"What were you doing out in the parking lot?" She says it with humor but there's an edge of suspicion in her tone. I was sure she noticed me following Ten out. She just wants me to admit it.
"I needed to talk to Angie before she left."
She steps back into the cool, dark hallway. "Angie's gone for the day? That's probably a good thing. I ran into her outside the ladies' room and she looked terrible. Pale and tired."
I don't want to talk to Tiffany about Ten. "She got hurt today." I brush past her. I wasn't expecting her to show up to the office this afternoon and it's thrown me. I hadn't mentioned the engagement to anyone and especially not to Ten. I wanted to tell her earlier, on the stakeout, but couldn't find the words . . . or the courage. After what happened with Ten finding out about my request for a new partner, the last thing I needed was for Tiffany to saunter in with her ring.
Tiffany shuffles behind me on her heels. "I thought we could go grab a bite to eat. I haven't eaten all day. I'm dying for a chicken salad sandwich." Tiffany is practically skipping to keep up with me.
"I had a lunch break already. I told you I've got to head down to the interrogation room." We stop short of the office. The excitement and cheering has died down and everyone has gotten back to the work day.
Tiffany wipes some lipstick off the bottom edge of her lip with her thumb. My gaze is pulled to her mouth, only I'm not thinking about my fiancée's lips. I'm thinking about the crazy deep curve of Ten's bottom lip. There's no lipstick. Ten doesn't wear the stuff. I know it's because she's self-conscious about her full lips. When she confessed her insecurity to me, I had a good laugh, which earned me a solid thump on my arm. Somehow she'd convinced herself they were clownish. If she only knew how often I'd imagined those clownish lips on me.
"James." Tiffany's irritated tone pulls me back to the conversation. "Can't they find someone else to question the person? I was really hoping we could talk about venues."
"Venues?"
She smiles. "For the wedding."
I shake my head. "No, I've got to question the guy myself." I lead her along the hallway that bypasses the offices and heads straight to the front desk.
"You know, if she just cleaned herself up a little. Dressed a little more feminine. Put on a dab of makeup. She'd be very pretty," Tiffany says as we head along the hallway.
"Who?" I ask as I open the door for her.
"Angie." Tiffany slips past me. "A little more effort in her appearance. Don't you think?"
I don't answer. It feels like a loaded question. I lean down to kiss her. It's a quick kiss because every eye in the front office is on us. There's even an applause for the stupid kiss.
"Don't you people have work to do?" I say with a forced smile.
"Anyhow, I know she's a good friend." Tiffany has not dropped the subject yet. "Why don't you just suggest it? Or maybe I should . . ."
"No," I say sharply and soften my tone when I see her eyes flicker. "Bad idea, Tiff." I kiss her again to stop her suggestions. "I've got to go," I say to hurry her along.
Margaret stops Tiffany on her way out to look at the ring one more time. The rock sparkles as she waves at me from the door.
I think about Tiffany's comments. She's always trying to find ways to fix people, people she decides need fixing. But she's wrong. She's wrong about Ten. "I wouldn't change one damn hair on her head," I mutter to myself before heading over to interrogation.
News travels faster than the internet in the precinct. I'm stuck stumbling through questions about wedding plans and honeymoon locations on my way to the interrogation room. I end up with a business card for a cake baker. Officer Trent's sister is apparently the best baker in town. A sticky note from Gina in the forensic lab with a phone number for her cousin's florist is stuck in my palm. I thank everyone and shove the phone numbers into my pocket. The wedding is the last thing on my mind. Spending the next few hours questioning slimy Vinny isn't high on the list either.
My phone echoes through the narrow hallway leading to the interrogation rooms. I know it's Ten before I even grab the phone from my pocket. "Ten," I say quickly, but she talks before I can say more.
"Just tell me. And I want a simple answer not some big, long bullshit response. When did you stop trusting me? When did you decide you couldn't count on me to have your back?" There's a slight waver in her voice, and it makes me squeeze the phone in my hand.
"Never, Ten. That's not what this is about. Fuck, you're the best detective on the force."
She laughs but it's not her usual laugh. "Obviously, since you can't wait to pawn me off on some other poor sap."
"I'm not trying to pawn you off. You're being dramatic."
"Then what the fuck, Maddox?"
Earlier, I'd followed her out to the parking lot to explain everything, but the truth was, I couldn't explain a fucking thing. I had nothing then and I have nothing now. I have my life and she has hers and that was the way it had to stay. I was asking for a new partner for self-preservation and sanity reasons, but not in the way she thought.
"I guess your silence says it all. Later, Maddox. I'm off to get laid."
I'm thankful she can't see me flinch through the phone at the idea of her naked in some other guy's arms. "We'll talk more tomorrow, Ten."
"I think we've covered the subject just fine." The call is ended.
I fight the urge to throw my fist into a wall and unlock the interrogation room. Vinny is leaning his head on his forearms taking a nap. He lifts his pinched, pale face and skewers me with bloodshot eyes. "Bout fucking time," he grumbles. He looks past me. "Hey, I'd rather talk to the red haired babe with the sweet curves."
He startles when I slam the door shut hard enough to rattle the one-way window.
"You picked the wrong fucking day to get yourself arrested, pal. There ain't no good cop or bad cop today. No red haired, curvy babe. There's just me."
Vinny's face blanches as I swing the chair around and sit down on it.
6
Angie
I am breaking my number one rule about guys. Somehow, I talked myself into showing up at Brodie's place for a surprise afternoon tryst. Only the sex I'd been imagining probably had just a bit too much hair pulling and ass spanking to be labeled something as frilly as a tryst. Brodie, the guy I'd been dating off and on for three months, was a longshoreman. His shift at the docks ended at noon. It's a short but strenuous work day. And dangerous. But the pay is good so he's content. We didn't have much in common except great sex, and the day had left me feeling so empty I just wanted to get lost in a good round of fucking.
The disappointing call with Maddox, where the jerk couldn't even be bothered to make up some fake lame excuse for wanting to ditch me as a partner, made me more determined than ever to end the day sweaty and satisfied between the sheets. Hell, there didn't even need to be sheets. The floor, kitchen table or shower wall would do just fine.
Brodie lived in a neighborhood of tract homes, the kind where every house looks the same and the only thing that sets them apart is the landscaping. Some houses have dressed up the otherwise monotonous neighborhood with nicely trimmed hedges, roses and flowering trees. I turn the corner onto Brodie's street. His house is at the end with its brittle lawn and empty planters. His truck is in the driveway. There's another car parked out front, a green Volkswagen Jetta. The sun is reflecting off a glittery string of beads dangling from the rearview mirror. It seems my surprise plan, my breaking of the guy rules, is about to slap me in the face. Fortunately, I'm so numb from the day, I can barely feel it.
Movement at the house carries my focus to the front door. It opens. I pull my car to the curb under the shady cover of a tree and wait. Brodie is tall and built but not like Maddox, I decide and quickly want to smack myself for the comparison. But it seems I'm being screwed by both tall, well-built men today. And not literally, like I hoped. A pert brunette in shorts and a sweatshirt walks out onto the stoop and then stops to turn around for a kiss before hopping down the steps and
skipping to the Jetta.
It is official. My day went from fucked to super-fucked. I pull away from the curb and drive slowly past the house, wanting to make sure Brodie sees me and to let him know that I certainly see him. It is my passive-aggressive way of letting him know it's over. It takes him a second to recognize the woman behind the steering wheel of the car cruising past his house. Our eyes lock for a second. His mouth tightens.
I turn the corner and drive through the dull neighborhood with the cookie cutter houses. My phone rings as I turn the next corner to head back to the freeway. It's Brodie. I let it go straight to voicemail. The one good thing about discovering Brodie's other woman on a day where my heart has been ripped to shreds and stomped on by my partner, is that I don't even have enough emotion left to give a damn. I briefly consider calling Brodie back thinking maybe I can keep him around just for sex. But that seems like too much effort for a man who is not all that great in bed.
I head back to the freeway. The tires chirp on the car as I slam my foot down on the gas pedal. A flurry of ideas run through my head, a drive to the beach, a run through the park, sitting on the couch watching reruns of Friends and downing raw cookie dough. The last one sounds like the winner.
I near the off-ramp for the precinct and a new idea pops into my head, one that doesn't include overdosing on Ross and Rachel or cookie dough. My mom always told me it's never a good idea to make a big decision when you're angry or upset. And my day has left me far past angry and upset. Even though my mom makes the best brownies this side of the Rockies and when I was a kid she knew exactly how to braid my hair before a track meet, she was wrong about the big decision thing. An impulsive, rash decision sounds way better than a drive to the beach or a jog through the park.
7
Angie
I pass across two lanes and hit the off-ramp at full speed. I park in my spot, the one marked with a yellow sign that reads Det. Tennyson. I climb out of the car, telling myself not to take no for an answer. This is just what I need, I tell myself over and over. It's time for a change. Maddox wants a new partner, then he can fucking have one.
I walk briskly through the building, keeping my head down to let others know I don't want to chat and I especially don't want to talk about the exciting Madiffany news. I've made my own name up for the duo and decide it works just fine. I'm bracing for a big fight with Captain Clark, but I'm determined not to back down.
Two pieces of luck in an otherwise unlucky day—Maddox is nowhere in sight and Clark's door is open. He has a policy that if his door is open, you can walk in as long as you knock once before entering. I hear his deep, baritone voice a few feet before I reach the blinds on his office window. I can see him clearly, but the person he's talking to is tucked too far into the corner of the office. It seems strange considering there are two empty chairs directly in front of the captain's desk. A shot of adrenaline jolts through me as I consider the possibility that the corner visitor is Maddox, but I push that ridiculous thought away. Maddox is more of a walk in and sit on the edge of the desk sort of visitor. I knock on the open door.
"Actually, Tennyson, I'm in a conversation."
"Jeez, it stinks in here." The smell of sweat, grease and bitter grime has permeated every inch of the office. I lift the collar of my t-shirt up over my nose and blink the odor away from my eyes.
"That's why the door is open. It's my new air freshener called 'dirty ass'. Otherwise known as Detective Olson." Clark motions to the visitor tucked in the corner.
Detective Olson is sitting on a metal chair. He's normally a semi-sloppy guy who always looks as if his shirt and pants were just pulled out of a wet laundry basket, but today he's taken the grunge look to a whole new level. He has on a ripped, grease stained overcoat that makes him look vaguely like a creepy flasher. His bare toes can be seen through the tips of his filthy worn shoes, and he is wearing a pair of pants that look as if they are wearing everything Olson has had for lunch for the last three months. The pervasive, pungent smell polluting the captain's office seems to be rolling off Olson in waves. But it doesn't stop him from gobbling up a submarine sandwich. Bits of lettuce tumble to the floor in front of his worn shoes.
"Christ, Olson," Clark growls, "I'm going to have to have a ten person cleaning crew come through here after you're gone. What is it you want, Tennyson? If it isn't obvious, Olson just got off an undercover assignment and we're debriefing."
"Yes, it's comically obvious." Before he can order me out, I sit in one of the empty chairs. "I want in on the Lace Underground investigation. Send me undercover."
Olson scoffs hard enough to spit sandwich from his mouth. Clark yanks a tissue from the box on his desk and makes a pathetic attempt at sailing it toward Olson. The tissue doesn't make it a foot before floating gracefully to the floor like a supple leaf from a tree.
I turn to Olson. "Just vacuum that sandwich, Pig Pen. You don't even know what we're talking about."
He scoffs again but has the forethought to cover his mouth first.
"Olson knows more about the Lace Underground than anyone else on the outside, which isn't saying much," Clark says. "I'm not sending you undercover on it. Way too dangerous. No one knows exactly what's going on in this secret society, but whatever it is, it ain't wholesome or legal. There are at least ten girls missing and those are only the ones where someone cared enough to report it."
I scoot the chair around to talk straight to Olson. The unsavory fragrance wafts my direction. I swallow to get the bitter taste out of my throat, but it only intensifies the odor. "If Freestone is luring rich men into his society, what's with the trashy sex perv coat and the sweet smell of Olson's shower-free body?"
Clark gets up to close the door. "I know I'm going to regret this." He swings it shut and returns to his chair. He takes out a peppermint to suck on, apparently hoping it will mask some of the odor. I have serious doubts about that theory and turn down the offered mint.
"Like I said, it's too dangerous." The mint clacks against his teeth as he pushes it against his cheek to talk. "I could have sent Olson in undercover as some rich asshole looking for whatever kinky good time Freestone is offering, but I decided it was too dangerous. Even for Olson. Besides, this undercover gig suits him better. We all know he's a slob." He laughs at his comment. Olson is unfazed and too focused on his sandwich.
Clark gets serious again with a throat clear. "So I'm certainly not going to send a wom—" He stops abruptly, knowing he just stepped on my favorite button. "I'm not sacrificing any of my detectives, man or woman," he amends quickly.
"Anyhow"—Olson swallows his mouthful before continuing after a warning scowl from Clark not to talk with it full—"Freestone is looking for wild, pretty young girls."
I blink at Olson a few seconds without a word to let him figure out his misstep.
"Not that you aren't pretty, Ten." Olson nearly chokes on his own tongue, tripping to get over it. "I mean everyone around here thinks—"
"Shut the fuck up, Olson, before you bury yourself deeper," Clark barks.
I skewer Olson with my gaze for another moment before turning back to Clark. "I want this, Captain. I can do it. How much do you know? How can I get in as one of the girls in the Underground?"
Clark crunches down hard on the mint and winces as he rubs his cheek. "Think I've got a cavity. Look, Tennyson, as much as I want to bring Freestone's operation down, I'm just not willing to risk it. You and Maddox are carving a big notch in the drug problem around the city, and that's where I want you to stay."
"Except that Maddox wants a new partner."
Clark's face smoothed. "You know about that?"
"I was sitting at his desk today, icing my leg." I let that fact sink in a second. He shifts his jaw side to side in remorse over his wide open for all to see memo to Maddox. "Ever hear of email, Captain? But that's old news." I sit forward and look him straight in the eyes. We have a good relationship, but occasionally, he slips into his father figure character with me. I'm not having
it this time. "Look, I'll go in, but I won't stay long. If things get sticky I'll find a quick way out. Either way, I'll find out enough about the location of the sketchy secret club. I'll bring it back to you. Then you can send in the cavalry or whoever to stop Freestone. It's a win-win."
"Unless it's a lose-lose." Olson gets up and shifts to the chair next to me. Instinctively, I scoot my chair away from him. Clark rolls his chair back so fast it hits the file cabinet behind him.
Olson isn't the slightest bit bothered by the fact that we're shoving furniture around to stay out of his circle of stink. "My miserable weeks undercover bore little fruit. All I know is the girls are suddenly gone one night. Then they're back the next morning. I asked around to some of the other street people to see if they knew what was going on and they freaked out. No one wants to answer or have anything to do with it."
I look up and down at his over-the-top disguise. "Maybe that's because you look like a fucking flasher or stalker instead of a homeless guy."
Olson moves his shoulders beneath his overcoat. "I thought I looked pretty convincing but might be why none of the girls would get within ten feet of me."
"Ya think?" I sighed. "So you just spent—" I pause for him to fill in the span of time.
"Two months."
My eyes widen. "That explains the stench. So you spent two months living on the streets and all you found out is that people run when you ask about the missing girls? But wait, you said they all come back."
Olson, who is maybe ten years older than me, grins. The lines around his mouth are creased with grime. "I see you never outgrew your smartass rookie phase, Ten. And I do have more, but since you're not part of the investigation." He reached up to twist an invisible key in front of his mouth. His fingernails were black, and his knuckles were crusted with dirt.