10

Returning to the protagonist's perspective:

"I'm serious. This guy was at the crime scene that night. He knows a lot. Things might be more complicated than we thought. Anyway, he's yours now."

"And don't breathe a word about my involvement in the case. You know how Stark feels about these things."

With that, Rick got up and left the bar. He couldn't wait to return to his grand home on Wisteria Street with its plush bed and the warm, welcoming neighborhood ladies. The city's noisy life didn't suit a literary man like him.

Inside the bar, soft music played as Captain George studied Flint. He couldn't fathom how Rick had apprehended the suspect in just one night. Was this the power of Sherlock Holmes?

Flint, too, quietly observed the man before him. His gut said George was a good cop. But what good would that do him once he was handed over to the station? He'd seen this scenario play out too many times.

Over the next hour, George cautiously probed Flint for every detail. Of course, Flint omitted any mention of the document bag, only admitting to stealing gold and silver jewelry.

As time passed, George found himself believing Flint's account. His instincts told him this bumbling thief wasn't a killer. There was no evidence placing him at the scene. But duty compelled him to bring Flint in.

Yet George hesitated momentarily.

"In a strict sense, the unfortunate fellow before me surrendered himself with Rick. Ha, a perfect scapegoat. I'll take all the credit, my boss will be pleased with a swift case closure, the media will applaud, and we'll have another notch for the collar. This guy can take the fall when I hand him over to the station. Case closed, truth buried forever."

George's eyes betrayed a struggle; he was a good cop.

"Officer, we both know what happens at the station. Your colleagues won't believe I was even at the crime scene. When I get there, I'll tell everyone you framed me to be a scapegoat. My friends will vouch for me. We were all together drinking that night. No one left the city."

"So, RUN, OFFICER!!!"

Flint leaped up suddenly, turned, and bolted. A high-end wine glass thrown by George caught him on the back of his head, leaving him dizzy.

"Relax, I'm a cop. Here's my badge. This guy's a thief, and he's under arrest."

George knelt, handcuffed Flint, and escorted him to the station, locking him in a holding cell.

Slumped in his office chair, George pondered how best to leverage Flint's confession without pinning him as the dog killer.

After lighting a cigarette and making a few calls to check Flint's background and criminal record, George decided to interview Flint again.

"As long as we catch the real culprit soon, everything will fall into place."

A determined police officer rubbed his weary face, silently plotting.

Returning to the holding room, George found it empty. (╯‵□′)╯︵┻━┻

"Damn it!!!"

George pounded the iron door furiously, though his expression was oddly relieved. Sometimes, problems just solved themselves, right?

Despite the thief's escape, new clues emerged in the case. George realized he'd overlooked the child—the key. Shouldn't he investigate the child's social circle? As for the thief, George claimed he hadn't seen any such person. But if needed, he could nab another.

Later that day, Rick received a call from his friend George in his cozy study. They tactfully avoided mentioning Flint, the hapless thief, but exchanged thoughts on new leads. Rick agreed to help George investigate the child's connections tomorrow. However, he firmly declined George's invitation to join the "Wisteria Lane Massacre" task force. Rick also mentioned researching gun laws ahead of their city weekend gathering. He planned to call Director Jones and, if possible, invite Ms. Pepper.

That same evening, in a high-end steakhouse kitchen in Hell's Kitchen, chefs bustled about preparing orders.

In a corner knelt Flint Marco, panic-stricken before a formidable figure. The man was a towering giant, over two meters tall and weighing two hundred kilograms—a daunting presence.

"Mr. Wilson, I've got a lead on that file. Give me another chance. My skills are top-notch. The cops have no clue I was even at that farce. I'm harmless. Please, give me a chance to redeem myself."

Flint implored the giant, his voice trembling.

Mr. Wilson, his bald head towering above, exuded calm despite his imposing size.

"Mr. Marco, I never doubted your professionalism. Just like how you appeared at the scene yet miraculously left no trace."

"You've got to make this second chance count. It's your life."

His voice, gentle but firm, conveyed resolve.

"Yes, my life. I'll steal it back for you, wherever it is."

Flint felt his career's honor at stake. Turning confidently, he left the kitchen and vanished into the dark streets, not looking back.

"Mr. Wilson, what surprises do you think this thief still holds for us?"

A chef, having just left his duties, turned, revealing a delicate face framed by burgundy hair.

"I've a feeling he'll deliver that document bag in the end. He's got no choice. But you must honor the deal. Those arms mean a lot to me."

Wilson spoke slowly, with assurance.

"Of course, Mr. Wilson. To me, those arms aren't much. Iron Lady Arms is a golden brand. But recovering that intel is non-negotiable. The target family's vanished, and I've no leads."

Iron Lady, in chef's whites, met Wilson's gaze unwaveringly.

"Finding that family comes at a price, Melissa. You know that. This deal is data for arms."

With those words, Wilson departed, leaving the kitchen and its delectable steaks behind.

Wisteria Street, in a warmly lit study room:

The accomplished writer impulsively did 20 squats and 10 push-ups. He marveled at his rapidly strengthening body amidst improving living standards. Once a dumpster diver, he'd sweat and pant after a few steps. Now, he felt capable of another set of exercises. Tomorrow, he resolved to convert the empty room into a gym.

"I may not become Superman, but I'll be faster, go farther, last longer when danger strikes..."

Rick ruminated, stretching after his brief workout.

July 12, 1988, a sunny day—perfect for journaling.

Today, I intervened slightly in the neighbor's case. George assured me I wouldn't feature in the mission briefing. For now and the foreseeable future, I'll lead a discreet life. I'm just an ordinary guy who pants after a run. Writing books and earning a living are my priorities.

I've never handled a gun. With my savings ($30,000), I'm eager to explore gun laws ahead of the weekend party. I've seen folks on TV with walls of guns in their garages. I envy them. Living solo here, I seek security.

Tomorrow, I meet Lillian to discuss the children's social circle. I sense she withholds crucial details. But unlike a famous detective who jails innocents for truth's sake, I'm a writer and teacher who cares for neighbors.

That's it for now. Here's hoping the new book sells well.

Also, something's off about neighbor Dick.