But that was a long-term problem, and Amanda’s day—if it was like any other—would be filled with short-term problems. The primary issue each morning was with whom she would be partnered.
The federal Law Enforcement Assistance Association grant that had created the Atlanta police sex crimes division required all teams to be comprised of three-officer units that were racially and sexually integrated. These rules were seldom followed, because white women could not ride alone with black men, black women—at least the ones who wanted to keep their reputations—did not want to ride with black men, and none of the blacks wanted to ride with any man who was white. Every day was a battle just to figure out who was going to work with whom, which was ludicrous considering that most of them changed partners once they were out on the streets anyway.
Still, there were often heated arguments about assignments. Much posturing was to be found. Names were called. Occasionally fists were employed. In fact, the only thing that the men of the sex crimes unit could agree upon as far as assignments were concerned was that none of them wanted to be stuck with women.
At least, not unless they were pretty.
The problem trickled down to other divisions as well. Every morning, Commissioner Reginald Eaves’s daily bulletin was read at the beginning of roll call. Reggie was always transferring people around to fill whatever federal quota was being forced down their throats that day. No officer knew where he or she would land when they showed up for work. It could be the middle of Perry Homes or the living hell that was the Atlanta airport. Just last year, a woman had been assigned to SWAT for a week, which would’ve been a disaster if she’d actually had to do anything.
Amanda had always been on day watch, probably because her father wanted it that way. No one seemed to notice or care that she continued with the schedule even as Duke sued the city. Day watch, the easiest rotation, was from eight to four. Evening watch was four to midnight, and morning watch, which was the most dangerous, ran from midnight until eight in the morning.
The patrol officers worked roughly the same schedules as the detective and plainclothes divisions, less an hour on either side, which followed the old 7–3–11 railroad schedule. The thinking was that one would hand over to the other. This seldom happened. Most of the time when Amanda got into work, she’d run into a couple of suspects sporting black eyes or bloody bandages on their heads. They were generally handcuffed to the benches by the front door and no one could say exactly how they’d gotten there or with what they’d been charged. Depending on how a uniformed officer’s arrests were looking that month, some of the prisoners were freed, then immediately arrested again for loitering.
As with most zone headquarters, Zone 1 was housed in a dilapidated storefront that looked like the sort of place the police should be raiding, not milling around inside of drinking coffee and trading war stories about yesterday’s arrests. Located behind the Plaza Pharmacy and a theater specializing in pornographic films, the zone headquarters had been unceremoniously relocated to this location when it was discovered the previous HQ was located directly above a sinkhole. The Atlanta Constitution had had a field day with that one.
There were only three rooms in the building. The largest was the squad room, which had the sergeant’s office cordoned off by a glass partition. The captain’s office was far nicer, meaning that the windows actually opened and closed. Before the Fourth of July holiday, someone had broken the plate-glass window in front of the squad room in order to let in fresh air. No one had bothered to fix it, probably because they knew it would just be broken again.
The third room was the toilet, but it was shared, and it had been ensured that no woman would ever be able to sit down on the seat. The one time Amanda had walked into the bathroom, she’d ended up dry heaving behind the Plaza Theater while the grunts and moans of Winnie Bango reverberated through the cinder-block wall.
“Mornin’, ma’am.” One of the patrolmen tipped his hat as Amanda walked by.
She nodded in return, making her way past a cluster of familiar white Atlanta Police cruisers as she headed for the squad entrance. The stench of winos permeated the air, though the benches were absent any handcuffed vagrants. A veil of cigarette smoke hugged the stained drop ceiling. Every surface had a layer of dust, even the long cafeteria-style tables set out in crooked lines across the room. The podium in front was empty. Amanda looked at the clock. She had ten minutes to spare before morning roll call.
Vanessa Livingston was sitting in the back of the squad room going over paperwork. She was wearing gray slacks and the same ugly, black men’s shoes they’d all been forced to wear when they were in uniform. Her light blue shirt was short-sleeved and she wore her dark hair in a pageboy that curved out widely at the sides.
Amanda had patrolled with Vanessa a few times back when they were both in uniform. She was a reliable partner, but she could be a little hippie-dippie and there were rumors going around that she was trim—code for women who made themselves sexually available to police officers. Amanda didn’t have a choice but to sit by her. As usual, the squad room was divided into four quadrants. White and black either side, women in back, men in the front.
Amanda kept her gaze straight ahead as she walked through a cluster of uniformed men. They all waited until the last minute to let her pass. A group in the corner were working deadbolt locks. There were daily competitions to see who could pick a lock the fastest. A few officers were trading hot-loaded ammunition. Over the last two years, fourteen Atlanta cops had been shot dead. A faster bullet in your gun was not a bad idea.
Amanda dropped her purse onto the table as she sat down. “How are you?”
“I’m very well.” Vanessa’s voice was cheerful, as usual. “I lucked up with Inspection Division this morning.”
“They’ve already left?”
Vanessa nodded. Amanda immediately unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled up her sleeves. The fresh air on her arms was almost enough to make her swoon.
Amanda asked, “It wasn’t Geary?” There was no way Sergeant Mike Geary would’ve given Vanessa a pass. He didn’t think women should be on the job, and he had the power to do something about it. For some reason, he particularly had it in for Amanda. She was one more citation away from a daylong suspension. She couldn’t even think what she’d do for rent if that happened.
“Geary’s out today.” Vanessa stacked her reports together. “It was Sandra Phillips, the black chick keeps her head shaved like a man?”
“I have a class with her,” Amanda said. Most everyone she knew was taking night courses at Georgia State. The federal government paid tuition and the city was forced to bump up your pay if you got a degree. This time next year, Amanda would be pulling in almost twelve thousand dollars.
Vanessa asked, “You have a good Fourth?”
“I took a few extra shifts,” Amanda admitted. She’d volunteered for no other reason than she couldn’t face a whole day of her father rehashing every story he’d read in the newspapers. Thank goodness the paper only came twice a day or he’d never sleep. “What about you?”
“Drank so much I crashed my car into a telephone pole.”
“Is the car all right?”
“Fender’s smashed, but it still drives.” Vanessa made her voice low. “You heard about Oglethorpe?”
Lars Oglethorpe was one of Duke’s friends. They’d both been fired the same day. “What about him?”
“State supreme court ruled in his favor. Full back pay and benefits. Reinstated rank. He’s been assigned to his old uniformed squad. I bet Reggie had a cow when he heard.”
Amanda didn’t have time to answer. There was a series of masculine cheers as Rick Landry and Butch Bonnie walked into the squad. As usual, the homicide detectives were up against the clock. Roll call was scheduled to start in two minutes. Amanda reached into her purse and pulled out a stack of typed reports.
“You’re a doll.” Butch took the reports and tossed his notebook on the table in front of Amanda. “Hope yo
u can read it.”
She looked at his scrawl across the first page and frowned. “I swear sometimes you make this illegible on purpose.”
“Gimme a call, sweetheart. Day or night.” He gave her a wink as he followed Landry to the front of the room. “Night’s preferable.”
There were chuckles around the room, which Amanda pretended to ignore as she flipped through Butch’s notes. The words got easier to read as she paged along. Butch and Rick worked homicide division. There was a job Amanda never wanted. Because she typed Butch’s reports, she couldn’t help but absorb some of the details. They had to tell relatives that their family members were murdered. They had to look at dead people and watch autopsies. Just reading about these things turned Amanda’s stomach. There really were some jobs that only men could do.
Vanessa asked, “Did you hear we’ve got a new sergeant?”
Amanda waited expectantly.
“He’s one of Reggie’s boys.”
Amanda suppressed a groan. One of Reginald Eaves’s seemingly better ideas was to finally institute a written exam for promotions. Amanda had actually been foolish enough to believe she had a chance. When none of the black officers could pass the written exam, Eaves had thrown out the results and instituted an oral exam. Predictably, very few white officers were able to pass the orals. None of them had been women.
Vanessa said, “I hear he’s from up North. Sounds like Bill Cosby.”
They both turned around, trying to see into the sergeant’s office. There were filing cabinets stacked in front of the glass partition. The door was open, but all Amanda could see was another filing cabinet and the edge of a wooden desk. A glass ashtray was on the leather blotter. A black hand reached over and tapped a cigarette against the glass. The fingers were slim, almost delicate. The nails were trimmed in a straight, blunt line.
Amanda turned back around. She pretended to read Butch’s notes, but her mind wouldn’t focus. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was because she was sitting next to a mynah bird.
Vanessa said, “I wonder where Evelyn is?”
Amanda shrugged, still staring at the notes.
“I can’t believe she came back,” Vanessa continued. “She’s gotta be trippin’.”
Despite her best intentions, Amanda felt herself getting sucked back in. “It’s been almost two years,” she realized. Duke had been off the job eleven months. Evelyn had left to have her baby the year before that. The woman had just made plainclothes division. Everyone assumed that was the end of her working life.
Vanessa said, “If I had a husband and a kid, no way I’d show up at this dump every day. It’d be ‘Good night, John-Boy’ for me.”
“Maybe she has to.” Amanda kept her voice low so no one could hear her gossiping. “For the money.”
“Her husband makes plenty of dough. He’s sold insurance to half the force.” Vanessa snorted a laugh. “That’s probably the only reason she came back—to help him sell policies.” Her teasing tone dropped. “You really should talk to him, though. He’s got cheaper rates than Benowitz. Plus, you wouldn’t be giving your money to a Jew.”
“I’ll ask Evelyn,” Amanda said, though she liked Nathan Benowitz. Her Plymouth belonged to the city, but they all had to pay for their own car insurance. Benowitz had always been nice to Amanda.
“Shh,” Vanessa hushed, though Amanda hadn’t said anything. “He’s coming.”
The assembled officers quieted down as the new sergeant walked into the room. He was wearing their winter colors, dark navy pants and a matching long-sleeved shirt. He was very light skinned. He kept his hair shaved in a square military cut. Unlike everyone else, there was no visible sweat on the man’s brow.
Amanda watched as he navigated the invisible line down the center of the squad where none of the tables touched. The new sergeant looked to be around thirty years old. He was fit and lean, his body more like a teenager’s than a grown man’s, but he still had to turn sideways to pass between the tables. Amanda noticed that the gap was tighter than usual. Pettiness was generally the only thing that compelled them all to work together. The black cops would hate the new man because he was from the North. The whites would hate him because he was one of Reggie’s boys.
He stacked his papers against the podium, cleared his throat, and said in a surprisingly deep baritone, “I’m Sergeant Luther Hodge.” He glanced around the room as if he expected someone to challenge him. When no one spoke, he continued, “I’ll read the daily briefing before roll call, since there are a considerable number of transfers.”
A groan went around the room, but all Amanda could think was how refreshing it was that someone had actually figured out it was better to announce transfers before taking roll.
Hodge read through the names. Vanessa was right that he sounded like Bill Cosby. He spoke carefully if not slowly. Every word was fully enunciated. The uniformed men in the front rows stared openly, as if they were watching a dog walk on its hind legs. Black or white, they were all straight off the farm or freshly discharged from military service. The majority of them spoke in the same heavy dialect that Amanda’s country cousins used. She couldn’t help staring at Hodge herself.
He finished reading out the lengthy transfers, then cleared his throat again. “Roll will be called in teams. Some of you will have to wait for your partners to come from other divisions. Please check with me to make certain that your partner is accounted for before you go out into the streets.”
As if on cue, Evelyn Mitchell rushed into the squad room, glancing around with an almost panicked look in her eyes. Amanda was still in uniform when Evelyn got promoted to sex crimes, but the few times she’d seen her, the woman was always stylishly dressed. Today, she was carrying a large suede purse with an Indian pattern on the front and tassels hanging down from the wide gusset. She wore a navy skirt with a yellow blouse. Her blonde hair was cut to shoulder length and very flattering, reminiscent of the style worn by Angie Dickinson. Obviously, Amanda wasn’t the only one thinking this. Butch Bonnie called out, “Hey, Pepper Anderson, you can cuff me anytime.”
The men laughed in unison.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Evelyn told the new sergeant. “It won’t happen again.” She spied Amanda and Vanessa and headed toward the back table. Her heels made a clicking sound that echoed through the space.
Hodge stopped her. “I didn’t catch your name, Detective.”
His words seemed to suck all the air from the room. Heads swiveled around to Evelyn, who stood frozen beside Amanda. The dread coming off of her was as palpable as the heat.
Hodge cleared his throat again. “Am I missing something, Officer? I assume you’re a detective since you’re not in a patrolman’s uniform?”
Evelyn opened her mouth, but it was Rick Landry who answered. “She’s plainclothes, not detective.”
Hodge persisted. “I’m not sure I understand the difference.”
Landry jabbed his thumb toward the back of the room. The cigarette in his mouth bobbed as he spoke. “Well, ya see those two tits under her shirt?”
The room erupted in laughter. Evelyn clutched her purse to her chest, but she laughed along with them. Amanda laughed, too. The sound rattled in her throat like a drain.
Hodge waited for the chatter to die down. He asked Evelyn, “What’s your name, Officer?”
“Mitchell,” she provided, sinking down into the chair beside Amanda. “Mrs. Evelyn Mitchell.”
“I suggest you avoid tardiness in the future, Mrs. Mitchell.” He looked down at the roll sheet and checked off her name. “You’ll be with Miss Livingston today.” He went to the next name. “Miss Wagner, we’ll put you with Detective Peterson, who’ll be coming from—” Someone gave a loud wolf whistle. Hodge talked over it. “—from Zone Two.”
Evelyn turned to Amanda and rolled her eyes. Kyle Peterson was a mess. When he wasn’t trying to put his hand up your skirt, he was sleeping one off in the back of the car.
Vanessa leaned over and whispered to
Evelyn, “I like your new cut. It’s very chic.”
“Thanks.” She pulled at the back of her hair as if she wished she could make it longer. She asked Amanda, “Did you hear Oglethorpe got reinstated?”
“They gave him his old squad back,” Vanessa supplied. “I wonder what that means for us?”
“Probably nothing at all,” Evelyn murmured.
They all turned their attention back to the front of the room. There was a white man standing on the periphery, just inside the open doorway. He was around Amanda’s age and wearing a sharp, powder blue three-piece suit. His sandy blond hair was long in the back, his sideburns untrimmed. His arms were crossed impatiently over his chest. The round paunch of his stomach stuck out below.
“Brass?” Vanessa guessed.
Evelyn shook her head. “Too well dressed.”
“Lawyer,” Amanda told them. She’d been to the downtown office of her father’s lawyer enough times to know what they looked like. The nice suit was a giveaway, but the arrogant tilt to his chin was the only clue she needed.
“Detectives Landry and—” Luther Hodge seemed to realize no one was paying attention to him anymore. He looked up from the roll sheet and stared at the visitor for a few seconds before saying, “Mr. Treadwell, we can talk in my office.” He told the squad, “I’ll be a few minutes. If someone could take over?”
Butch jumped up. “I’ll handle it.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Hodge seemed to miss the wary expressions around the room. Putting Butch in charge of the schedule was like putting a fox in charge of the henhouse. He would change the assignments into his own version of The Dating Game.
The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle Page 211
