My friend and I went for a short walk that evening after we finished her packing. It needed to be a quick one, because her flight was early and she was not a night person, being abed usually no later than 10:00 pm. Walks of this type had become a ritual for us, so we opted not to neglect it that evening.

My friend was a fiendishly deep sleeper, but she did on occasion wake either to find me not by her side or creeping into bed at some unholy hour. Such events were barely a ripple in our relationship. The amiable and tolerant lass assumed that I was doing what superheroes did in the late night, namely, out patrolling and guarding the city.

Fallon asked about my nocturnal ramblings at times, but she seldom ever pried. She did suggest a time or two that I should look into this D-Train Defenestrator who had been menacing the city, but she otherwise allowed me to keep my own counsel on such things. She never even asked about my so-called superpowers.

We were talking about something vaguely related to crime in the city when she and I rounded the corner a block east of home and were met with a distressing scene near the local bodega. A crowd had assembled, and the premises was blocked off by police tape. An ambulance was there, along with police cars, officers, and a number of detectives.

It was about half an hour past my friend's normal bedtime, but we stopped to gawk with the rest, arm in arm, with me on the street and Fallon standing on the curb so that our cheeks nearly touched. We watched, listened, and asked questions of the others assembled. There were about 40 bystanders in all, many of whom I recognized from the neighborhood. Apparently there had been a robbery, and someone had been shot. There was little news beyond that.

We'd been there about five minutes when I sensed a heavy pair of eyes on us. Looking about, I saw an older, thickset police officer drilling Fallon and me with what could only be called a disapproving gaze. Such men still were common, even in the 21st century. This one suddenly moved in our direction.

When he did, my hackles went up. There was something not right about this fellow and the deliberate way that he moved toward us. He muscled his way through the small crowd in no time and made a beeline straight for Fallon. At that moment, I pivoted to place myself in his way. He seemed surprised and more than a little angry when he couldn't move me aside.

It was only then that I saw his left hand emerge from his pocket. There was something cupped in it. He reached for Fallon, and I moved to place myself fully in between them. The chap grabbed me hard by the shoulder with his right hand, exerted what must have been his full strength, and barked something incoherent. I do believe that if his left hand had not been occupied with whatever he'd removed from his pocket that he would have tried to wrestle me to the ground.

As it was, his right hand did it's best to move me aside. What was his fixation with Fallon? Certainly, she was a shockingly beautiful woman and was frequently the target of the attention of men of all types. Still, if he was so disapproving of two women kissing, why focus on just her?

At that point, I didn't need to know the details of this jackass's story. I merely stood my ground, with one hand behind me on Fallon's hip just to make sure someone didn't snatch her away. A quick glance at the small crowd around us said there were no blood drinkers present. And those faces I did see seemed shocked and alarmed by the officer's sudden insertion among us. No, this didn't appear to be part of a ruse to stage an attack on me.

"Can I help you with something?" I asked the officer, who by that time again was trying to move around me. As I may have told you, I am a tall girl, and, though you'd never guess by looking at me, I am heavy with muscle.

The officer so far had not moved for his pistol or his nightstick, but I saw from his face that such a thing was merely a matter of time.

"Can I help you with something?" I repeated.

"You need to step aside," he said in a forceful but strained voice.

It then dawned on me that, though there were other officers within easy shouting distance, this officer—McConnell was his name—had not called out seeking assistance.

"Miss, step aside," he repeated in a louder voice. It apparently had occurred to him that he was unable to get around me, so the pressure of his hand on my arm increased, to no real effect, and he raised a knee as if to strike me.

It had come to the point where I needed to capitulate or to deck this idiot and run. For but a faint moment, the thought of wrapping my hand around his neck entered my head. But then it was gone. Too many people present knew Fallon and me.

"Waddaya got here, Mac?"

The voice came from one of the detectives who had been canvassing the crowd 20 or so feet away and who had moved in our direction at the sign of commotion.

Without removing his hand from my arm, Officer McConnell took a half step back and raised his left hand, revealing a small white packet. He motioned to Fallon where she still stood behind me. "I saw that one drop this on the ground."

"That's a lie!" someone from behind us shouted.

"I saw you pull that out of your pocket," said a voice just out of sight to my right.

A half dozen voices were now raised in protest, and McConnell's face went a vivid shade of crimson. The first detective, a nice-looking man of about 50 with dark skin, short graying hair, and a barrel chest and solid shoulders, was then joined by another, younger detective. This second fellow was tall, lean, and not bad looking, with a short dark crewcut. The ID on the lanyard around his neck said Keebler.

The older detective, who mouthed an unlit cigar, was Moreland. The older man calmly produced a small evidence bag into which McConnell placed the white packet, which to my heightened senses smelled vaguely of heroin.

When the detective spoke, it was in a serious and stern voice. "Good eye, Mac. Let me and Keebler work over these two felons. Skipper needs you back on the line."

McConnell departed with a short nod, after which Moreland passed the evidence bag to his partner. "You young ladies have any information on what went down here, tonight?"

I leapt on that question. Fallon, who had snaked under my arm and was again standing next to me, her arms around my waist, was a firm believer in helping the police whenever possible. But I didn't want to give any of these officers a chance to ask her any questions or to engage her at all. Something, I knew not what, was off here.

"Not this per se," I said. "But there are a couple of people between here and the park who always seem to be problems." I then spent the next minutes narking on a few of the creeps, druggies, and felons in the area, especially those who I had reason to believe might do an armed robbery. What could it possibly harm? Perhaps now that Bogdan and his colleagues were out of the way, a little polite police pressure would change the tenor of the area around our neighborhood. It couldn't hurt, so why not.

I was careful not to be overly talky. Police are always suspicious of folks who know too much about the local criminal element. I had learned that lesson the hard way, and not just from watching TV with Fallon.

On that note, my dear friend was beginning to fall asleep as I talked. She seldom was up past 11:00. And she did have an early flight to catch.

Happily, neither of the detectives said a thing more about the small packet that McConnell had tried to plant on Fallon. Why had he done that? I hadn't a clue. But the man now was on my radar, and not in a good way.

I got very good vibes from Detective Moreland. He seemed like a standup public servant. I had no particular read on his partner, Detective Keebler, other than the fact the fellow seemed friendly and a bit flirty. But I did give them my contact information—no need lying about that. Hopefully, it was the last that Fallon and I would hear on the subject.

Hopefully.