6/12/2016 3:29 AM Upper Manhattan, New York.

The sudden, hollow echo of knuckles urgently rapping against the front door rudely awakens me from my dreams from which I explored in an awkward position on my coffee stained couch. Almost immediately, I jolt upright. NYPD documents and various newspaper clippings flurry off the ground into a mini tornado the second my feet slam against the carpet. Whoever's insane enough to visit me at such early hours, begins rapping against the door once again. With that, I'm reminded to check myself down. Dressed in a slightly tight fitting white top and my comfy black cotton shorts, I'm not exactly visit "ready".

'Who knocks on someone's door at three in the morning anyway?' I complain in my head.

Halfway through walking uncoordinatedly down the dark and shadowy hallway, the person starts up again, this time with more force.

"What?!" I shout at the door but either, the person on the either side of the door doesn't hear or just chooses to ignore me. My fingers grip the door handle now. "What do you want?!" I shout once again whilst swinging it open.

The person I see standing on my front porch, is a rare sight.

"Spencer, open the goddamn do-" Samuel starts, whisper-yelling into his latest version of the IPhone. He's still dressed in yesterday's suit, the material slightly crinkled and shabby, the same state as his hair.

I stand there, mouth agape and my eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. "What the hell are you doing Samuel? Today hasn't even started yet!"

I berate him but after he raises a skeptical eyebrow at my statement, I realise what I said.

Giving a little growl, I shake my head and rephrase, "In a social aspect! But anyway, shouldn't you be sleeping? Like I was before you rudely woke me and like all the rest of society?"

"Miss Collins, we're detectives," he states in a strong tone all the while waving his phone around in unusual sass. "We're not meant to sleep."

"Whatever, Samuel. Just why exactly are you here?"

"It's about the Diaz case. I discovered a few things and couldn't sleep. I think you'd be great interested in some of the things I have to show you." He reasons, leaning one arm high up a over his head against the doorway.

With a sigh, I open the door more for him and give him an inviting wave inside. "Okay, fine. But you're making me coffee."

***
Sitting cross legged against the couch on the lead-grey carpet in my second floor apartment, Samuel and I rummage through connections I've made as well as the sketch and blood sample he found at the Moore's residence.

In my fingers I hold a steaming white cup of recently brewed coffee. The earthy and slightly bitter aroma of the hot beverage dances it's way in steam up to my nostrils. I love the scent of coffee, it's unique and kind of warming. Not to mention, it also acts as a life saver in my line of work. Especially when your partner decides to rock up at your place uninvited, ridiculously early in the morning.

I take a sip of my drink.

"Well, we know it's him, we just have to catch him now before he does anything else."

"And how do you propose to do that?" I question him, tapping my sharp, manicured fingernails against the mug.

"I need a drink- you?" He disregards the question for a moment, standing up and spinning on his heels to the kitchen and I can't help but feel a roll of my eyes coming on.

"You're a walking, talking stereotype. Just because you're a detective, doesn't mean you have to gorge yourself with liquor. I'm content with my coffee, thanks."

A condescending snort can be heard from the kitchen. "Well, maybe if you didn't break up with me right when I was about to get down on one knee, I wouldn't be this walking, talking stereotype?"

"Urgh, Sam. Don't even go there!" I exclaim with a warning tone in my voice. "It wasn't professional. Being with your partner is never professional! Not to mention you hadn't fully divorced your ex wife. Plus Mr Cacy, don't ever say I never warned you not to fall Into your old habits since we broke up." I can feel my blood starting to boil but gladly he says no more.

With an exasperated sigh, I massage my temples. "Look, can we just focus on what's actually important right now?" I return my gaze to him, who walk towards his original spot on the carpet, bottle in hand.

I don't outwardly get a response, but his silence acts as reassurance and that to me, is good enough.

"Well, we know what he looks like as of now thanks to the Moore's Intel. I doubt we'll find him where he actually lives but a man has to obtain the things he needs someplace, right? We'll ask around, see what places he goes to, how and when. Formulate a plan according to their info and arrest him at the premises."

"Are you sure that will work? He seems smart and from past reports, has evaded arrest multiple times in other cities," I ask and place my almost empty mug on the low lying coffee table to my left.

"Spencer, I'll make it work. He won't get away from me."

"He's insane and broken, Samuel. He can't be reasoned with the law and political speech or forced into submission with violence. Perhaps all he needs is to be understood, even if it's not real. Even if it only lasts a couple hours. Maybe then he could let his guard down?"

Eventually he gives in, nodding a few times meekly in agreement. "Well," he pauses, folding his arms. "How is it you propose we do that?"

Considering what he did to me earlier, taking his time to answer my own question, I decide to do the same. I reach for my steaming mug of caffeine, only for my fingers to betray me, when they slip out of the slightly moist handle midway through bringing the drink to my mouth. Of course, the dark liquid spills all over my conveniently white shirt. I curse at the sudden heat of it.

"Godamn it," I mutter and waddle towards the bathroom down the hallway. Immediately, I switch the light on, sending a golden hue to lightly brighten up the shadowy living room. The sound of running water, interrupts the silence in the apartment. Eventually, I speak up again. "Not we. Me. What did you say Joshua Diaz was diagnosed with? Post traumatic stress disorder, schizophrenia and alcohol addiction. Perhaps he'd be more open and welcoming to the presence of a female rather than an authoritarian, condescending Caucasian male?" I question Mr Cacy, all while scrubbing furiously at my now drenched top with a washcloth and water.

When I finally look up at myself in the mirror, a sudden shock of electricity runs up my spine, giving me a little jolt on the spot. Behind me, a little to my left at the doorway, Samuel stands casually with a indescribable look on his face. I move forward to exit the room, but he doesn't budge.

"Why Spencer, I never knew you thought so highly of me." Is all he says, with a small smirk on his face.

"Yeah, well.." I start, searching for something as equally sarcastic to say in reply. But all I find myself searching is his eyes, his face. Only for a moment, though. But with him so close, staring back at me, it feels more like ages. I can even swear I can feel the stubble on his chin. I settle for,  "Now you know."

And with that, I shove my slim frame past his. Now, there's work to be done.