Sergeant Isaiah Bennett sat on the far end of a wooden park bench with a paper cup balanced between both hands and watched his younger brother Marcus stretch one leg across the pavement.
Marcus grimaced.
“That knee is going to be the death of me.”
Isaiah glanced down.
“The knee?”
“Yes.”
“Not the cheeseburgers?”
Marcus looked offended.
“I eat responsibly.”
“You ate two last night.”
“One was small.”
“They were identical.”
“One felt smaller.”
Isaiah smiled.
Marcus Reed was thirty-four, four years younger than Isaiah, and possessed the rare ability to argue nonsense with enough confidence that strangers sometimes reconsidered reality.
He wore an olive-green field jacket over a black T-shirt, dark jeans, and clean white sneakers.
Isaiah wore a navy bomber jacket, plain white T-shirt, and black trousers.
Neither man looked remarkable enough to attract attention.
That had been the intention.
Isaiah had been working twelve-hour shifts for nearly two weeks.
Marcus had recently returned to Oklahoma City after three years in Houston.
Their mother had complained that her sons lived twenty minutes apart but behaved like international diplomats requiring months of negotiation to schedule lunch.
So Marcus had sent Isaiah a text that morning.
Park. 2:00. Coffee. No excuses.
Isaiah arrived at 2:07.
Marcus had accused him of disrespecting the institution of brotherhood.
Now, nearly an hour later, they were sitting beside a walking path discussing their mother’s upcoming birthday.
“She wants everyone at the house,” Marcus said.
“She always wants everyone at the house.”
“She wants you to grill.”
Isaiah sighed.
“She says that because I made ribs once in 2019.”
“They were good.”
“They were dry.”
Marcus shrugged.
“Mom loves you enough to lie.”
Isaiah laughed.
Families were useful that way.
Riverside Commons stretched between several apartment buildings and a cluster of new office towers northwest of downtown.
The park had been renovated the previous year.
Wide sidewalks.
Children’s playground.
Basketball courts.
Small artificial pond.
Exercise stations.
Benches spaced beneath young trees that had not yet grown enough to provide meaningful shade.
It was a bright but overcast Wednesday.
Joggers passed.
Parents pushed strollers.
Two teenagers argued beside a vending machine.
A group of university students sat on the grass with laptops open.
Ordinary.
Isaiah liked ordinary.
Police work did not provide enough of it.
He had joined the department fourteen years earlier.
Patrol first.
Then traffic.
Community response.
Field training.
Sergeant.
For the past three years, Isaiah had supervised newly graduated patrol officers during the stage between academy certification and independent assignment.
He had learned that rookies usually fell into three categories.
The first were frightened.
They hesitated too much because every mistake felt career-ending.
The second were overconfident.
They had finished academy training and mistaken familiarity with policy for mastery of human beings.
The third group was the most promising.
Cautious enough to learn.
Confident enough to act.
Isaiah had spent years trying to move people from the first two groups toward the third.
The following morning, he was scheduled to receive a new probationary officer.
Evan Cole.
Twenty-six.
Former college wrestler.
High academy scores.
Excellent firearms qualification.
Excellent physical performance.
Strong written exams.
Several instructors had described him as decisive.
One had used a phrase Isaiah disliked.
Command presence beyond his experience level.
That could mean confidence.
It could also mean a young man had discovered people obeyed him when his voice became loud.
Isaiah planned to find out.
He had never met Evan in person.
Training assignments were normally introduced at roll call on the first shift.
Marcus interrupted his thoughts.
“You're doing the cop stare again.”
Isaiah blinked.
“What cop stare?”
“The one where you're looking at a tree but somehow thinking about paperwork.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
Marcus pointed toward Isaiah’s coffee.
“You haven’t taken a sip in six minutes.”
“Maybe it’s bad.”
“You ordered black coffee from a park kiosk.”
“It was guaranteed to be bad.”
Isaiah raised the cup.
Took a sip.
It was terrible.
Marcus smiled triumphantly.
“You're welcome.”
A woman walking a golden retriever passed them.
The dog pulled toward Marcus.
Marcus leaned down.
“Hey, buddy.”