He wasn’t happy. He wasn’t one bit happy. Wallace Carling couldn’t remember what it was like not being a cop. Some of his colleagues didn’t like being called cops, preferring to be called policeman or policewoman, police officer, or detective—always insisting on getting the rank just so. Not Carling. He was a cop first, a detective second.
None of that mattered to Carling. What mattered to him was catching the bad guys. But tonight he was sitting in a seedy bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. He found this place when he’d walked the beat in his rookie days, and he knew there wouldn’t be any other cops hanging around. Carling wasn’t a drunk, but he was just beginning to slip out of the reach of sobriety just then.
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