"Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part VI"

Flak looked at his reflection. Not bad, he thought, and mussed his hair a bit, then flipped up the collar on his trench coat, which he had left on despite having spent the last two hours indoors, pacing the cramped confines of the precinct interrogation room.

The door slammed open, and Captain Johannson entered like a bursting balloon.

"FLAK! Why the goddam hell do you have a goddam publicist?"

Under intense questioning from colleagues clearly relishing the chance to put the screws to the "Super Cop," Flak had been forced to admit that Janey was not a date or a suspect or anything other than his publicist, who he was meeting for drinks at Marty's last night, just before her car exploded. Flak, not surprising in retrospect, had become the prime suspect.

"Well, I don't anymore, now do I?" Flak said petulantly.

Johannson grunted. "I see you cared deeply for her."

"Janey was a great girl. I guess I'll miss her," Flak said.

There was a long silence as Johannson scanned the file, then stared at Flak, and then scanned the file again.

"May I go now?" Flak asked, meekly.

"Sit down. Flak."

Flak sat.

"Flak. Besides evidence that you were sharing appletinis with this...publicist... and the fact that you fled the scene of a crime, which I'm going to chalk up to cowardice..."

"Thank you, sir."

"Ahem. I have nothing I can pin on you."

"Just as I would have expected, since I've done nothing."

"Hurrg," the Captain grunted. "That's what you're best at. I'm going to keep trying, though." The Captain stared at Flak, thinking that if Flak would just flinch or sweat or make any kind of move, he might just sock him one. But Super Cop was cool now, that sonofabitch.

"So," Johannson growled. "What have you got on Bannister?"

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