"Leave it be, Cori," Finn said as he took hold of Smithson's hand. Instead of throwing it off, Finn gave the man a most glorious smile and moved closer, holding on so tight that Smithson couldn't step back. When Finn was very close, he purred:
"Detective Smithson, best not to put your hand on another man that way. Your fellow officers might misinterpret your interest – especially when it comes to a boyo as attractive as myself."
Gordon laughed aloud as Finn put Smithson's hand away from him. The big man moved into the hallway and let go of the door. Finn took Cori's arm. As they went around the two men, Finn caught Smithson's anger but it was of no consequence. He was sure he had made some points with Gordon – perhaps he had even made a friend – and that was something to take away. Not wanting Finn O'Brien to have the last laugh, though, Smithson called out to Cori as she caught the closing door.
"Hey, Anderson."
She held the door with her shoulder and showed him her profile: "What, you cow pie?"
"Just want to remind you to watch your back," Smithson said.
Cori turned around, giving him her attention just in case he had something solid for her.
"And why would that be?" she asked.
"Word is you're going to open a file on the jumper."
"So?"
"So, O'Brien kind of goes berserk when he's around those gutter whores. He might throw you under the bus if you get in the way," Smithson cackled.
"Or over the bridge," Gordon snickered.
Beside her, Finn tensed but he made no move to go back at them. For one thing, it would do no good and for another Bob Fowler was standing behind Gordon and Smithson. When all eyes were on him, the captain jerked his head, indicating that the two troublemakers should hightail it back to work. When they were gone, Fowler said:
"Nothing personal, O'Brien. Nothing."
Finn nodded and then let Cori go out the door ahead of him.
"Nothing personal, my ass," Cori muttered. "That was about as personal as it gets."
Finn kept his counsel. There was no reason to respond. He knew what the captain meant. What Finn didn't know was if he had lied to Bob Fowler when he swore that none of this was personal. He supposed he would find out soon enough.
CHAPTER 5
It took Cori and Finn twenty-two minutes to get from the precinct parking lot to the overpass. Without traffic they could have made it in twelve but the city was never without traffic. In those twenty-two minutes hardly a word was spoken between them. Not for Finn's lack of trying to be sure. Each question, each comment, each attempt to engage his partner was met with a shrug, a grunt or silence. He gave up five minutes in and left Cori to her dark woman thoughts.
She sat with her elbow propped against the window, her chin resting on her fist and her attention apparently riveted on the not-so-fascinating cityscape that she knew like the back of her hand. Finn imagined she might be angry that he had not responded in like manner to Gordon and Smithson – for certainly they were fighting words the two men had tossed their way – yet that seemed an odd excuse for her mood. Cori knew well enough that, like gambling, the odds favored the house. In the end a brawl, even of words, would prove nothing except that Finn O'Brien was still quick to raise his fist to a fellow officer. Since Cori would not shed light on the situation, Finn let his thoughts wander.
It was strange that after all his years in this country, he could still find himself homesick for the village where he grew almost to manhood. He remembered so vividly the green countryside, the narrow streets, and the neighbors who knew everything about everyone. He missed the church bells peeling on Saturdays when people wed and Sundays when they worshiped. He missed the animals in the fields, the morning mist, the relentless rain. Yet he also loved Los Angeles because this was where his people were, because Alexander's spirit lingered, because, despite everything that had happened to him, this was home.
So the minutes passed – Cori mute in her vexation and Finn's mind traveling between Ireland and Los Angeles – until the bridge came into view. When it did, he pulled over and parked. Cori got out of the car before he had set the emergency brake. He got out a second after she slammed her door.
The corner on which they stood would have been an unremarkable bit of the city except for the fact that the University of Southern California had parted with a few million dollars to purchase three square blocks of land and another couple of mil to demolish the buildings on it. The university then raised a massive building. The facade looked like that of a fine hotel with its relief of graceful dancers and mighty athletes rising off the fawn colored stone. Instead of people, though, the five-story structure was nothing more than a fancy parking lot. Finn found the whole thing perplexing. Not that the university's concern for its students' safety wasn't admirable, it was the institution's miserliness when it came to social justice that surprised him. The parking garage seemed a fine place to allow the homeless a bit of safe space at night. Since the souls on the bridge were not as valuable as cars, here they stayed, sheltering as best they could high above the freeway.
A bit west of the magnificent parking structure was the Radisson Hotel, a bit north and to the east were squat buildings made of old brick and no more than three stories high. Craftsmen and seamstresses who were paid for their labor by the piece worked in those buildings. One day they would be torn down and more parking lots would be built until all of Los Angeles was home only to cars. On the other side were more buildings, more people, more of everything. Connecting one side to the other was this bridge, an overpass named only on some obscure plans in a city office.
Cori walked a half a step in front of Finn as they started for the encampment. Her purse was gripped tight against her body, her back was ridged, her stride long and her footfall so hard that Finn feared each step might crack the concrete. She cut quite a figure and Finn was admiring of it as any man would be and, as any man would do, he was tiring of the icy blasts shooting off her on an otherwise warm afternoon. Finn reached for her. He touched her arm.
"Cori."
She pulled away and that just peeved him all the more. Finn stopped and stood still.
"What?" She whirled around, snapping at him. "Come on, O'Brien. I don't want to be at this all night."
She spun back around as if the fact that her eyes couldn't meet his were his fault and reason to be angrier still. Done with the nonsense, Finn jogged toward her, his big hand shooting out to take hold of her arm. This time it was him doing the spinning.
"You are not going in there guns ablazin', woman. Sure, that does no one any good." Cori blinked and set her lips until they were stretched to a hard line. She looked like a child determined to hold her breath until she got what she wanted. The problem was that Finn had no idea what she wanted. "Whatever it is, get it out and let's be done with it."
Cori tossed her head. She breathed deep, her nostrils flared. She swung her head and looked at the people on the bridge. She had never told Finn about the time she and Amber lived in her car and she didn't want to now. Being on this bridge brought back such bad memories, but that really wasn't the problem. The problem was something hard to talk about with anyone and almost impossible with her partner. She tried to shrug him off, tried to distract him with a tip of her head and a quick 'forget it', but he held her back.
"Cori, please. I won't beg, but I sure as well will stand here until dawn unless you tell me what is going on with you."
"You wouldn't get it." She patted his hand and eased her arm out of his grip. "Come on. Let's go."
Finn stepped in front of her, dissatisfied despite her softened tone.
"Is it me you're angry with? Is this about what happened back there with Smithson? If that's it, I'll be damned if I'll apologize," Finn said, now positive that she was shamed to be the partner of a man who wouldn't stand up for himself.
"Oh, for God's sake. Men," she muttered. "It's not all about you."
"It is about me if we're here and we're doing our job. It's about me if
you're acting out. It's about me if I'm relying on you. We could both get hurt if you're not with me."
Cori's eyes flashed but she held out so Finn tried again.
"I couldn't bear it if something happened to you, and I sure as hell fire don't want to be claiming a place in the morgue any time soon. Tell me what set you off and we'll take care of it."
He took her by the shoulders and moved closer. Cori's chin trembled and her arm spasmed beneath his hand. He shook her in the gentlest way now that he had her attention.
"We watch out for one another, Cori. Isn't that the way?"
Her shoulders fell. She let out a long breath, nodded and stepped away as if what she was about to say would be painful to her if she were close to him. She pushed up her sunglasses and ran her hand under her long, curled hair. He couldn't see her eyes and yet Finn knew she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were down as they would be when confessing to a priest. But Finn was no priest. He was a man and this was about being a woman. That was the problem.
"It's what they did to her." Cori said. When that confession made no impression on Finn, her temper flared. "Do I have to spell it out for you? The circumcision thing? Genital mutilation? I swear, Finn, you are dense. And I further swear that when we find whoever cut her you are going to have to keep me from killing them. All I can think about is what if someone did that to Amber? What if someone had done that to me? Or Bev? Who could do that to a woman?"
"I see."
Finn put his hands in the pockets of his jacket and pulled his bottom lip up between his teeth. He lowered his eyes in seeming solidarity with his partner, but it was a gesture only made out of respect for her. Finn found no shame in the fact that he could not share her passion. What was done to their Jane Doe was another piece of the puzzle of her identify. It was no more or less important than her manicured nails, her decent clothes, her finely braided hair.
Cori, though, saw this not as a part of who the victim was but the essence of the woman herself; the symbol of the life that had been lost even before she went to her death. It was hard for Finn to reconcile Cori the outraged woman with Cori the cool-headed cop and harder still for him to know what to do next.
"What is it you want me to say, Cori?"
"Nothing. There's nothing you can say. But I think that's why she jumped, Finn. Maybe that's why she didn't want to live. I wouldn't want to live."
"It is something that happened to her. But it was healed, Cori."
"And that's supposed to make it right? That she survived it? Good grief." She tossed her head and threw up her hands. "Okay, fine. Be all guy like that and pretend it isn't just the most awful thing ever. But I'm telling you, if we find out who did that to her then we find the reason she's dead."
"Cori, come on. That's too far afield—"
"Oh yeah? Immigrants are coming out of our ears around here and they don't just get all red, white and blue the minute they set foot on this hallowed ground. Look at the Santeria stuff. We had the problem with the Korean restaurants. What about the honor killing over in Burbank? Who knows what pressure our jumper was under?"
"Sure, I agree with you." Finn took his hands out of his pockets and put them on his hips to keep from trying to shake sense into her. "But that's ten steps ahead. Our job starts on this bridge. If you have a better idea, why don't you tell me where you think we should be looking right now?"
"Pick a place, O'Brien, because there are a few to choose from. Iraqis, Iranians, Pakistanis. Name it and there's a neighborhood in L.A. with lots of closed doors and lots of things going on that are fine and dandy in the old country." Cori came right back at him, eyes blazing and jaw set, but he was no less determined.
"We're not going to be running around like the chicken with its head cut off. We start here." Finn pulled rank with his decision and started to move her on. "We can't make everything right."
"That's funny coming from you." Cori fell in step and this time walked beside him as they bickered.
"I'll choose my battles, thank you very much," Finn shot back. "And for the record, I don't think that's why she died. If circumcision was the major factor, she would have jumped long before now."
"Oh yeah?" Cori quickened her pace. "Well you just get back to me a couple years after someone cuts off your pecker, cowboy."
A Private Estate off Mulholland
"No, no, damn it. Do you have a brain? It's been two days since I've heard from her. If her car was here, she would be here, Greta. Yes, I've called everywhere. She was supposed to be here day before yesterday by five at the latest. Besides, where would she go? She moved in here so she wouldn't have to deal with him until this was over." Sharon listened to the woman whine and whimper and then she heard the one thing she didn't want to even think about. "No, I don't know where she was going. She just said she was picking it up. She never told me where it was." More chatter from the other end but Sharon cut Greta off fast. "She wouldn't do that. Fine. Fine. If you're going to freak then just get out of my way, and I'll take care of everything."
While the woman on the other end of the line tried to point out that there was a difference between social consciousness and suicide when trying to prove a point, Sharon Stover paced the living room to keep from raging.
"Don't tell me we don't need it. It's the lynchpin. Everyone is ready to go as soon as we edit it in. This is something that's never been done before. I have coordinated this for maximum shock value. Without her the whole thing is just another whiny piece of pretentious crap."
Sharon turned and paced the deck again. What she said wasn't entirely true. What she had was powerful; what she wanted was explosive. One more word from this broad and Sharon was going to climb the railing and end it all just so she didn't have to listen to the useless verbal handwringing. It was Sharon who should be losing it, Sharon who had everything on the line, Sharon who hadn't slept a wink the night before or a hundred nights before that. The last long hours had been spent swinging between anger, worry, frustration and, for one brief moment, despair. God help her, but she might have screwed herself royally and if she had there would be no more chances. These other women talked a good game but when it came down to the wire they were about as committed to this project as a Hollywood player was to his wife. Just when panic looked like it would win the day, the silence of the hills was broken by the sound of a car's tires on the drive. Sharon cut Greta off mid-whine.
"Never mind, she's here. I'll get it down to the studio tonight and you get to the theater tomorrow. I want you to double-check everything. I mean it. We need confirmation that Mary is going to be the AV person at that event so she can make the switch. Call Sue and make sure she steps up the social media feeds for the short pieces and has the bloggers scheduled. We haven't much time and we need to ramp it up. Confirm he's going to be there, too. I want to see his face when this goes down."
Sharon hung up before Greta could say another word. She tossed the phone on one of the lounges and went across the deck as if she were gliding. The glass doors fronting the living room – ten feet high and thirty feet across – had been retracted into the walls so that the only difference between outside and in was a roof.
Sharon walked past the white sofas that could easily sit twenty. They were set around a piece of glass the size of a Ping Pong table that rested on a cement pedestal. A life-size oil by Tina Garrett hung on the north wall, full frontal save for a fan against the woman's nether regions. The lady's dark, knowing gaze seemed to indicate that she was faintly amused by what went on in this house. Sharon's own portrait – one she hated – hung on the opposite wall. The only thing that kept her from burning the thing was her great respect for the artist. It wasn't his fault that Frederick had been specific in the commission; it was her fault for agreeing to pose that way. She had done it because she loved Frederick back then.
She was an idiot then.
In the foyer, Sharon put her hand on the head of the life-size, cast-iron sculpture of a person – unrecognizable as a male or female �
� sitting atop a stainless steel globe. Frederick said it represented man conquering the world; Sharon thought it represented anyone with balls of steel.
The floor in the entry was blonde wood. Hidden vents cooled the place to a constant temperature of sixty-five degrees. While the pool and deck were as tranquil as a beach in Bali, the house was as welcoming as an exquisitely appointed gynecologist's examining room. Sit back, put your psyche in the stirrups and let Frederick see what you were made of. No need to worry. There wasn't a chance you'd be infected with a nasty bug like friendship or respect before you were sent on your way.
While two walls enclosing the foyer were fashioned of clear glass, the wall in front of her was intricately etched with images of nymphs and mermaids. Most people ooohed and aaahed at the beautiful art; few looked close enough to see that all the pretty little sea creatures were maimed and missing tiny parts of themselves: the tip of a fin, an arm, a leg, an eye. The etching was so elaborate that it was almost impossible to figure out where the front door latch was. All this, of course, was by design.
Good old Frederick. The artistically hobbled sea creatures, the hidden door that opened out instead of in so that he could more easily eject those who displeased him, were the subtlest of his sick jokes. Poor old Frederick. He had too much time on his hands, his heart was too small and his piles of money were just too big to allow him to be a good man. Fortune, Sharon had learned, was an idiot who smiled most brightly on other idiots. That was all about to change because she was no idiot and Fortune was just around the corner.
Sharon pushed the magic spot on a panel that opened the etched door just as a car door slammed. Fighting back tears of relief, determined not to show how worried she had been, Sharon raised her chin and hurried down the stone footpath. It was flanked by ferns and palms set in beds of earth that smelled rich and moist. She called out just before she reached the end where the flagstone fanned out into the pavers of curving driveway and roundabout.
Foreign Relations: A Finn O'Brien Thriller (Finn O'Brien Thriller Series Book 2) Page 5
