A Song of Ice and Fire

They dive into the day's case, settling into their chairs. Evelyn opened the folder marked GTA-07, her eyes skimming the details. A stolen red Porsche. Grocery store parking lot. No witnesses. No CCTV.

Scott leaned his chair back, clicking pen against the desk. "Cannot wait to chase some prick who probably left fingerprints on the wheel."

Their superior, Captain Russo, stepped up to their desks, steaming coffee in hand. "What are you two working on?"

"Recent grand theft auto, sir," Scott replied. "Red Porsche, stolen yesterday."

Russo nodded slowly. "Right. That one. You two actually want to chase after a missing car?"

Evelyn stood. "We're ready for anything you throw at us, sir."

"Good. Talk to the owner. Then track the thief down. And if they don't feel like cooperating... persuade them." He shot Scott a knowing glance before walking off.

Scott smirked. "Come on, Quinn. We're taking my car."

They exited the building. Evelyn slid into the passenger seat while Scott fired up the engine.

"You do know women can drive, right?" she asked, buckling in.

"I do. I just don't want you to crash my car," he said, grinning.

A moment later, Russo pinged them the address of the car's owner. They headed out, tires rolling through the city's late-morning lull.

The neighborhood was quiet. Middle-class. Nothing flashy except for what used to be a red Porsche in the driveway. Now just an empty space.

Scott knocked the door. A woman in her thirties opened the door—pale, tired.

"Detectives," Scott said, flashing his badge. "Richards and Quinn. We're here about your stolen vehicle."

She stepped aside. "Come in."

Above the fireplace there sat a framed photo of her and a man, both laughing.

"My brother," the woman said, her voice quietly. "He gave it to me before he passed. It's all I have left of him."

Scott gave a half-sigh. "Yeah. We're not here for a some lame sob story. We're here to know exactly how it was stolen. Details."

"Detective," Evelyn warned, giving him a side look.

Face tightened. "I was at the grocery store. I saw the car pulling away through the front window. I ran out of the store as fast as I could, but I—I couldn't catch up."

"Did you see the driver?"

"No. It all happened so fast."

"CCTV in the area?" Scott asked.

"The store said the cameras were down for maintenance. Just my luck."

Scott scoffed. "Convenient."

"I'm doing the best I can to retell my story."

"Yeah," Scott muttered. "Thanks. For nothing."

Evelyn shot him a glare. "Detective Richards!" She turned to the woman. "Ma'am, I apologize. We'll do everything we can."

As they left the porch, Evelyn caught up to Scott on the sidewalk. "What the hell was that back there?"

"She's wasting our time. Probably didn't even lock the damn thing. Hell, maybe she gave it to someone."

"You don't know that.

"And we don't have a single lead because she didn't think to park somewhere with working cameras. I'm just saying—some people bring this on themselves."

"We'll find something," Evelyn said.

"Fingers crossed," Scott muttered. "But we'll need more than that. Get in the car."

"Can I drive?"

"No."

They drove through the city streets. The neighborhood was quiet—ordinary. Nothing stood out.

Evelyn spotted a jewelry store across the grocery store. A small shop, glass windows, but most importantly—security cameras.

"That gem store," she said, pointing. "They might've caught something. Cameras too."

Scott squinted through his windshield. "We'll see, Quinn."

He pulled over to the curb. They stepped inside.

The store filled with the cool of an air conditioner. A young man stood behind the counter, scrolling on a tablet.

"Hey," Scott said, walking up.

The clerk looked up. "Can I help you?"

"We'd like to speak with your manager," Scott said.

The clerk blinked. "Uh… any complaints? You can file those through our—"

Scott pulled out his badge. "Not a complaint. Detectives Richards and Quinn. We're working an active investigation."

The clerk straightened, suddenly alert. "Oh. I'll get her right away."

He dialed in short extension.

A woman in her late forties stepped out. She had short, practical hair and had the expression of someone who'd run the place for years.

"Is there a problem, detectives?" she asked.

"We need to check your surveillance footage from yesterday," Scott said. "Specifically around noon."

"Of course. This way."

She led them into a small office in the back. A security monitor blinked quietly in the corner.

"Go ahead," she said, stepping aside.

Scott took the controls, scrubbing through the footage while Evelyn kept her eyes trained on the screen. They ran it back and forth, skipping through timestamps, scanning every frame of sidewalk and street. Until—

"There," Evelyn pointed. "Red Porsche. That has to be it."

The car zipped by, just enough for the plate to be visible: "5K8-Z43".

"Looks like we've got a plate," Evelyn said.

Scott snorted. "Are you stupid, Quinn? They probably swapped the plate by now." He leaned in closer. "Still... I can't wait to find this punk. See how tough they are face to face."

"Richards." Her tone was flat, warning.

They replayed the footage, It wasn't much—but it was a start. A direction. A lead.

"Let's get this to the DMV," Evelyn said. "Run the plate. And maybe check for traffic cams on that street."

Scott grinned, his fingers tightening into a fist. "Let's fucking go."

Scott and Evelyn arrived at the gray, slightly crowded government building. Long lines snaked past bored clerks behind glass windows. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

They settled into the waiting area, flipping through case files while waiting their turn.

When finally called, Scott flashed his detective badge at the DMV clerk.

"Looking into a stolen vehicle," he said. "Red Porsche. Possible plate switch."

The clerk, a tired middle-aged woman, pulled up the registration on her screen.

"Original plate is BCD-2366," she said, "but there's a recent request to change it to ZXO-1228."

Evelyn leaned forward. "Who requested the change?"

"Marcus Lane. Teenager."

Scott smirked. "Sounds like we found our guy. You got his address?"

The clerk hesitated. "I'll need your phone numbers to release that."

"Fuck," Scott muttered, fishing out his phone. "Here. Use this, you slow piece of shit."

"Thanks," she said, typing quickly. She sent him the address.

Evelyn added, "We'll pay him a visit."

As they left, Scott muttered, "Teenagers and their schemes. This one won't get far."

They pulled over to the address. At least it's what the maps saying. A modest house watched them from behind curtained windows, quiet as a held breath. Scott knocked hard. The door creaked open.

A black teenager peeked out, nervous. "Uh... yeah?"

"Marcus Lane?" Scott asked.

"That's... me."

"We've got a few questions," Scott said. "Mind telling us where you were yesterday around noon? A red Porsche went missing."

Marcus hesitated, eyes shifting. "I... I don't know what you saying, sir."

He tried to close the door. Scott shoved his foot in the way and forced the door open with a heavy push. Marcus stumbled backward, landing hard.

Scott stepped inside, looming over him. "Where you going, little guy?"

"Please! No!" Marcus cried, scrambling back.

"Richards!" Evelyn shouted.

But Scott wasn't listening. He grabbed Marcus by the collar and landed a punch. Then another. Blood sprayed from the boy's mouth, splattering the tile. His nose was gushing. He screamed. Scott's face—cold. Focused. Almost enjoying it.

"Richards, stop!" Evelyn rushed in, pulling Scott off.

"What the hell are you doing, Quinn?" Scott growled.

Evelyn knelt beside Marcus, shielding him. "He's just a kid! Look at him! He's bleeding, Scott!"

"We're not here to coddle car thieves, Evelyn. We're detectives. We deal with criminals."

"By beating them into the floor?" she snapped. "This is abuse!"

Scott turned away, arms crossed, staring blankly out the window. "I'm calling Captain Russo. The kid's still under arrest."

Marcus coughed blood, trying to speak. "You... you beat me because I'm Black, huh? You think you're better than me?"

Scott paused. Then looked at him with a hard glare. "You think this is about race? You stole a damn car. You think I care what color your skin is? You could be purple and I'd still put you down for pulling stupid shit like that."

"You're a monster," Evelyn said coldly.

"Not," Scott said, picking up his phone. "I'm just some guy with a short fuse. A detective. He's lucky he's still breathing."

Sirens came minutes later. Marcus handcuffed, taken away, bruised, shaking. Evelyn stood, arms folded, staring at the ground.

Afternoon, Evelyn and Scott sat outside a small coffee shop. The silence between them was thick.

"You didn't have to hit him like that," she said finally.

"I don't care, Quinn," Scott replied. "You and your bleeding-heart empathy... that's your problem. That's your weakness."

She sipped her coffee. "You call it weakness. I call it being human."

Scott leaned back. "Whatever."

A long pause.

"Gym," she said.

"What?"

"Let's go to the gym. You need to hit something that won't cry."

Scott cracked a faint smirk. "Fair enough."