Pocho didn't go to work the next morning.
He didn't call in sick either.
He went straight to the seven-mile radius.
He parked two streets away from his own house and sat in the car.
Engine off.
Windows slightly cracked.
He watched.
If the killer was nearby, he'd show again.
If the killer was watching, he'd circle back.
Pocho didn't tell Harris.
He didn't tell Morrison.
He didn't want patrol cars around the area.
He didn't want noise.
He wanted the man comfortable.
Hours passed.
Nothing.
Delivery trucks. Joggers. School buses.
Ordinary.
At 10:14 a.m., Harris called.
"You coming in?"
"I'm working."
"From where?"
"Field."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
Harris was quiet for a second.
"That's not smart."
"It's fine."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
He hung up before it became an argument.
---
Around noon, Pocho drove three blocks west.
Then four blocks south.
Still inside the circle.
He parked near a small auto repair shop.
Motor oil smell drifted into the car.
He watched customers come and go.
Workers under cars.
Hands covered in grease.
Normal.
Too normal.
He stepped out and walked inside.
"Looking for something?" the mechanic asked.
"Just checking," Pocho replied.
He showed his badge.
"Anyone been asking about houses nearby?"
"No."
"Anyone hanging around who doesn't belong?"
The mechanic shrugged. "People hang around everywhere."
Pocho nodded and left.
He wasn't following a lead.
He was reacting.
That was the mistake.
---
By late afternoon, Morrison called.
"Where are you?"
"In the field."
"I didn't authorize solo patrol."
"I didn't need it."
"You do now."
There was tension in Morrison's voice.
"This isn't about pride," Morrison said. "You're too close."
"He wants me close," Pocho replied.
"And you're giving him that."
Pocho didn't answer.
"Get back to the station," Morrison said.
"I will."
He didn't.
---
At 6:37 p.m., a call came over the radio.
"Female assaulted. Not severe. Two blocks from Detective Pocho's residence."
His chest tightened.
He was already in the car before dispatch finished the sentence.
The woman was in her forties.
Walking her dog.
She had been shoved to the ground.
Left arm bruised.
No fractures.
The attacker didn't stay.
Didn't finish.
Just knocked her down and left.
Witness description:
Tall male. Dark jacket. Moved fast. No clear face.
Pocho stood on the sidewalk while paramedics checked her.
"Did he say anything?" Pocho asked.
She nodded shakily.
"He said… 'Tell him I waved.'"
Pocho didn't move for a second.
Harris arrived shortly after.
"You were here all day," Harris said quietly.
"Yes."
"And he still got close."
"Yes."
"That's not coincidence."
"No."
Morrison showed up ten minutes later.
"You left the station without backup," he said.
"Yes."
"You thought you'd bait him."
Pocho didn't answer.
"You escalated this," Morrison said. "You moved without coordination."
"He was going to escalate anyway," Pocho replied.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"Three victims, then silence, then your house," Morrison said. "He wanted you reacting."
"He got it," Harris added.
Pocho looked down the street.
The houses looked the same as always.
Lights on.
Cars in driveways.
Ordinary.
He realized something slowly.
The killer didn't need to hurt his wife.
He didn't need to enter the house.
He just needed Pocho off balance.
And today, Pocho wasn't investigating.
He was chasing.
That was different.
And it cost someone.
Not fatal.
But unnecessary.
Morrison stepped closer.
"You're off the case for forty-eight hours."
"No."
"That's not a discussion."
"You pull me now, he wins."
"You staying on like this, he wins too."
Pocho held his gaze.
There was a long silence.
Finally Morrison said, "Forty-eight hours. Mandatory. Clear your head."
Pocho didn't argue again.
Not out loud.
But inside, something hardened.
He didn't believe in stepping back.
He believed in pressure.
He believed in staying close.
And now someone had been hurt while he tried to control the board.
That wasn't rage he felt.
It was something sharper.
Personal responsibility.
The killer had moved a piece.
And Pocho had responded badly.
That wouldn't happen again.