Leering over to my approaching hero, as I step toward him, I ask, "What about air in the tires, Greg? Does your SUV automatically fill them?"

He shrugs. "I never paid attention to such things, Lieutenant."

"Well, I'm no mechanic, but, with your car not having lost any brake fluid, it's difficult to believe that the brakes had any trouble stopping."

"Are you calling me a liar, Lieutenant?" he asks, through a smirk, crossing his arms, standing before me.

Greg's immediate response with frankness, and, his defensive pose, amazes me. "I didn't say that, no," I say, shaking my head. "But, since you don't know if your SUV has an auto tire inflate feature, and the fluid is all intact—"

"I felt that you implied, there, that I was a liar," he responds, cutting me short.

I stand back, mentally, on my heels. "Sorry you took it that way, Greg. But, you do understand, I'm trying to solve a murder, and, sometimes, the smallest details help the most."

Greg eyes me with some contempt, but, his welcoming expression prods me to continue.

"Is there any reason why you think that you had brake trouble, if all is well under both the hood and the SUV?"

"I don't know, Lieutenant," Greg answers, innocently, uncrossing his arms. "Remember," he adds, as though trying to convince me of something that I might have missed. "I don't know cars."

"Are you sure that the brake light came on?"

He chuckles, and turns from me.

I step around to face him.

"Again, you're asking me about the brakes?"

"Yes."

His look grows stern. "I'm not sure that I recall what I saw, Lieutenant."

I nod my understanding of hitting a nerve...and persist. "To whom did you bring it then, Greg? We'll need to check their story."

"Lieutenant," he sighs. "Like I said before, my wife was the mechanical one, right?"

I furrow my brow, "Don't these GLS 550s," I say, pointing to his with an underhand swing of my wrist, "come with a 360-degree camera? Any chance that yours captured the murder?"

Greg sends me an inquisitive stare. He knows that I'm fishing for a reason, I can tell.

"Can I go home now, Lieutenant?" he asks, through some anguish, choosing not to dignify my question with an answer.

"I'm sorry. My fault. I just want to make sure of everything, Greg. I want to get your wife's killer."

"Then what the hell are you so concerned about the brake fluid, tire air, and camera for, Lieutenant?" he asks, flaring his arms, stepping about in a haphazard circle. "Those things didn't kill her! We didn't crash!" He stopped several feet from me, staring my way.  "And the car was in the Park position and turned off when it all happened! The camera couldn't have picked up anything! How dense are you?"

"Please, sir. Just relax."

Instantly, Greg stills and goes silent. A bewildered look creeps to his face, as he studies me with a "smarter than the average bear," demeanor.

Yes, he caught it. I see that he realizes I just addressed him differently—as "sir." All just a little test that I use in my investigative work—to see if those to whom I'm talking are paying full attention to me, and to what's going on between us. How can Greg know my "trick," though? Is he as smart as I know that I am?...

"555-5555," he's offers, without further delay.

"The service station's number?" I asked, closing the distance between us.

"The dealer, Lieutenant," Greg informs, chidingly. "You think we'd allow a service station to work on a fully-customized Mercedes-Benz SUV?"

Greg's unflappable nature and words cause me uncertainty. What money seems to do to some people—force them to believe that they're above the law and all manners. I sense that with Greg here. More layers to my star hero, that I had never "seen" before?...

"If that's all, Lieutenant, I'd really like to get some rest; I have to make arrangements for my wife."

"I understand, Greg. I do have a job to do, though."

He huffs out a breath.

I gather that means that he doesn't approve of me being a "detective" with him—nor do I. After all, Greg is my hero. How can I treat him like everybody else whom I'd question at a murder scene?

Still, switching from "friendly" to "business," while questioning someone, happens automatically with me—especially when something doesn't smell right to my cop-thinking nose.

"Officer Markin," I yell out, turning her way. 555-5555. The dealer. Call for records."

Turning back to Greg, his quivering lip, blank face, and staring eyes say more than one thing to me. Can I go on assumptions here? I always do. Still, I want to double-check the facts, clues, and information here first—to solve Greg's wife's murder. I don't want to jump to any conclusion regarding him, then have to work that back. 

Yet, I can't figure why Greg's so worried. Maybe, though, dare I think, that I don't "want" to know why?

He starts to stroll.

I follow.

"Are you saying that you think I did this, Lieutenant?" he asks, his question coming out of the blue.

I shoot back with kid gloves and a raised brow, as I loosely touch his arm, indicating that we should stop, "Is there a reason for me to think that, Greg?"

Confusion registers on Greg's face, and I take it as his shock over my question. He holds his eyes steady on me, as though he wants me to "read" it well.

Hmm. The "guilty" ones usually challenge me here—that is, press why I "shouldn't" have asked them that question. Greg, however, doesn't contest me. That, sometimes, has "innocent" written all over a person. Is that true here for Greg?

"I apologize," I say, genuinely, verbally stepping back. "That was uncalled for and unprofessional."

We begin our stroll again.

"Oh, come on, Lieutenant," Greg responds with lightheartedness, tapping me once, playfully, on the arm. "I know what you're thinking." He grins. "That it's always the husband, right?"

His remark hits me full face, even though we're strolling along, side-by-side.

"Well," he continues, pauses, stops, and turns to me, "I didn't kill my wife!" he grunts through gritted teeth. "I wouldn't! How could you even think such a thing?"

"Please, Mr. Fanson. Take it easy."

A raise in his brow catches my eye. Am I getting to him? His look tells me that he notices, for the second time, my address of him is different—after having been told to call him by his first name.

He adds, without missing a beat, "Relax? How can you tell me to do that?"

His face starts to redden.

Instinct tells me to stand at the ready, and I do...in a relaxed way. While on the job, I've had my share of fisticuffs, with certain individuals—bad dudes, tough dudes, dudes that were both taller and outweighed my 230 pounds—and, after having knocked them out cold, gotten them cuffed, and booked, thought, I'm quite the bad ass!

I've lived in the back room of a local gym, ever since Sabrina's death. Having boxed, too, since a young age, I can definitely handle myself well, in any hand-to-hand street confrontation. I have yet to encounter a perp who causes me to tremble, let alone one who can knock me on "my" ass. Everyone whom I've ever had to take down on the job, has always ended up on the bruised end—if they bring on a fight. Is Greg Fanson, my hero, about to try to go toe-to-toe with me?

With balled fists at his sides, Greg shouts, "You just accused me of...killing my wife, Lieutenant!"

Officer Markin starts to run over to assist me with Greg getting out of control. Before she reaches us, though, Greg collapses into my arms, and I wave Markin off.