by R. A. McGee
“Rivera? What time is your appointment?”
“I don’t have one. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d swing by.”
“If you don’t have an appointment, we can’t let you in here,” Raymond said. “It’s against policy.”
“Who just swings by a sheriff’s office?” asked the other deputy, whose badge read Fischer. “If you need to speak with someone about a court date, you’ll need to go to the courthouse.”
“Interesting you would assume I have a court date,” Porter said, “but that’s not why I’m here. I have information about a case Rivera’s working. Why don’t you call and see if I can go back?”
Raymond looked at Fischer, who shrugged.
At least I’m in the right place, Porter thought.
Raymond picked up a landline and consulted a small piece of paper, its laminate peeling off, that was taped to the table. The deputy held the receiver to his ear. “Rivera. Got some guy here that says he needs to give you some info. Not sure, hold on… What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t, but it’s Porter. It’s about the Danisha Hill case.”
“He says Porter. Yeah, he’s a big guy. How the hell am I supposed to know? Okay, sounds good.” Raymond hung up the receiver. “Rivera’s coming out.”
He wasn’t an agent anymore, and they wouldn’t let some random guy walk into their offices unescorted.
Fischer gestured to the table in front of him. “Sir, I need you to take everything metal out of your pockets and place it on the table, then walk through my metal detector.”
Porter emptied out his pockets, which at this point only contained his wallet and phone. He looked at Fischer who waved him through the metal detector. There was a loud beeping noise.
“Are you wearing a belt? I didn’t think that was the style,” Fischer said with a smirk.
“It’s the style if I don’t want my pants to fall off my ass,” Porter said as he moved backward through the metal detector. He unlatched his belt and set it on the table in front of Raymond, then stared blankly at Fischer.
“Try again, sir,” Fischer said as he motioned his hand forward. There was no beep this time.
“Happy?” Porter asked.
“Generally, but I don’t really care for your attitude,” Fischer said.
“That’s too damn bad.” Porter threaded his belt through his jeans.
“You got quite the mouth on you, don’t you?”
“Not generally, but I don’t really care for your attitude,” Porter said. “You guys wonder why people don’t like you. I come here to see someone and I get to listen to your passive-aggressive bullshit. Just get Rivera out here already.”
Fischer glowered at Porter. He opened his mouth to speak but Porter cut him off.
“Rivera.”
Fischer looked to Raymond, who had a smirk on his face like he’d heard a joke everyone else had missed. He looked back to Porter and said nothing. About that time, the kick-plated door in the back of the entryway swung open, and Rivera walked in.
She had thick, curly hair and dark brown eyes, and was built like a gymnast or dancer—short and slight, but with a surprising amount of leg muscle showing through her dress slacks. She must have been a full foot shorter than Porter. Hanging on a lanyard around her neck was a laminated identification badge showing both her name and face.
“Rivera.” Porter used her name without skipping a beat, disguising the fact that he was caught off guard that Rivera was a she. He silently chided himself about making assumptions.
“It’s pretty close to quitting time. Thanks for making me stay late,” she said. “I got him from here.” She motioned to Porter and held the door with one hand to allow him to walk by first.
“Thanks, Rivera,” Raymond said. Fischer just stood at his walkthrough, suddenly looking uninterested.
“Follow me,” she said to Porter.
Porter stepped into the dark room. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust and then he looked around to get his bearings. It was one big square room, with cubicles on the inside, ringed by perimeter offices. Cheap gray furniture dominated the space. This convinced him that no one who purchased furniture for a law enforcement agency had taste.
Rivera walked straight down the left side of the big square, heading towards the back wall. Along the way, Porter saw several bulletin boards covered with papers. Some were work-related: A most-wanted poster, some directive signed by the sheriff, a flyer to the annual department BBQ.
The rest were silly. A fake wanted poster with a candid shot of an officer, for the crime of buggery. There was picture of a broken-in trailer door, with the caption “11/05 - two hits.” Pictures of the department Christmas party, all the officers wearing terrible sweaters. A Photoshopped head on the body of that cop from that TV zombie show.
Porter recognized these things. He’d been part of teams that did the same type of needling. When you work a dangerous job with a group of people, you become close. You often spend more time with them than you do your own family. These messages, pictures, and inside jokes were lessons in bonding. In a job like Rivera’s you didn’t care about people unless you laughed at and with them. The best units understood this.
For the first time in a long time, Porter felt a twinge of longing for his former career.
They passed a cubicle which, according to the nameplate, was her office. Porter paused in the entryway for a moment to get a look at everything else. The desk was immaculate, a nearly clean workspace. Prominently featured were three pictures of a young boy, but none of a man. A beat later, he’d caught back up with Rivera as she led the way into a room on the far wall. Porter guessed it was used to interview and debrief snitches. He walked through the door and sat down in a heavy metal chair.
No chance of assaulting your interviewer with this, he thought.
Rivera turned the blinds so they were open to the rest of the workspace, then shut the door. She took a seat opposite Porter and looked at him, as if uncertain what to ask first.
Porter saved her the trouble. “Real winners you guys have working the front door.”
“You know what they say, good help’s hard to find,” Rivera said.
“You agree with me?”
“Mostly. Raymond isn’t so bad, just unsure of himself. Fischer’s an asshole.”
“I gathered as much. Give you many problems?” Porter said.
“Not really. Probably a little racist, and I know he hates women. Always with ‘darlin’ this or ‘spicy’ that. He wants to sleep with me, but he’s so mad about me being a woman who outranks him, he probably couldn’t get it up,” she said.
“That’s more than I needed to know.”
“Probably so. Regardless, enjoy that little nugget, the first one’s free. Now it’s your turn.”
“For?” Porter said.
“Knowledge. Drop some. Why are you here?”
“I assume Ruas called you,” Porter said.
“Obviously. I’d never have met with you if he hadn’t given me a heads up.”
“Never’s a long time.”
Rivera looked at Porter and scrunched up her face. “What does that mean? Do you have something to tell me about the case or not?”
“What did Ruas tell you?”
“Not much. That you two are buddies and you have some info for me. How do you know him?”
“He used to be my Task Force Officer.”
“Ruas worked for you? He probably should have led with the fact that you’re a cop. Who do you work for?”
“I’m not in law enforcement anymore.”
“Quit? Retire?”
“It’s complicated,” Porter said.
“Can it be that hard to explain?”
“Here’s the problem. I need some information from you, but you’re asking me about my background. If I tell you it’s none of your damn business, I don’t think you’ll be feeling charitable with your information. So, I don’t want to say it’s none of your damn busine
ss,” Porter said. “But it’s really none of your damn business. See my dilemma?”
“No sweat. You came here for my help, but if you want to be a dick, that’s your call. Ruas said to help you out if I could. But he said you’d call me to ask questions about a case. He didn’t say you were going to stop by. Unannounced.”
“Ruas didn’t know I was coming. I figured I’d come down here and meet you in person. A little harder to blow me off in person than over the phone. Not that you’d do that…”
“You know how it is. I have other priorities, but you’re right. You’re here, what do you need? I’d appreciate if you spit it out, it’s almost closing time,” Rivera said.
“You have a cold case on Danisha Hill. Any way you could get me a couple statements out of the file? Maybe let me look at the record of investigation?” Porter said.
“Why would I do that? What’s your relationship to this case?”
“I’m just a friend of the family. Call me a concerned citizen. I’m looking into it as a favor.”
“Well, hell, since you put it like that, why not? Just give me a few minutes, Mr. Not-A-Cop-Anymore. I’m sure I can get you my whole computer. I could scrounge up the keys to a spare ride if you want? Some of the guys have extra uniforms in their locker room. Need a pistol too?” Rivera said.
“I would never fit in any of those guys’ uniforms,” Porter said.
“Good point. Seriously, why would I give you this stuff? It’s HCSO property.”
“How about as a favor to Ruas?” Porter said.
“I like Ruas; he’s a stand-up guy. That’s not enough of a reason.”
“How long have you been a detective?”
“I just got off of ninety-day probation,” Rivera said.
“In that time, have you ever closed a case?”
“Of course not. This is the LTMU. No one wants to get assigned here as a new detective. The evidence is cold and picked through by the time a case winds up here. This is where careers go to die,” Rivera said.
“Then why are you here?”
“It’s none of your damn business,” Rivera said.
“Touché. What would closing a case do for you?”
“Get me out of here. Probably a transfer to Vice. I’m sure they’d dress me like a hooker and use me for john bait, but at least Vice is more exposure than this.”
“I’m sure it is,” Porter said.
“I mean it would be better for my career, asshole. What’s your point? This case ain’t getting solved. I looked through everything on my docket when I came to this unit. It’s all colder than a popsicle.”
“If you give me the info I’m asking for, I’ll solve this case. You can take the credit. You’ll be wearing hot pants on Seventh Avenue in no time,” Porter said.
Rivera was quiet for a few moments. Porter could see the pro and con discussion she was having with herself. “Solve the case just like that, huh?”
“It’s a talent.”
“And if you don’t solve the case?” Rivera said.
“No harm, no foul. I’ll burn any info you give me and no one will ever know you were involved. Let’s be honest: We both know I could get most of the info I want by filing a Freedom of Information Act request through the sheriff. LEO or not, he’d cough it all up to avoid a lawsuit.”
“But…”
“That takes too long. I promised a friend I’d look into it now,” Porter said.
Rivera leaned back in her chair, exhaled, and looked at the ceiling for a few moments. She fixed her dark eyes on Porter. “Okay. Fine. I’ll give you the info. Ruas says you’re good to go, and at some point if you were a Fed, someone trusted you enough to give you a top-secret clearance. I guess that means I’ll trust you. Wait here.” She got up and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
After Rivera left, Porter reached over and checked the door handle. It was locked. He smiled to himself.
Nine
Rivera returned ten minutes later carrying a green paper file with a few hundred sheets of paper in it. She sat down, dropped the brick of paper on the table in front of her, and looked at Porter.
“This is most of the file. Some of the items were from internal databases, which I couldn’t give you even if you were still a fed. I copied everything I could. I need you to promise me that this will not come back to bite me.”
“It won’t,” Porter said. “No one who matters will ever know you gave me this.”
Rivera pushed the file across the table. “Then I guess we’re done. If you need anything else, feel free to let me know. Over the phone.” She scrawled her number on the top page of the copied papers. “I assume you know the way out?”
“I think I can manage. Thanks for the help, Tina.”
“Christina. How did you know my name?”
“You look like a Tina,” Porter said as he stood up and collected the file.
“Asshole.”
Porter smiled as he walked out of the room and back down the hallway to the front door. He hit the exit bar and was let out behind Raymond and Fischer in the small front room.
Fischer gestured to the file. “What you got there?”
“It’s an application for an online dating site. You interested?” Porter said.
Fischer scoffed. “Did our little Rivera put you up to that? She’s such a peach sometimes.”
“Yeah, she was a big help. We’re going for drinks later. She told me to ask you if you wanted to go,” Porter said. “She said something about you being the only real man in the building.”
“You’re just screwing with me, aren’t you?” Fisher’s eyebrows narrowed in suspicion.
“Of course I am. Go home to your wife, asshole,” Porter said as he stepped out the tinted door and into the sunlight.
It was nearly five thirty and the sun was as hot as ever. Porter walked to his truck and retrieved the Glock he’d stashed, as well as his pocket knife. He leaned in to start the engine and rolled all the windows down while he stood outside.
Porter thumbed absentmindedly through the file Rivera had given him. It looked like so many he had seen before—full of junk. Things that weren’t relevant to the case, just stuffed and stacked in the way of the real meat of the investigation. Something in that file would tell Porter what happened to Danny. All he had to do was look with the right eyes.
Problem was, he didn’t want to spend the night doing homework for a case he wasn’t very interested in. Still, he had promised Ross he would look into it. And Miss Leona. And now Rivera. It seemed he’d let too many people get invested in the outcome of this case. There was also that small tickle he felt in the back of his head—the one that told him he could figure things out. It was the tickle that played to his ego and said that the other people who had worked this case before were morons.
They probably were, he conceded. He left the parking lot, pointed the truck west, and fought the traffic back to his side of town.
He stopped at the store on the way home and grabbed a pizza. Porter took his dinner and subsequent vodkas at his kitchen table, papers from Rivera’s file in many neat piles around him. That night, tired and well lubricated, he went to sleep.
He woke up the next morning feeling like a champion. Vodka never gave him a hangover, and now he remembered why he stuck with it and avoided beer. He showered and made himself breakfast, but instead of dressing for the day, he put bum-around clothes on. Then he went back to the kitchen table and continued looking through the file, making notes to himself.
Porter stayed at the table all day, moving only to re-heat food and relieve himself. He relocated each page of the file as he read them and they were now facedown in one large stack. He had a page full of notes by early evening, and was about to make dinner when his doorbell rang. Porter grabbed his pistol from the kitchen bar where he’d left it and walked to the large, after-market front door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. Open up, man.”
Porter undid the doubl
e deadbolts and opened the door. Ross had big takeout bags of Chinese food. That looked better to Porter than a third serving of leftover pizza.
Ross looked at Porter and saw the pistol in his hands. “Expecting trouble?”
Porter shrugged.
Ross moved through the entryway and into the kitchen as Porter shut the door behind him and locked it. He put the takeout bags on the counter, glancing at the kitchen table as he did so. “What’s all that shit?”
“Casefile for your girl.” Porter grabbed a couple of plates from the cabinet.
“Wait, like the actual police file? How the hell did you manage that?”
“I just asked for it.” Porter tore open the top of the takeout bag. “It’s amazing what people will do for you if you’re nice to them.”
Ross laughed harder than he should have at that. “You being nice? Give me a break. Is this illegal? Are we committing a crime right now?”
“Relax, we aren’t committing a crime; this was released by a representative of the sheriff’s office. It’s part of the Freedom of Information Act. Everything’s on the up and up. Still, we may not want to go advertising that we have it.”
“I knew it,” Ross said as he ate an egg roll.
They were both silent for a few minutes as they ate. Porter located the General Tso’s and paired it with some vegetable-free fried rice. He hated the way the onions and bean sprouts crunched with the rice. Weird texture, he always thought. Ross knew him well enough to get it special-made. That’s what best friends were for.
Ross broke the silence. “So, in this extremely legal file,” he said as he made air-quotes, “did you find anything interesting?”
“I’ve been looking at it all day. I have more questions than I started with, but I have more answers too. I wondered about Danny’s parents. According to a police interview, the mother is dead. Died of an overdose a couple years back. She was Miss Leona’s daughter.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Cocaine’s a hell of a drug.”
