Standards for what constitutes a 'large individual' have changed over the course of human evolution; the first Australopithecus to scamper across the Tanzanian plain was likely no more than four and a half feet tall. Now, some seven million years later, when people have become almost inured to the sight of a seven foot, 300 LB man dunking a basketball, it takes a spectacular specimen of biggitude to transform sophisticated urban citizens into paralytic gawkers.

 San Francisco Homicide Inspectors Lindsay Boxer and Warren Jacobi waited breathless in the back yard of a dilapidated Seeger Street row house. Their jaws remained agape, eyes unblinking and wide as their murder suspect – a mid-fifties white male dressed in a blood-soaked tweed suit – put a fist on the dirt and stood up, unfurling his body to its full, hellishly intimidating height. Clutched in a lefty death grip, the man held what appeared to be a gore-caked chef's knife.

 Not four hours before, officers following an anonymous tip discovered five dead bodies in a drug-strewn dump up the block. Three men, two women, all dispatched by deep, precise wounds to the heart and throat, some liberally dusted with a mixture of crystal meth and cocaine.

 Boxer and Jacobi were interviewing various blind, deaf and dumb area residents in the vain search for a witness when a terrified neighbor waylaid them to this yard, to this impressively built, knife-wielding fellow who fit the description of 'likely suspect' so perfectly, he may as well have wrapped himself up as an early Christmas present.

 “Have mercy,” Jacobi muttered, before loudly ordering the man to drop the knife and raise his hands.

 The suspect appeared confused. His brows twitched and forehead wrinkled. Traces of rusty white powder flaked away from his nose and mouth.

 To Lindsay, the flakes resembled a grotesque Van Dyke beard of blood and cocaine. A man that size would be difficult to subdue under any circumstances, but if he was nuked on stimulants? Reloading might be necessary. Her finger remained at index on her Beretta's trigger guard, and she repeated Jacobi's orders.

 “Police! Drop it! Hands up!”

 Only after she gestured emphatically with her gun did the suspect seem to understand his life hung in the balance. Weary blue eyes registered comprehension, and he nodded. His kielbasa-sized fingers uncurled painfully slow, like they'd been clenched for hours. The knife dropped point-first and stood wavering in the soil. He lifted his arms in surrender.

 Barked orders and body language cues sent the suspect to his knees, and Lindsay covered him while Jacobi snapped on cuffs with the suspect's full cooperation.

 “You're under arrest,” Jacobi began, and tugged with great effort to get the man back on his feet. “You have the right to remain silent -”

 “Nu culpa,” the man whispered, followed by a string of heavily accented words that sounded like a prayer.

 Jacobi cast a questioning glance toward Lindsay, who responded with a helpless shrug. “Greek to me. I'm a lapsed Baptist.”

 Reading the Miranda rights to suspects was protocol, regardless of their ability to understand, so Jacobi frisked him thoroughly and completed the legalese litany while Lindsay bagged the knife.

 “No wallet, no phone or keys,” Jacobi reported. “No cash. No identification.”

 “International man of mystery,” Lindsay quipped. She took a quick look around the neighborhood, and was gladdened to find their little side-street jaunt hadn't drawn the baying media's attention. “Let's scoot before the hounds catch our scent.”

 “Didn't see the littlest bloodhound over there,” Jacobi noted.

 “Yeah. Can't believe she's missing this one.” Lindsay had also clocked the peculiar absence of Cindy Thomas, the San Francisco Register's ace crime reporter, and she tried to hide her disappointment. “Good thing, though,” she added. “We might make a clean getaway.”

 ****

 Across town at the Register offices, the reporter in question packed up her desk and struggled desperately with the desire to cry. Or throw something heavy through the conference room window, just to scare the poop out of the chicken-legged editorial staff.

 “It's not like we're letting you go, or even suspending you,” the managing editor told her. His shirt bore wide sweat rings under the arms, and he smelled like a man besieged by the panicked whims of others. “Just take it easy at home for a little while, do some softer stories until this business gets straightened out, huh?”

 “This is ridiculous,” Cindy repeated. She'd said that at least five times, partly because it was true, and partly because the repetition kept her from screeching neon blue profanity.

 She picked up her purse, a banker's box full of research material, and a small canvas tote bag – a bag which contained the very reason for her banishment from the paper – and elbowed her way around the cubicle partition.

 “We're just being cautious, trying to avoid a workplace incident,” the sweaty eddie explained again. “It's temporary.”

 “It's ridiculous!” Cindy bellowed.

 She made it down to the parking garage before she lost it. In the safe privacy of her car, which didn't really feel all that private or safe anymore, Cindy cracked a little. She almost laughed and almost cried and almost allowed for the possibility that it wasn't ridiculous, that her editors and colleagues were right.

 Maybe the Hallelujah Man had a crush on her.

 

****Act One****

 Getting the Hummer-height suspect into their low-ceilinged unmarked unit proved tricky for Boxer and Jacobi; they bumped his head twice before he settled in the back seat. All the while, he remained oddly docile for someone who might be high, especially calm for someone who recently slashed five people to death.

 On the drive back to the Hall, he kept his eyes low and continued to mumble foreign, sacred-sounding words. Lindsay caught the occasional 'deo' or 'judico' from Latin, but the rest was a wall of sound her brain could not penetrate.

 After only a few blocks, her curiosity and annoyance boiled over. She half turned to face him. “Hey. Hey, what's your name? Where you from?”

 At first, he didn't seem to hear her at all, and continued his prayers.

“My name is Boxer. His name is Jacobi,” Lindsay enunciated, pointing helpfully to herself and her partner. “Your name?”

 After a few moments, the prisoner quieted and looked up. His bloodshot eyes held a natural confidence and intelligence, and Lindsay was surprised to find his pupils were not dilated. He quirked his mouth flat, as if sealing his lips, and shook his head.

 “Okay, Mr. No-name. Are you enjoying your crime spree in America? Carving up half the junkies in San Francisco?” she said, while pointing out the windows at their beautiful city scrolling past.

 A flash of something near happiness loped across his face. “Ahh, America. San Farnciska. Yes.”

 Lindsay whispered sideways to Jacobi, “I think he's Canadian.”

 Jacobi's stomach clenched with a stifled laugh. On days like this, days when they missed sunrise while cooped in a rank toilet of a house, spent breakfast staring at the horrified dead tarred with thick strands of their own syrup... well, a joke could make the difference between letting the black seep in, or keeping your professional remove. On days like this, humor was crucial.

 “Nu Canada. Romania, yes. Sibiu,” the prisoner cheerfully announced. 

 Lindsay drew back and blinked rapidly. She was surprised by how normal he sounded at that moment, his apparent relief at the prospect of communication. “Do you speak any English? At all?”

 He frowned. “Putin englezeste. Little?”

 Frustration scuttled through Lindsay's brain. She scanned her memory and realized she knew painfully little about eastern Europe. “How 'bout Russian? You guys speak German?”

 The suspect made a dismissive face and spit toward his feet. He said something that even Lindsay could recognize as profanity. “Romanian,” he repeated. Turning aside, he resumed his prayers.

 She turned around and muttered to Jacobi. “This is gonna be fun. I thought even schizoid killers spoke more than one language nowadays.”

 Jacobi lifted a brow and humphed at his partner. “Well, you don't. And before you even say anything, Texan is not a formally recognized dialect.”

 “Aw, shut-up. You're no Rosetta Stone, old man.”

 “I speak-a the Italiano,” Jacobi corrected.

 Lindsay sneered at this patently false claim. “Barely enough to seduce a cocktail waitress. That doesn't count.”

 He hissed through his teeth. “I'll chalk that one up to envy and let it slide. Not my fault your man's across the Pacific.”

 Lindsay's shoulder tensed in a faint flinch. For the first time that already too-long, too-gruesome day, she gave a thought to the man of mention. Pete Raynor was probably tucked away in his Cambodian offices, working late into the evening to get another building permit cleared through the Phnom Penh bureaucracy. At some undetermined point during their separation, Lindsay had come to realize the phrase 'out of sight, out of mind' was more than an empty cliché; lately, it rang like truth. 

 Quite unbidden, her thoughts jumped onto a parallel line and Cindy Thomas was suddenly front and center in her brain, looming near with cream-pale skin, warm eyes and thick auburn hair. Sense memory is a powerful thing and, in that instant, Lindsay could almost smell her breath, taste her mouth. She stared blindly into space and let her tongue glide across her bottom lip, as if some trace of a week-old kiss still lingered on her skin. Some sweet hint of lip gloss, or the earthy splash of rainwater...

 Jacobi popped his fingers near her face. “Boxer.”

 She snapped back to reality and gave him a bleary, blinky grin. “Yeah?”

 He leaned in through the driver's side window and jingled the car keys. “If you're done chewing on your lips and daydreaming, maybe you could help me take Bigfoot upstairs?” he asked, and jerked his head toward their placid, praying prisoner.

 Lindsay looked around and saw they were in the Hall's parking garage. She'd missed half the drive back, lost in recollection of one guilt-stained, extracurricular smooch with a female reporter ten years her junior, a kiss stolen while squished between too many stressful cases, and while her own alleged boyfriend was eight-thousand miles away.

 “I'm in trouble,” she said, and slammed the car door.

****

 Clumps of uniformed officers parted like a dark blue sea as Inspectors Boxer and Jacobi sailed into the squad room - the enormous, ghastly prisoner ambling before them made for a very effective prow. No one drifted within six feet of the man, and Deputy District Attorney Jill Bernhardt couldn't blame them. Giant, blood-spattered homicidal maniacs gave pause to most sensible people.

 Jill sat at Lindsay's desk with a cell phone pressed to her ear while, on the other end of the line, the Deputy Mayor's hostile barking (decrying both Bernhardt and her little SFPD playmates as ultra-morons who flattened the Mayor's approval numbers by allowing serial and spree killers to run rampant throughout the city) turned to irrelevant background noise.

 She picked up a folder and waved until she garnered Lindsay's attention, then exaggeratedly mouthed, “Is that him?”

 In response, Lindsay raised the evidence bag containing the gory knife and gave her friendly neighborhood prosecutor a cross-eyed smile, which Jill translated thusly: “Der. Of course it's him, genius.”

 “We got him,” Jill announced into her phone, provoking a stunned silence from which she drew immense personal satisfaction. “Yes, mere hours after the crime scene discovery, a suspect is in custody and police have recovered the possible murder weapon. If you like, you may now retract all previous statements regarding my competency and that of the intrepid public servants investigating these murders.”

 The line went dead. Jill flipped shut her phone and sighed. “Guess that's a no-go on the apology. Shocker.”

 Not that she was genuinely disappointed; no, for Jill, the current standard for disappointment was learning exactly how many thousands of designs of priest's stoles were available, how many different countries were involved in their manufacture, and how difficult communication with Chinese and Polish textile producers could be – they cooperated only slightly more than the paranoid bureaucrats of the Catholic Church. Ergo, Jill's Halloween party insight regarding the origins of certain crime scene trace evidence had thus far proved difficult to develop.

 Like so many other potential Hallelujah Man leads, it curved back and formed a circle, trapping investigators inside while the killer rolled free. Still, even clotheshorse Jill was impressed by the wide array of fashion choices for members of the clergy; the vestment-and-stole combinations alone were almost limitless.

 Across the room, Lindsay was briefing Lieutenant David Carbahal – a sub for the vacationing Tom Hogan. He didn't talk much, nodded a lot, napped at his desk and took three hour lunches. He made everyone miss Tom's hunting dog energy.

 Once Carbahal departed, presumably to make a few calls and go back to sleep, Lindsay darted around front of the prisoner to open the interrogation room door. As Jacobi led him inside, the suspect suddenly turned and addressed Lindsay.

 “Boscher? Boscher.”

 Evidently, he listened well enough to catch a semblance of her name. His eyes remained steady, and his voice retained that strangely reasonable, lucid quality which again caught Lindsay's ear. Still, his movement was jarring, so her cautious left hand perched on the butt of her pistol.

 “Scuzati-ma,” he said, shaking his head to allay her distress. “Boscher. Nevinovat - nu culpa, ah?”

 “Yeah-huh. Obviously all just a big misunderstanding,” Lindsay said. She helped Jacobi secure the suspect foot and hand, then they left him under guard and moved into the observation room, where Jill waited for a briefing.

 “Am I mistaken, or did that coke-faced behemoth in the O-positive suit just tell you he didn't do it?” Jill asked.

 “That's about all he can say – he doesn't, or won't, speak English,” Lindsay told her. “Says he's Romanian. And, despite the hydrochloride facial, I honestly don't think he's high.”

 “Sure doesn't act like it. Calm as anything,” agreed Jacobi. “We'll have him tested once he's booked, after forensics gets up here to collect evidence. Ten'll get you five that dust around his nose matches our crime scene blizzard.”

 “I like those odds,” Jill said. “Please tell me that knife was on his person at the time of arrest.”

 Lindsay gave her a grin. “In his very hand, counselor.”

 Jill pumped her fist and hissed out a thrilled “Yes!”

 Her overt joy was understandable because the city's law enforcement apparatus – the D.A.'s office in particular - was under pressure from City Hall to win back public confidence. Lately, there were too many weak plea bargains, and too few straight-up trial convictions with hard sentencing. After layering that atop a general lack of progress on the Hallelujah Man murders, Jill felt she was overdue for a high-profile slam dunk, and she looked ready to kiss Lindsay flush on the mouth for giving her a clear path to the basket. Perhaps Jacobi, too, though with considerably less vigor.

 “I freakin' love you guys,” she burbled, bouncing on her tippy toes.

 “All we did was put him in the car,” Lindsay deflected. “You should thank the tipsy old neighbor lady who found a 'loony whacker' passed out in her azaleas.”

 “If we can put this one to bed clean, I'll swing by with roses and Dom,” Jill proclaimed, raising two fingers to seal the promise. “Meanwhile, I'll try to corral an interpreter for Vlad the Inhaler.”

 Lindsay wrinkled her nose over the rotten (possibly inaccurate) pun and watched Jill nearly skip out the door. She couldn't help smiling; seeing Jill in such a buoyant mood was a rare treat these days.  Additionally, the sight of those lean hips jiving in a narrow skirt reflexively lit the reptilian areas of the Boxer brain. Though her staring barely spanned a three count, it was enough to warrant notice from her grouchy, perpetually observant partner.

 “Good grief,” Jacobi complained.

 “Good grief, what?” Lindsay couldn't believe it; this legendarily houndish man, now sour-faced and cross-armed, was daring to judge her for a little glance? “Oh, leave me alone.”

 “Clearly, you've been left alone too long already. Do us all a favor - check yourself before you do something incredibly self-destructive and stupid. Again,” he added, plainly referring to her ancient indiscretion with an engaged ex-husband.

 “It's time to write that one off, okay? I'm not doing anything...” Lindsay's voice softened and trailed away. Her sharpshooting eyes had traded Jacobi for a distant target – specifically, a smallish, red-headed bullseye wandering near the squad room entrance.

 Lindsay Boxer focused on Cindy Thomas, because that's what she did now, because once the thought of her cropped up, there was simply no other option. At unpredictable intervals and often at the worst possible times, her world would shake until all non-essential contents scattered like chaff, until it all winnowed down to one increasingly necessary person. This violent, tectonic process invariably left Lindsay feeling dizzy, muddied, and starving.

 “Stupid,” she finished and summarized.

 She watched Cindy shift a canvas tote from one shoulder to the other and approach the paired desks Lindsay shared with Jacobi. Watched Cindy's expression change from confusion to dismay at Lindsay's apparent absence. Watched as a handsome young uniformed officer approached Cindy.

 Graham, Kyle. A shiny, crew-cut newbie from Nowhere, Florida with good teeth and broad shoulders. He touched Cindy on the arm. Gestured for her to take the empty chair beside the desks. Brought her water and knelt before her, smiling.

 Cindy smiled back at him.

 Lindsay's brows instantly crashed together. Her chin dipped low, and her nostrils flared. One boot scuffed against the floor, a tentative pawing before blast-off.

 “Toro, toro,” Jacobi whispered, as his bullheaded partner charged off to blindside the unsuspecting young toreador. “Woman never listens.”

 ****

 Cindy Thomas felt highly uncomfortable walking into the Hall of Justice, and that in itself made this a very unusual day. Her visits were normally work-related and therefore solidly in her comfort zone. Those visits had little to do with her personal life, except on that rare occasion when she made a work-related excuse to spend time with a certain inspector.

 In the past, she'd been guilty of dropping in with inane questions about a story or case, questions which could have easily been answered with a phone call, simply to be close to Lindsay Boxer, to perch on the edge of her desk and lean in close, whispering questions and soaking in breathy, drawled answers as if they were discussing national secrets instead of subliminally flirting.

 That was before. Before the simmering, scantly acknowledged attraction between them took the form of one exceptionally sweet, tragically brief kiss – a kiss they hadn't spoken of since. Lindsay had dodged her calls this past week and avoided being alone with her, sending the clear message that maybe they'd jumped the gun a bit.

 Emotions were running high that night; maybe Lindsay had kissed her while gripped by gratitude or relief over learning that the late Martin Boxer wasn't really a dirty cop. Maybe it didn't mean what Cindy thought, or hoped, at all. Maybe Lindsay took some time to think and came to her senses.

 Lindsay had a boyfriend, a successful, handsome, age-appropriate partner with one significant drawback: Pete Raynor was physically absent. Meanwhile, perpetually present Cindy had given Lindsay an irrefutable confession of romantic intent by trying to suck the lips right off her face.

 Though it hadn't been like that, not really. Cindy's overactive memory sometimes gave it a garish tint, but she knew it was a bona fide sunrise event – it shimmered, welcome and right, just on the horizon. They would talk about it sometime soon, Cindy knew, just not this morning.

 This morning, she walked into the Hall with a literal sack full of problems which, sadly, had naught to do with kissing her favorite cop.

 Cindy wound up her courage and crossed the homicide bullpen, headed straight to the familiar paired desks, but neither Boxer nor Jacobi was anywhere in sight. Her resolve faltered for a moment.

 “Miss Thomas?” a man's voice called from behind. “Can I help you with something?”

 She turned around and found herself nearly nose to chest with a solidly built uniformed officer. “Ooh. Hey, there.” She took a step back. “No, I'm good. I'm just... waiting.”    

 “For Inspector Boxer,” the officer said, with a sly, knowing smile.

 Cindy wondered if she was so terribly obvious, if everyone knew the moment she set foot in the squad room that she was coming to see Lindsay. “Yeah, actually. Is she around?”

 The young officer nodded and crossed his beefy arms. “Man, you reporters are fast. She just brought the suspect in a few minutes ago.”

 “Just brought in the suspect,” Cindy repeated, trying not to sound bitter. The multiple homicide from Seeger Street wasn't her story, but she was heartened to know that SFPD had the killer in custody so quickly. She thought it better to keep secret her real reason for visiting, and so played along. “We're not as fast as you guys sometimes, but we try to keep up.”

 The officer – Graham, by his shiny name tag – waved a hand toward the empty chair by Boxer's desk. “Guess it's okay if you take a seat. Can I get you anything while you wait? Coffee, maybe?”

 Pleased and surprised by this courtesy, Cindy asked for and received a cup of water. Coffee was out of the question; her nerves didn't need any extra stimulation. She carefully settled her purse and canvas tote out of sight, under Lindsay's desk.

 “Is there anything I can help you with?” Officer Graham asked. He knelt before her chair and kept his voice confidentially soft. “You seem kind of... I dunno. Out of sorts?”

 She gave the kid a smile and told a smooth, simple lie. “I nearly got smeared by a taxi this morning. Shook me up a little.”

 “Wow. You gotta watch out for those cabbies – they'll run you down, then get out and demand a tip,” Graham joked.

 It wasn't terribly funny, but Cindy appreciated the effort and kindness, so she faked up a chuckle. She stopped laughing when Lindsay Boxer clomped up beside Graham, looking like she wanted to kick somebody square in the face.

 “Officer? You got somewhere else to be?” the inspector rumbled.

 Graham looked up and swallowed hard. “Uh... yeah.” He stood and gave Cindy an embarrassed grin. “See you around. And keep an eye out for those taxi drivers, okay?”

 Cindy clicked off a half-salute. Lindsay stared napalm at Graham's back until he departed the room. “What's that about taxis?” she asked.

 “Nothing. Didn't happen,” Cindy said. “Do you have a minute for me?”

 “Jeez, Thomas. The suspect hasn't even said anything yet. He might be faking, but I don't think he speaks English. And he literally spit when I asked him about German or Russian.”

 Cindy pulled a silly, grossed-out face. “He spat at you?”

 “Not really. It was more like a 'hell, no' kind of spit.” Lindsay paused as if mulling something over. “Say, you don't happen to speak Romanian, know any Romanians, da-da da-da?”

 “Romanian? No, can't say I do.”

 “Shoot. Figured it was worth asking,” Lindsay said, shrugging. “Can't rule much out with you.”

 “Sorry. Actually, I'm not here about the drug murders - someone else is on the story. Although I'm pleased as punch that you nabbed the psychopath.”

 “That's another thing – I don't think he's crazy, or even high. I don't know what his deal is.” Lindsay cast her eyes toward the interrogation room. The forensics team had arrived to collect evidence, presumably the knife, samples from the suspect's grimly powdered face, and every stitch of his blood-spattered clothing. She gestured toward Jacobi, asking if he wanted her to come back over, and he shook her off. Evidently, the erstwhile slasher was still on his best behavior.

 “No diminished capacity plea, then. Jill must be thrilled,” Cindy noted. “Hey, back to me for a second? I need to talk to you about something else. Something personal.”

 Lindsay, assuming personal meant romantic, visibly stiffened. Thinking about kissing Cindy was one thing, but discussion of said kiss remained a dismaying proposition. “Look... I don't even know what to say about that yet. I know I should have called you, but once we met Jill and got started on the fibers and everything, I just - ”

 “Not that, either,” Cindy interrupted, though she was clearly pleased to learn their impromptu sidewalk make-out session remained near the front of Lindsay's mind. “Make no mistake, we will discuss that at some point, even if I have to tackle you and strap you down. There may be truth serum involved – I haven't decided yet.”

 The suggestive threat caused Lindsay's eyes to widen. She emitted a nervous laugh and leaned against her desk. “Consider me warned. So what's up? You look kinda whipped.”

 Cindy grumbled agreement while she retrieved her tote, then laid three plastic zip bags onto the desktop. In each was a 3 x 5 index card and a bundle of pale yellow wildflowers – the ubiquitous California Poppy. One tiny bouquet was pressed flat, as though it had been tucked inside a weighty book for preservation. Lindsay fluttered her lashes in puzzlement.

 “About a week ago, I found this note and a little bundle of flowers on Maggie's windshield,” Cindy began. She held up the baggie with the flattened flowers, and displayed the note so Lindsay could read the blocky, printed inscription.

 “You are an exceptional person. In case no one has told you lately... you're beautiful,” Lindsay recited. She paused and squinted, trying to hide her unease. “Okay. That's bizarre.”

 Cindy frowned and let her shoulders slump. “Gee. Thanks a lot.”

 “Oh – not bizarre that someone would think you were beautiful.” Lindsay's face contorted wildly as she backpedaled toward contrition. “It's true, you know. Both parts. I meant the method of conveyance is weird.”

 “Mmh. I thought so, too,” Cindy agreed. “And thank you for the half-assed compliment.”

 Lindsay flashed a relieved smile. “My specialty. Moving on?”

 “Moving on. This one was dropped off at the Register yesterday morning, with another little bouquet.” Cindy held up the second bag, containing a note which read:

 “We don't always know what's good for us. Sometimes we need to be protected from the things we want.”

 “Oh, boy. Whatever happened to 'Hey, cutie, let's grab a coffee'?” Lindsay wondered.

 Cindy swallowed a zinger about how she'd wondered the same thing lately, though not exclusively about the stalker – now was not the time. “I questioned our building's desk attendant, but he said the note and flowers were waiting at the front door when he opened up,” she added, as her expression turned sulky and angry. “Word got around fast, and someone pushed the panic button. Office gossip says the Hallelujah Man is reading my articles and wrote me a love note-slash-death threat.”

 “That's crap,” Lindsay muttered. “It's dangerous to spread that kinda talk. They should know better. Plus, the idea of that pious sicko sending a note just to say you're special and pretty and whatever - it's ridiculous.”

 “That's what I said! Or shouted, really.”

 “You should have shouted!” Lindsay boisterously agreed. “I would have hollered my guts out.”

 Cindy sniffed up a faint laugh, heartened by her friend's vicarious outrage. After the paper raised a white flag so quickly, it felt good to have someone to take up her colors and give a rebel yell in support. “Yeah, well... the managing editor said he couldn't risk a 'workplace incident,' and didn't want to take any chances. They've asked me to do scut work from home until this gets sorted out. That's why I'm not on your super-nasty Romanian slasher case,” she woefully explained.

 “Jesus. I'm sorry.”

 “Please don't apologize. They're the ones with feathers on their legs.”

 “Pardon?”

 “Chickens,” Cindy clarified. “Bok, bok.”

 “Oh. Right.” Unsure what else to say, Lindsay sighed in sympathy. She motioned for Cindy to continue her show and tell presentation.

 “Right. Okay. The third, which I found this morning, was taped to the door of my apartment building,” Cindy said, with a light tremor in her voice. She steadied her hand and raised the third note.

 Lindsay scowled as she read the words aloud. “Blindly following our passions will bring misery and ruin. Be strong and walk the righteous path.”

 Cindy laid the plastic bag aside. She wasn't scared so much as anxious; the notes weren't overtly malicious, but the notion of being watched by someone bold enough to physically invade her life, someone opinionated and righteous enough to judge her professional (or personal) choices – it was distinctly unsettling. When Cindy looked up, she found Lindsay's expression had washed down to a stern, rocky shoal.

 “From vehicle to work to home within a week. Seems you've got yourself a rapidly escalating stalker,” said the peeved inspector. “Why'd you wait so long to tell me about this?”

 “Aside from the fact that you've been ducking me?” Cindy fired back, causing Lindsay to lower her eyes. “Alrighty. Got that out of my system. I shall let it drop.”

 “I'd 'preciate it,” Lindsay muttered.

 “Thing is, that first note and the flowers came right after... after that incident we're not talking about just yet. Truthfully, I thought it maybe it was from you.”

 “Me?” Lindsay straightened up, looked genuinely slighted. “You think I'm some cheapskate weirdo who leaves unsigned notes and flowers yanked off a highway median?”

 “Hey, I've never been courted by you! You might write poetry and send wine and roses for all I know! I don't know what to expect, if I should even expect anything,” Cindy whispered at a hot ramble, all while blushing a fetching shade of irked. “The first note was kind of sweetly innocuous, and the timing... I mean, it came right after we - ”

 “Yeah, okay,” Lindsay interrupted, hoping to spare herself another distracting trip down memory lane. “I savvy your logic about the first one. Those other two are raising my hackles.”

 “Are we talking Hallelujah Man hackles, or just generic, overprotective cop hackles?” Cindy squinted out a weak smile. “Please say it's the second one.”

 Lindsay sensed how hard Cindy was trying to hide her fright. She battled down an urge to slide off her desk and hug the girl – just wrap her up and hold on until the world slowed down. The fear that she couldn't offer support to her friend without the intrusion of sexual tension or awkwardness made Lindsay feel like a coward and a damned fool. She magicked up a comforting smile instead.

 “Second one. There's a religious tone, for sure, but no malice. They seem corrective, sort of like... ”

 “Vaguely non-secular pedantry?” Cindy supplied.

 Lindsay chortled over the reporter's concise, ripping assessment. “Mmm-hmm. This might be someone who reads your articles pretty regular. Maybe they saw you at a crime scene and thought, 'Hey, she's just a cute, fluffy runt.'”

 “Whoa, now -”

 “'A vulnerable, innocent kid seduced into danger by the glamorous world of criminal justice.'”

 Cindy's mouth fell open in a quiet gasp. “That is so grossly offensive, I don't even know where to - ”

 “Easy, now. I know you're a piranha. I've seen those teeth at work,” Lindsay said, showing her palms in a placating gesture. “I'm just saying certain ignorant people might mistake you for a defenseless little kitty in need of rescue. Happens to the best of us.”

 “Oh.” Cindy took a moment to smooth down her ruffled pride. “Piranha?”

 Lindsay jutted out her bottom teeth and clicked bright choppers in goony, underslung affirmation. It worked – Cindy smiled, even laughed a little.

 “Anyhow, they've grown so invested in your safety that he – or she – is reaching out, in their own yucky way,” Lindsay continued. “First thing we do is file a report so there's something on record - I'll do that as soon as I get a minute. Second thing, you take this stuff down to Claire and let her do all the usual checks. Third thing, you start being extra careful.”

 “I've already skipped ahead to number three,” Cindy told her.

 “Good. Don't go outside without a finger on that pepper spray trigger, you hear me?”  

 “Yup. Loud and clear.”

 Across the room, Jacobi emerged from the interrogation room with the forensics techs. He waved his partner over. Lindsay nodded, rolled a hitch from her tense shoulder and leaned a smidge closer to Cindy. “For the record, I have sent flowers, but never in all my days have I written poetry.”

 Cindy mustered a grin. “That's a shame. Some of the best American poets are cowboys.”

 Lindsay snorted and rolled her eyes. Despite a cellular ache to stay with Cindy and play watchdog, both knew that wasn't really an option. She stood and readied herself for the shift back into case-closing mode. “This deal here will probably wrap up fast. Soon as I can, I promise we'll take care of this.”

 “Thank you.”

 “Stay alert, but don't get too worried.” Though she wanted to stay, wanted to offer something more solid than a promise, Lindsay gave Cindy's arm a brief squeeze and backed away. “It's gonna be all right. We'll find this crank and put the fear in him, okay?”

With a confidence she didn't fully own, Cindy nodded and gathered her things. She watched Lindsay join Jacobi and examine a slip of paper. They spoke excitedly and departed the bullpen at a trot, presumably following a hot lead. Cindy was inconsolably jealous. 

 Moments later, two officers led a stunningly large prisoner out of the interrogation room. On his massive body, the prison scrubs looked like doll clothes; the cuffs barely reached his armpits, and the trouser hems rode high on his calves. Cindy imagined that with a strong sneeze, he could rip the stitching at several stress points, like Bruce Banner during a green mood.

 “Holy sheep,” Cindy murmured. The impolitic reporter in her yearned to rush over and fire a few incendiary questions (in German and Russian, just in case he was faking). In this case, good sense did overrule her passion. Her stalker would be so proud.

 On her way out, she called the Register's managing editor directly and tipped him that SFPD had a suspect in custody – nothing more. Her abrupt announcement sent the clear message that she felt snubbed by not getting the assignment. She was too preoccupied to properly flaunt the consequences of his cowardly misstep.

 Once trapped in the crowded elevator, Cindy Thomas struggled with an unusual sensation of claustrophobia. Every brushed arm or bumped shoulder reminded her that privacy and personal space were illusions; when someone wants to insinuate themselves into your life, there really isn't much you can do to stop them.

 She drew her arms in and tucked against the back rail, tight-shelled as a walnut. Despite the fact that she was surrounded by police officers sworn to protect and defend, she didn't feel safe.

*****

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