Carlos

I wake up alone, the place beside me empty and cold.

For a moment, I wonder if this is how it will be — if John will pretend like nothing happened and play off our night of passion as a momentary lapse in judgement; something to bury like a shameful secret and never speak of again.

I haven't had much time to dwell on this when he appears in the doorway, a pair of coffee mugs in his hands. With just a trace of awkwardness, he crosses the space between us and holds one out to me.

"Didn't know how you like it," he says as I accept the offering, "so I took a guess."

I take a sip of the tan, aromatic liquid and find it pleasantly sweet — not overwhelming, but just enough to tame the bitterness of a strong brew.

"It's good."

"Brown sugar and cream," he says.

I look at him over the rim of the cup. "You sure that's not the way you like it?"

A faint flush darkens his cheeks, and I take another sip to hide a smile.

"Nah. Strong and black, for me."

"Unsentimental; no complications," I say, testing the water.

He comes and sits on the edge of the bed, looking me over with a searching expression.

"How you feeling?"

I shrug. "A little sore, but I'll live."

He brushes a finger over the bandaid on my shoulder.

"I dunno if we're good for each other," he says. "You bring out the beast in me."

"Don't worry about it," I say, peeling off the bandaid to inspect the skin beneath. "See? It's already healed. You barely broke the skin."

The only trace of injury that remains is two small marks, matching the position of his canine teeth, like a pair of fresh scars.

John frowns at the mark and rubs the back of his neck. "I shouldn't have done that. At least not... the way I did."

"Hey, I can handle a kink or two," I say. "I mean... You're not into some weird cannibal shit, are you?"

"Huh?" He blinks, finally looking up from the marks to meet my eyes. "No, nothing like that. It's more like..."

He trails off at the sound of scrabbling paws and jingling dog tags, approaching rapidly.

"Shit."

He snatches the coffee cup from my hand and holds it high, just as Rick and Morty come flying into the room, leaping on the bed and showering me in morning doggy kisses. I fall back beneath the assault with a laugh, giving them each some snuggles in return.

They quickly settle down, one on each side, leaning against me like affectionate guardians.

"Looks like you guys approve, huh?" John says, eyeing the pair.

They wag their tails enthusiastically, and I laugh. "It's almost like they understand you."

"Almost," John agrees, scratching Rick between the ears. "So, uh... you up for that trip to the P-A-R-K?"

I squint at him. "Why are you spelling 'park?'"

The two Shepherds are instantly alert, eyes trained on John, shivers of excitement making their ears tremble.

"Oops." I cover my mouth and laugh. "I guess they do understand."

"They're favorite words, anyway. Alright," he says, addressing the dogs. "Go get ready for the park."

In a flash, the dogs are gone, racing back downstairs with a patter and scrabble of paws and clinking tags.

"Also..." He sits down again and hands my coffee back to me before pulling something from his shirt pocket. "I had someone check your mail. This was in there."

It's a small white envelope. The return address tells me it came from Purly & Sons Mortuary and Funeral Home. Tearing it open, I find a plain white sheet of paper, folded in half. On the inside is a simple, straightforward invitation to Kyle's service, which is scheduled for this afternoon.

"Shit. It says to RSVP."

"So? Plenty of people don't and they still show up."

"I don't have a suit."

"You can buy one."

"With what money?"

"You can claim it as a work expense. You really need to read that contract."

I groan. "Do I have to?"

John shrugs and takes the invitation. "I'm not gonna cuff you and drag you there. But don't you think it's a good idea? What if Kyle shows up?"

"At his own funeral?"

"Why not? Wouldn't you wanna watch yours?"

An image pops into my head: a sad little gathering, a cheap casket, and a few rows of mostly empty chairs. In my imagined scenario, I can't even tell if Aunt Toni bothered to attend.

"No, not really."

John hands the invitation back to me. "You're the ghost expert, but it seems like a good opportunity to me — to observe the living, if not the dead."

"Will you come with me?" I whine.

His eyes warm, almost seeming to literally shift as the brown and green gives way to gold and orange, like leaves changing color, but he shakes his head. "Nah. I got other business to see to. This isn't my only case, you know. A cop's work is never done."

I flop back against the pillows and sigh. "Fine."

He rests a hand on my arm. "Don't worry; a plainclothes officer will accompany you. Whoever tried to kill you is still out there, and until we catch the bastard, you don't go anywhere alone."

"Right."

"Hey, the sooner we solve this thing, the sooner you can get out of here and get back to your life."

"Right." I sit up and turn away from him, reaching for my clothes before he sees the paroxysm of uncertainty on my face.

I hear him take a breath, and brace myself for a blow — for something that starts with the words, So, about last night...

Instead, he gets to his feet. "Come on. We better get moving before those monsters bust out a window and head to the park on their own. They've done that before."

He heads for the door, and I speak involuntarily.

"John."

He pauses. "Yeah?"

My throat constricts. Part of me wants — needs — to know where we stand; if what happened meant something, or if it was just the result of two guys with too many hormones stuck together for too long. Another part of me is scared to hear the answer to that question.

"Thanks for checking my mail," I say, deciding that, for the moment, ignorance is bliss.

"Sure thing," he grunts, and continues on downstairs.

I finish dressing and follow him, leaving the unsaid words behind.

~ ★ ~

In the river park, John lets the dogs off their leads in a designated dog area and allows them to play for a while. When they've run off some steam, but before they've exhausted themselves, he calls them back and clips them to their leashes, handing Morty's to me. Then we walk along the trail until we near the old bridge where Kyle's body was found.

It looks different at this time of day, with bright sunlight sparkling off the rippling water and little minnows darting among the rocks. Even the bridge looks more picturesque than ominous, and it's hard to believe a scene of brutal horror took place here just a week and a half ago.

Or that there would be anything left at this point that even a pair of trained dogs could find.

"You'd be surprised," John says, when I voice this thought. "Rick and Morty mighta flunked K-9 academy, but they were top of their class as far as noses go. Substance detection probably woulda taken them if Becky hadn't."

As he speaks, he takes a plastic baggy from his pocket, in which are two items. One is a piece of cloth, and the other is the butt of a cigarette.

"You found a lot of those, right?" I say, as he slips on a glove and removes the cigarette. "Can't you get fingerprints off it, or DNA, or something?"

John shakes his head. "The killer musta worn gloves, and there was no DNA on the butts. We tested all of them."

"That's weird, isn't it?"

John shrugs. "Maybe. DNA's a crapshoot. Sometimes you find it; sometimes you don't."

He holds the butt out to Morty, who sniffs it solemnly.

Next he extracts the bit of cloth and holds it out to Rick, who does the same.

"Is that from..." I swallow. "Is that Kyle's?"

"Nope. Well, we don't think so, anyway. It was a little ways off, along the shore. Look's like the front pocket of a shirt. We think Kyle might've torn it off his assailant . There were... a few signs he'd put up a fight, at least at first."

He nods at Rick.

"He's got the scent. I'll give them the signal, then we just follow where they lead. They're well-trained, like I said, but if he gets distracted, the command is 'find it.'"

Both dogs perk up at this, wagging their tails in expectation.

John sighs, but smiles. "And that's why they failed their training. Working dogs know they're working; these dorks still think it's a game. Alright, you two, ready?"

Two tails increase in tempo. Rick's whips back and forth so hard his whole body wags.

"Okay, find it!"

My arm is just about yanked from its socket as Morty takes off, nose to the ground. John handles Rick — the bigger of the pair — with more control.

Eventually, I get the hang of it, and let Morty guide me even while keeping her close. She drags me up and down the bank, through the stream (a hazard John failed to warn me about) and both over and under the bridge. Finally, I hear John's sharp whistle, and Morty tries to dislocate my shoulder again.

As we rejoined John and Rick, Morty finally breaks free of my hold and I fall to my knees — dirty, wet, sweaty, and exhausted. Morty, meanwhile, runs circles around Rick and John, the latter of whom holds something up in a gloved hand.

"Bingo," he says.

Forcing myself to my feet again, I approach. "What did you find?"

He holds out his hand. Nestled in his nitrile-clad palm is a tiny bit of metal, shaped almost like a bow. The back of an earring.

"Fuck. Rick found that?"

John nods. "You ever stick your finger in your belly button and smell it?"

I make a face at him. "The fuck would I do that?"

"Dead cells build up in places like that. Belly buttons, piercing holes. You don't change your earrings for a week, they start to smell. If a human can smell it, a dog can smell it at least ten thousand times stronger. Strong enough to find that," he indicates the tiny bit of metal, "among that." He gestures at the wilderness of rocks and grass lining the river bank.

"Shit." I look at Rick with renewed respect. "You think it's the killer's?"

"Not for sure. But I think it belongs to the same person this bit of cloth came from, and that makes whoever it came from a person of interest."

"What can you do with it?"

"Dunno yet. Maybe something; maybe nothing. That's the forensic lab's job. In the meantime... we better go shopping. You can't show up to a funeral looking like something that crawled from the grave."

I glare at him, then look down at myself.

He's got a point.

~ ★ ~

After purchasing a respectable, if cheap, set of clothing from a budget department store, John takes me back to the station, where he introduces me to Sergeant Michael Nguyen.

"Heya," Nguyen says, greeting me with a wave and bright smile. "Ready for a funeral?"

I eye his casual attire — jeans and a polo shirt. "Are you?"

"I'm not attending," he says. "I'm observing. From a safe distance."

He taps his ear.

I gape at him. "You want me to wear a fucking wire? To a funeral?"

"Boss's orders," he says, dark eyes flicking to where John is deep in conversation with Chief Coleridge.

"Fine," I say, relenting and spreading my arms wide. "Tap me up."

~ ★ ~

The cemetery is deserted, except for one small group gathered at the far northeast corner. The invitation said three o'clock and I'm right on time, but it seems like everyone else is early.

"All good?" Michael's voice crackles in my ear. He'd dropped me off and parked where he had a good view.

"Yeah," I mutter under my breath. "We're good."

"Okay. I can hear everything. Your extract word is 'help.' Got that?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Okay. Going dark."

The crackling in my ear stops, which I guess is what that means.

There's a wide gravel path, but I walk on the grass, my footsteps silent as I approach the group gathered around Kyle's permanent resting place, in the hopes of not disturbing the proceedings.

No one seems to notice as I join the little group listening to the nondenominational preacher drop on about an afterlife he's only read about in books.

I tune him out and study the crowd.

Kyle's aunt sits in a foldable camp chair, accompanied by a nurse I didn't know she had when we last visited her. A few other youngish people make up the rest of the crowd, one of whom I recognize as Kyle's ex — a girl with a half mohawk and a few tattoos.

I join the group, edging in at the side and hoping it seems as if I've always been there, and fold my hands in front of me as I bow my head.

A tug at my waist makes me start, and I turn to find myself almost nose to nose with a familiar face.

"Ay, pendejo," Alejo says, laughing under his breath. "You buy these on the way? You still got the tags on."

I groan internally.

Of all the people I never imagined Kyle and I would both know, Alejo is top of the list.