Chapter 4: Coffee Crimes and Karaoke Night
Mornings at the precinct had started to feel like ritual.
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly. The vending machine whirred like a dying whale. And someone—usually Chen—played lo-fi beats from a pocket speaker no one could ever locate.
I sat at my desk, slowly stirring instant coffee with a plastic stirrer like it was a potion. I didn't even like the coffee. It was terrible. Burnt and sour and questionably alive.
But it was part of the rhythm now.
Jackson sat across from me, half-asleep but upright, which was progress.
"You ever wonder if this is it?" he muttered.
"Coffee?"
"Yeah. Like, is this what adult life becomes? Tired, caffeinated purgatory?"
I sipped. "If it is, I'm choosing the deluxe package."
Jackson blinked. "You're weird before 8 a.m."
"I'm always weird."
Lopez walked by holding two coffees and a granola bar in her mouth. "Stanton, if you're not gonna use the last K-cup, give it to someone who isn't philosophizing into it."
"I'm communing with the bean spirit."
"Then commune faster."
She kept walking.
---
By 9 a.m., the precinct's caffeine crisis had escalated into open warfare.
Lopez had barricaded the break room with a folding chair and a crime scene sign that read "Espresso Homicide." Chen distributed tea packets like we were on a World War I battlefield.
Then came the real blow.
Bradford burst through the side door, holding an empty coffee tin.
"It's gone."
"What's gone?" Grey asked.
Bradford held it up like a cursed relic. "The precinct espresso stash. Gone. Whole container. Vanished."
You could've heard a pin drop.
Even the vending machine paused.
"Someone," Grey said slowly, "stole the coffee."
---
An investigation was declared.
Lopez took lead. "This is personal."
I was made unofficial second-in-command because, quote: "You break it, you fix it."
We started interviews. Light ones. Joking.
Then it got serious.
Surveillance footage revealed a blurry figure in a hoodie entering the break room at 4:32 a.m. and leaving with a duffel bag.
"Is this real?" Jackson asked.
"Oh, it's real," Chen said. "And I want blood."
Bradford was already drawing a suspect board with dry-erase markers.
Lopez handed me a pair of gloves.
"Suit up, Mop Jedi."
And that's how the Coffee Crimes Task Force was born.
---
Bradford's board had coffee ring stains and pushpins. Jackson got accused for "suspicious hair." Lopez lost her mind twice. It was chaos.
I examined the scene with Conan-mode on. A gum wrapper. A too-clean stirrer. Menthol scent. No sweetener.
"This is inside work," I declared. "Espionage."
Lopez squinted. "You're enjoying this too much."
"I was born for this."
---
Then the flyer appeared:
"PRECINCT MIC DROP — Thursday. One Stage. No Dignity."
"Who made this?" Jackson asked.
Chen shrugged. "It's tradition. If you don't sing, you get volunteer duty for a month."
"I don't do karaoke," I said.
"You will," Lopez muttered darkly.
---
That night, I got home and found Natasha waiting with a microphone, a karaoke app, and a playlist labeled "Redemption Hits."
"You're training," she said.
"I won't survive this."
"You will. Sing, mop man."
I sang "Uptown Girl" while doing squats.
It was the worst/best thing ever.
---
Thursday came.
Lights. Folding chairs. Snacks. A disco ball from evidence.
Jackson wore a shirt that said "Mic Check, Don't Mic Wreck."
Chen crushed "Since U Been Gone."
Bradford sang "Let It Go" and made everyone uncomfortable.
Lopez and Grey did a duet that made two rookies cry.
Then it was my turn.
I sang.
Off-key. Loud. Ridiculous.
Honest.
The precinct stood and cheered.
Even Grey clapped.
Natasha gave me a foam finger that said #TEAMMOP.
---
Then, the twist.
Behind Bradford's suspect board, I saw it.
A sticker.
From a boutique coffee brand—only stocked in Natasha's reserve stash.
She sipped her thermos and said, "I work better with quality beans."
"You stole the espresso?"
"I borrowed it."
"You're the Coffee Phantom."
"I regret nothing."
She kissed my cheek.
Case closed.
---
Friday patrol was calm. Jackson played ABBA in the cruiser.
We talked about fear. About being present. About how loud redemption doesn't matter.
Only honest living does.
---
Saturday, Chen and I dealt with a succulent standoff between two grandmothers.
She told me I was part of "us" now.
I nearly cried into an aloe plant.
---
Sunday patrol with Bradford involved tackling a rogue inflatable tube man.
He told me I brought balance.
I chose ABBA.
He didn't argue.
---
Sunday night, Natasha and I watched the city from the rooftop.
"I found peace," I said.
"You found us," she replied.
I believed her.
---
As I was leaving, rookies Reyes and Tomlin handed me a gift:
A mug with a mop, a mic, and the words:
"MOP SQUAD: LEAD SINGER & SWEEPER."
"You set the tone," Reyes said.
I stood there, mug in hand, full heart in chest.
This wasn't a second chance anymore.
It was my life.
And I loved it.