutes ago."
She might have met me a few minutes ago, but I met her at the beginning of the summer, or well at least her picture. Her dad’s first words to me about her were, "Off. Limits."

Something tells me I wouldn't be welcomed back next summer if he knew about this conversation. I chuckled as I sat down on the lounge chair. It felt good to sit down after being at the bar the whole day; I mean it's not like was complaining, but preparing those drinks all day and flirting with middle aged women trying to ditch their husbands was not my cup of tea.
"Let's cut to chase. I come to this pool every afternoon, and lounge in this chair, and ask for a drink every afternoon. But somehow, you have never been the bar boy to come deliver it."
Whenever people asked us about the story of how we first met, everyone always agreed that she was the instigator. From the very start Annabelle was confident and aware of who she was. She carried herself with pride, and I admired how little she cared what others thought, especially her parents (especially with who they are). I sat there by the pool, these thoughts running through my head, and I suddenly became very self-conscious; she was watching me think, and in that moment I felt so naked and transparent.
"You tilt your head when you think. It's kind of cute," she cracked a smile. "Join me for dinner today. I usually hang out with the girls, but I'm not in the mood to hit the beauty salon for the third time this week."
"You're giving up your nails for me?! I'm honored."

She swat me with her book, and laughed along with me.
"7 PM, the Sunrise Majesty," she decided, and we parted ways.
"Annabelle," I called at the last moment, "the name's Mark." With that I winked and left, a little surprised with he events that unfolded that afternoon.

Being in that driveway made me wish I could go back to those simpler times just one more time, but I knew no amount of wishing would make it so.

How was this ever going to go to court? It really couldn’t, and it sure as hell wouldn’t. What was I supposed to do? Waltz into the lieutenant’s office tomorrow, have a chat with her about the kids at home, how Annabelle’s doing at work, and oh yeah, about how I want to take on a case against the lead senior officer at SPFD. Something tells me that might not be the best plan of action. But how was I supposed to just tell her something like that?

There wasn’t anything else to talk about today. I knew I wasn’t going to get any answers, but was there really anything wrong with wishful thinking? He was here to feel the situation out. He wasn’t sure if this was serious, I mean the case was cold for 10 years. The fact that I got assigned this one, and that I even showed one ounce of interest was pure luck. If it was any other officer, he’d shrug it off as just another criminal.

I knew I had to find out more about this case. It was like Frank MeCurtha Jr. fell of the face of the earth ten years ago. No one knew where he went, how he escaped, and who helped him. There was no way he could’ve strung all this together all by himself. Yeah, he did run with Valachi, but what did that even mean?

Was he a muscleman? Or a kid with a bad addiction? I knew nothing about MeCurtha except for his lengthy rap sheet, but I knew that didn’t tell the whole story. But what did?

At this point, I knew my only hope was finding this kid. But how?

Mornings after Grandma Kelly slept over were always busy. She made her signature blueberry pancakes with her homemade hot chocolate. Jason and Martha were planted on the chairs by the island in their own oblivious little world. Annabelle was already on the phone with a customer, smiling as though she was talking with them in person. She always said that you could feel a smile over the phone. She gave me a kiss across the kitchen island and gestured for a hug. I tried to reach for a cup of hot chocolate, but was quickly swatted by Grandma Kelly.

“Markie, how many times have I told you not to drink the hot chocolate until I add the marshmallows?” she reprimanded even though she couldn’t resist but laugh herself. This usual Sunday morning banter was always something I looked forward to. No matter how risky and time consuming my police work was, or how busy Annabelle was with work, on Sunday mornings we always felt like a family.

It was because of Grandma Kelly. She had a way with the children, even something I couldn’t completely understand yet. She knew what they want even before they themselves knew. She knew what to bring them to make them happy, but she also knew when to put her foot down. She kept us together, and every Sunday morning she reminded us why family was so important. She’d grown up with twelve brothers and sisters, and they all had to find a way to share two rooms. I remember when Mark, the oldest of them all (and the one I was named after), passed away. A death like Mark’s hit the family hard, but it also made me realize why having such a strong family dynamic was so important. Grandma Kelly was here for all of us even though she was the one who was probably hurting the most. She kept her head held high, and herself together.
She was a role model not only for me but for Annabelle, too. They had the kind of relationship that other mother and daughter-in-laws were jealous of.

“Daddy, what are you thinking about?” Jason looked up at me, wide-eyed.

“Just about how lucky I am to have you two crazy kids,” I grinned down at him, squinting my eyes and smiled as widely as I could.

“Yeah, Daddy, you are really lucky to have us!” he looked at me knowingly and winked. His wink was more of him squinting both his eyes until they were completely shut.

“Mark, a call came in this morning from the office. I’m not sure who it was, but they said to just call back whenever you can,” Annabelle said to me as she got off the phone.

I got up from my crouched position on the floor and walked across the kitchen.


“Bellie, can you pass the phone?” I called even though I was already next to her. I reached over her petite figure and grabbed the phone. She tilted her head up ever so slightly, and I leaned in for a kiss. It was so natural and so comfortable, and after ten years, it still felt like the first time I kissed her.

It was a number I’d been calling for 10 years now. I knew it by heart and could probably dial it with my eyes closed.

“Who would you like to put a call through to?” the operator answered.

“Uh, patch me in to the lieutenant, Marcy,” I responded to the operator, who everyone at the office knew pretty well. She used to bring donuts in every Friday as a reward for making it out alive another week.

“Right away, Mark,” Marcy replied. And then I heard the infamous low tone of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, which was probably one of the most cliché ringback tones.

I remember last year the entire precinct tried to convince the lieutenant to change the ringback tone, but she just wouldn't listen. We’d held a secret ballot and Thriller by Michael Jackson won. Of course the lieutenant was more than just a little hesitant to make that the ringback tone. And Lieutenant Dorre was always one for the symphony, anyway.

“Mark, we have a situation.”

“For crying out loud, it’s Sunday. Sunday is family day. Sunday is blueberry pancakes day. And most importantly, Sunday is my day off.”

“Mark, you know I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important. McAliss was found dead in his apartment last night. Point blank, which means he probably knew his shooter, goddamit,” I could hear her slap her desk over the phone, “How could this have happened?”

I ran my hand over my head pulling at my hair in frustration. As she was still talking over the phone, all I could think about was our dinner last night. Had I said anything? Is it possible that our dinner caused something?

“Mark. MARK. Are you listening to me?!” The lieutenant’s voice rang back in my ear.

“Yes, Dorre, I’m right here.” I’d known the lieutenant since my days at the academy, and she was a close friend of the family. We’d been on a first name basis since I could remember.

“Mark, I need you down at the precinct, asap. I already have Pierce running point from there and we already have a BOLO out on McAliss’ car. If there’s something to find, we’ll find it.”

“His car? Was his car not at the apartment?”

“Mark, I don’t have time to explain all the details to you over the phone. Just get down to the precinct and Pierce will fill you in.”

“I’ll be in within the hour. Tell Pierce I’ll be taking over the investigation once I’m down there. I want all resources of the SFPD available to me. We need the community to know that we don’t take the death of a senior agent lightly.”

“Mark, the public doesn’t know about it yet, and frankly, I don’t want it getting leaked.”

“I understand, lieutenant. But if we don’t tell the public and they find out some other way, what will they think then?”

“Get down to the office. We’ll figure it out soon enough.”

I hung up the phone in frustration.

**to be continued**