The last thing Viktor Oligarsky saw in this world was his Signature Red Vesla scooter against the muted November sky.

So surmised Metropolitan Police detective James McNutty, as he and detective Monk Boreland carefully lifted the bike off Oligarsky's bloodied head. The Russian dissident lay splayed in the crimson-tinted slush of yet another unseasonably warm Washington D.C. winter.

"MF-er looks like a macabre snow angel," Boreland mused, biting his cigar."This is our fourth one of these goddamn cases we've caught, Jimmy. And we ain't got a single fing witness. Why do we have all the bad luck?" Boreland knew bad luck was only part of the story, though: the duo also had the antipathy of nearly every ranking officer in the department.

A lopsided smile crept across McNutty's face. Boreland lifted his eyebrows ever so slightly. "The f, Jimmy," Boreland demanded.

"Chiggity check yourself before you wreck yourself," McNutty said.

"The f, Jimmy," Boreland repeated.

"A checkpoint, ahole," McNutty responded.

"Riiiiiiight," Boreland said, grinning."Yeah, that's not a bad idea. Let's make it happen, you self-absorbed, whiskey-sodden, insufferable genius, you."

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