by Brent Pilkey
He’s my dog, that’s all. “Wasn’t ready for bed. Just needed some time to unwind.”
“Thinking anything in particular?” The question was harmless in its context but the way she brushed her hair back over her ear as she asked it told Jack it wasn’t empty to Karen.
I don’t want to get into anything tonight. He returned his eyes to the stars as he told her, “Remember when we were in Arizona? How many stars there were out in the desert? How bright they were?”
“I remember,” she sighed and this time there was no mistaking the hue of her words. Sadness. Was she recalling better times when there was no tension between them?
“What happened to your face?” She had been asleep when he got home last night and had been gone in the morning; this was the first time she’d seen the scratches. It was a simple question. A razor blade in the dark.
He touched the twin marks next to his eye, left by Dean Myers. “Just some scratches. Nothing major.” A thought crossed his mind — a gift from the stars? — and before Karen could respond, he asked, “How about we go to Ted’s for breakfast tomorrow? We haven’t been in a while. I could go for some of their peameal bacon and pancakes.”
“We can’t. We’re going out to brunch with Mom and Dad, remember?” Her hair had slipped free. She brushed it back. “What happened to your face?”
Bloody hell. “It’s nothing, really. I got into a fight when I arrested a guy for assaulting his girlfriend and their baby.” He rubbed the scratches to show how insignificant they were. “Just a couple of scratches.” No need to say the asshole was trying to gouge my eye out.
Karen hung her head over her clasped hands. Her hair draped forward, hiding her face from him.
“Just some scratches. Just a fight. Oh, Jack.” Karen sounded not sad but disappointed, like a teacher mourning the failure of a once promising student. “How many more ‘justs’ are there going to be, Jack? How many before I have officers showing up at the house or the school to tell me you’re dead? That it was just bad luck.”
“Oh, come on, Kare. It’s not like I get into a fight every day. Hell, I hurt myself worse in the gym.”
“You’ve been on the road four days, Jack,” Karen pointed out sadly. “What if this —” she imitated him rubbing his temple, rather sarcastically, Jack thought “— had been an inch the other way? Oh, it’s just an eye, Kare,” she mimicked him. “I’ve got another one.”
Jack felt Justice stiffening under his hand and realized the dog was reacting to him. Jack relaxed the hand on Justice’s neck and slowly unclenched his jaw. He drew a cleansing breath in through his nose, held it momentarily as he visualized the tension draining from his blood, then gradually freed it to the night air.
“Do you know what I arrested him for?” he posed quietly. No tension at all.
“It doesn’t mat —”
“Yes, it does matter,” he interjected sharply. Well, maybe some tension. “He assaulted his girlfriend and their baby, Kare. And not just today. Weekly. They’re both covered in bruises. And yesterday, just yesterday,” he spat, “Jennifer arrested him for beating up his other girlfriend and her baby. So I’m not going to complain about a couple of scratches.”
“It doesn’t matter what you arrest them for, Jack. Whether it’s murder or shoplifting, one of them is going to kill you someday. And then it won’t matter one shit what you were arresting them for.”
Jack’s anger was beginning to rumble, quietly and down deep, but still, it was stirring. Did she have no faith in his abilities? Why did she have to see the scars as reminders of near misses? Why couldn’t she see them as victories, as proof of his strengths and his dedication to her?
“I won’t let some piece of shit kill me, Karen,” he vowed, almost growling. “It won’t happen.”
But it was obvious she didn’t believe him. “How can you be sure of that?”
“Because I have you to come home to,” he snapped.
Silence.
A soft breeze wafting across the deck was all that passed between them for minutes. Jack was pissed and he’d be damned if he was going to be the one to break the stalemate. He let his gaze drift over the starry sky, concentrated on the feel of Justice’s fur beneath his fingers and tried to let go of his anger.
But Karen was her mother’s daughter and Evelyn Hawthorn’s stubbornness was legendary — although she would call it determination or willpower. Even though Jack knew his last comment had caught Karen unprepared and shocked her into silence, it didn’t mean she’d be the first to breach the quiet. They had already sat long enough with nothing said; if Jack didn’t rein in his pride, they’d still be sitting here when the sun came up in a couple of hours.
But he certainly wasn’t going to apologize; he had nothing to be sorry for.
“I forgot to tell you,” he ventured, “I’m starting early tomorrow. At noon, so I won’t be able to join you and your parents for brunch.”
“Typical,” she decided, staring off into the shadows beyond the deck.
“Typical?” What the fuck does that mean?
She turned to face him, an ugly twist to her lips. Lips, Jack suddenly realized, he hadn’t kissed, or been kissed by, in a long time.
“I know you don’t like my parents, Jack, but if you don’t want to see them just say so. You don’t have to make up excuses.”
Excuses? God, it’s like she wants to fight. “We were told today at the beginning of shift,” he justified. “It was a busy night and I forgot to call. That’s all.”
“We?” she asked suspiciously.
Oh, fuck. Despite Jack having never worked with Jenny, Karen nurtured a mistrustful jealousy of his new partner. The two women in his life had never met and all Karen knew of Jenny was her distorted reputation as a party girl. All thanks to a friend of Karen’s who worked in 32 Division and who had been more than happy to regurgitate rumours and gossip.
“Jennifer —” not Jenny, not around Karen “— and I are doing a hooker sweep with the Major Crime guys and they want to start early.”
“A hooker sweep?” she asked dubiously, as if he was making up something.
“Yeah. The pws pose as hookers to grab the johns and the rest of us will be backup.”
“She gets to act like a whore,” Karen mused. “How fitting.”
More stirrings down in his belly, hot and harsh. “Damn it, Karen, that’s not fair. You haven’t even met her. You have no idea at all what she’s like.”
“If you think so highly of her, Jack, why don’t you two become partners?” She threw the question at him. When he didn’t answer, she moaned, “You did, didn’t you?”
“I was going to tell you —”
“When? How long were you going to keep it a secret from me?” There was venom in her voice.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. Jack was holding tight to his temper but the more Karen refused to listen, the stronger it grew. “We just paired up tonight and I’m telling you now. I wasn’t hiding it.”
“So how long have you wanted this? Did you have to wait for Manny to get kicked out of the station?”
“Bloody fucking hell,” he muttered, running his free hand through his hair. His right hand was still buried in Justice’s fur, pulling as much calmness as he could from the shepherd. “I haven’t been planning this,” he explained, frustrated that he had to. “Hell, yesterday was the first day we worked together.” He snapped his teeth shut, far too late to stop the words from coming out; he knew as soon as he uttered them how wrong they were to say to Karen.
She laughed. A scornful, mocking sound. “Didn’t wait long, did you, Jack? Did you decide to marry me on our second date?”
“It isn’t the same, Karen, and you know it.”
She was crying now, her tears shining streaks in the moonlight. “You’re an asshole, Jack.”
The accusation was a knife in
Jack’s guts. Karen, no matter how heated the argument, how ferocious her ire, had never hurt him as she just had with those simple, little words. His anger, a strengthening inferno, was extinguished beneath those words, a bonfire snuffed out by a tidal wave.
He went to her and knelt before her. “Karen, if it means that much to you, I won’t work with her. You’re the one I love, not her.”
He reached for her hands but she snatched them away. “Do what you want, Jack. I don’t care. You can be her first customer tomorrow and fuck her in your car. I just don’t care.” She stormed into the kitchen, slamming shut the sliding door, rattling the glass in its frame.
Silence once again slid over the yard.
Jack stared after his wife, his face frozen in disbelief. He knelt on the deck, shocked into immobility until Justice, whimpering softly, nudged his head under Jack’s arm. Jack gratefully wrapped his arm around his friend.
What the hell was happening to his marriage?
“She called you an asshole?”
“That she did.” Jack laughed, an empty, hurt sound. “But at least she didn’t call me a fucking asshole, right?”
Jenny didn’t join in on his laughter. “That doesn’t sound good, Jack. What are you going to do?”
He shrugged and sipped his Diet Coke. In the office’s thick, stale air, the pop’s icy sweetness was ambrosia. Jack and Jenny were in the second-floor Major Crime office waiting for Mason and his crew. The shades were drawn, casting a dim pall over the cluttered desks and filing cabinets but doing little to dispel the room’s mugginess.
Jack stretched, then rolled his shoulders. “I’ll tell you, that futon in the basement sucks, that’s for sure.”
“You slept in the basement?”
Jack nodded, bobbing the pop can as he drank. “Kind of got the hint when I found the bedroom door closed. And nope,” he said, anticipating her next question, “I didn’t see her this morning. She’d left by the time I got up.” He grimaced. “I imagine she and her parents had an interesting conversation over brunch.”
“Did someone say brunch?” Jason “Tank” Van Dusen strolled — as well as anyone of his size and bulk could stroll — into the office with an expectant grin on his face that quickly faded. “Aw, no food.”
According to his self-written legend, Tank was the world’s only sumo wrestler–Viking love child. His gigantic bald head sat neckless on his enormous shoulders over his equally massive body. Tank refused to weigh himself, claiming the last scale he had stepped on had broken, but anyone who doubted the legitimacy of his nickname had never seen him bench-pressing a bar bending under the weight of its plates or handling the unit’s two-man battering ram by himself.
“Sorry, Tank,” Jenny apologized. “You can have a sip of Jack’s Coke if you want.”
“Ew, diet.” Tank shuddered before squeezing in behind his desk. “You’re looking good, Jenny.”
“Thanks, Tank. Just my usual crack-whore outfit.” Jenny’s wardrobe consisted of a stained T-shirt, worn jeans and scuffed high heels. Her waist-length hair hung in a loose ponytail. Her normal French braid would have been safer, but it was a hairstyle not many crack whores took to.
“You good to go, Jack? Heard you got some busted ribs.” Tank was rummaging in his desk and came out with a protein bar.
“I’m good. Just one cracked rib, that’s all. So, unless some john puts up a fight, I’ll be fine.”
“Johns usually ain’t the aggressive type.” Tank ripped open the wrapper and bit the bar in half. Around a mouthful he said, “And if someone does want to scrap, we’ll just sic Kris on him.”
“Who am I beating up for you now, babycakes?” Kris Kretchine asked, gliding through the door. Kris was a competitive female bodybuilder with enough muscle mass to make most men jealous. Or nervous. Jack knew his ego wouldn’t be able to handle a comparison of biceps with Kris. Despite her size, she moved with a liquid grace that hinted at the speed that had earned her a college scholarship for track and field. Her spiky blond hair was frosted with blue today to match her T-shirt and Jack couldn’t help but notice how the material strained over her substantial breasts.
Jenny smacked Jack in the shoulder.
If Kris was aware of Jack’s stare she let it slide. On her way to her desk she stopped behind Tank and gave his bald pate a loud smooch.
Tank giggled then blushed crimson when he spotted Jack and Jenny staring at him. “She does it for luck,” he explained sheepishly.
“Does Mason kiss you, too?” Jack wanted to know just as the Major Crime detective walked in.
“Who do I kiss?” he wanted to know.
“Do you guys time your entrances, or what?” Jack looked to Jenny for support and she just shrugged, a bemused smile on her face.
Mason studied them for a moment then turned to Tank and Kris, but neither of his crew could help him out. “Whatever,” he mumbled, sitting down. His chair creaked in protest. “Damn it, Tank,” the burly D snarled. “Quit stealing my chair.”
“Sorry, boss.” Chagrined, Tank exchanged chairs and when he sat down, the chair didn’t just creak, it screamed. While everyone was waiting to see if the chair would dump Tank on his ass John Taftmore, the final member of Mason’s team, waltzed into the room.
“Tank take Rick’s chair again?” When Taftmore spotted Jenny his face lit up, a stupid grin and his acne scars dropping his visible age back into high school. He ran his fingers through his mop of unremarkable brown hair then sidled over to Jenny. His tall, gangly build added to the teen illusion.
“Hey, Jenny,” he crooned, the stupid grin becoming a repulsive leer.
“If you even think about touching me,” Jenny warned him, “I’ll kick your balls up into your throat.”
Taftmore paused in mid-sidle, his leer faltering, clearly assessing the legitimacy of Jenny’s threat. At length, common sense won out, or maybe his balls reminded him of an incident involving Jenny and a chair. Whichever, he nodded to Jack then sauntered over to his desk. Kris gave Jenny a thumbs-up while Tank snickered around the last of his protein bar.
“Is Sue coming?” Kris asked once Taftmore and his wounded pride had sat down.
Mason shook his head. “She’s tied up on the nut squad so it’s just Jenny today. Which works out ’cause Taft and I have something else to work on.” He ran his hands over his short-cropped hair. The big detective was looking tired.
“Court not going well, boss?”
“Court fucking sucks, Tank.” Mason slapped his hands on the desk. “Fucking defence lawyer. He convinced the judge the search warrant was no good so all the evidence we got in the apartment and on the computer is inadmissible. We’re fucked, totally fucked.”
“That the pedophile case?” Jack asked.
Mason nodded glumly. “Yeah. Did you know the prick actually filmed himself having anal sex with a twelve-year-old boy? We’ve got it but thanks to that fucking lawyer none of the files in the computer are worth a shit.” Mason’s voice was tightening as his face reddened. “We have proof, beyond any fucking doubt, that this asshole raped this boy and he’s going to walk. Fuck!”
The office was silent, the only sound the detective’s slowly easing breathing. “All I can hope for is to drag this out a few more days and run up his lawyer’s bill. What a clusterfuck.”
“That reminds me, boss,” Tank ventured. “Homicide called. They want you to give them a call when you get in.”
“Well, I’m not fucking in yet.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“That about the machete thing over in 52? Manny said you stopped by the scene yesterday.”
Mason eyed Jack before answering. “Yeah, somebody offed the pedophile’s brother by mistake.”
“Too bad.”
“Yeah,” Mason agreed. “Too bad.” The big man shook himself. “Enough of that shit. The whores have been working Pe
mbroke lately and the residents are complaining to the boss and he complains to me,” he spelled out for the officers. “Now, I was hoping not to spend more than a couple of days on this; we’ve got more important things to do than pinch some businessmen looking for a cheap fuck. No offense, Jenny.”
Jenny waved it off then shot a warning finger at Taftmore. The boy detective constable wisely shut his mouth.
“Grab as many as you can so the superintendent can show the numbers to the residents, but don’t bother hiding while you’re processing the pricks,” Mason instructed. “If the other johns see their buddies getting pinched, maybe they’ll get the idea and move on.”
“It’s a waste of time,” Kris opined. “All we’re doing is moving the whores to another street.”
Mason agreed jadedly. “And then another batch of residents will complain and we’ll move the girls on to yet another street. Fuck,” he grumbled. “When is someone going to clue in and just legalize the damned thing?”
“Legalize and tax it,” Kris added. “Could probably pay off the national debt.”
“It certainly would make enforcing it a lot easier.” Mason held up a hand, ticking off points on his thick fingers. “If a girl’s caught hooking without a licence, she gets pinched. No recent medical checkup, pinched. Hooking under age, pinched.”
“Set up legal brothels,” Tank suggested. “Safer for the workers.”
Kris nodded. “It’d do away with pimps.”
“They could have price wars,” Taft declared joyously. “Can you imagine the commercials?”
“Another legitimate argument ruined by Taft logic,” Kris proclaimed despondently.
To Jack, the discussion had the feel of a well-worn subject and he could sympathize with the Major Crime officers; rousting crack whores and scooping johns didn’t seem all that major.
“All right, get out of here,” Mason ordered then gestured everyone back to their seats. “Fuck, I’m getting old. My mind’s fucking going.” He scrubbed his face again. “You two,” he said, looking at Jack and Jenny, “took a report Sunday for an assault on a hooker.”
Jack nodded while Jenny clarified, “Aggravated.”
