Badge Bunny

by K L Montgomery

  We climb back into my car, and I can’t help but feel the glow of accomplishment washing across my face. Arranging this felt a little like matchmaking. How satisfying! I think their Music under the Star Wars theme will be perfect out here on this primitive little island.

  Five

  “No, I have a wedding that weekend, so I can’t come to New York,” I speak into the phone, trying to use a low voice so my coworkers can’t hear me. “The following weekend I work. Yes, the weekend after that looks clear. May eighteenth? Right. Yes. Yes, that gives me plenty of time to get an order in. Can you just email me the info? I can’t really jot it down right now.”

  My shiftmate, Madison Morgan, is on to me. She’s standing right by the door, tapping her foot and waiting for me to finish up so we can go check out this complaint at one of the many, many condos in the area.

  “What’s up, Everson? Planning a hot date?” She shoots me a sharp look. “My sister said you were a cocky asshole, by the way.”

  “Cocky?” I shrug. “I don’t know where she got that from.”

  “She said you made a big deal about being best friends with the lead singer of The Gallant Misfits.” Madison rolls her eyes. “Whoever that is.”

  “Only the best band in Slower Lower,” I fire back, defending my best friend’s honor. “I’m not only best friends with Andrew Clark, but I’m going to be his best man when he weds the lovely Sonnet Jayne on May fourth.”

  “May the fourth?” She cocks her head at me and smiles. “Isn’t that Star Wars Day?”

  “Is it?” Of course it is. What self-respecting geek doesn’t know that? I’m kind of surprised she does, though.

  “Yeah, I had the biggest crush on Han Solo when I was younger,” she admits. “You got a date to this wedding?”

  Is Madison Morgan asking ME out?

  My heart feels a little fluttery just thinking about it; it’s like a cat pounced right on my tongue. I can’t seem to get a sound to fire off my vocal cords. And my head won’t so much as budge in order for me to shake it.

  She gets this devious glint in her eyes as she leans in close to me and whispers, “I hope you do, Summer Teeth, because I’m pretty sure my sister wouldn’t go out with you again if you paid her a million bucks.”

  What the hell was that about? I am beginning to think my comrade is pure evil. Her sister is just plain ditzy, but Madison…she’s one of those man-hating feminists, isn’t she? I sigh. I don’t do bossy or man-hating feminists. So I feel a little deflated when I realize my crush on her has evaporated into thin air.

  “I wouldn’t go out with her again either,” I manage to retort, but Madison has already sauntered off, no doubt looking for someone else to zing.

  I get into my cruiser and follow her to the address of the complaint. Night is starting to creep up from the east, and the clouds toward the beach are hanging low in dusky lavender clumps, perched to take a twilight dip in the chilly waters of the Atlantic. We have a saying around the troop: The only thing worse than working days is working nights. Or maybe it’s the only thing worse than working nights is working days. Doesn’t matter. They equally suck. And as soon as you get used to one, it’s time to switch it up and do the other. Two weeks of days, then two weeks of nights. Such has been my life for the last five years.

  No wonder I can’t find a woman to settle down with. Every girl I’ve dated has been abundantly frustrated by my schedule. I can’t blame them. No one is more frustrated by it than me. And even after five years of doing this, neither my family or even close buddies like Drew know when the hell I’m working. Even though it’s the same schedule over and over again—doesn’t matter if there’s a holiday, a birthday, anniversary or your grandma’s in the hospital. Crime stops for no one.

  For some reason as we turn back into the condo complex, a mental image of that hot red-headed doctor from Lewes Hospital pops into my head. Is it wrong that I kind of hope to have a reason to drop by the hospital tonight? Maybe she’s working too? Now there’s a woman whose schedule is probably every bit as messed up as mine. Maybe even more messed up. I only work twelve-hour shifts. She might have to do those twenty-four hour ones. I think that’s pretty high up there on the list of worst torture methods, right alongside waterboarding.

  She is snarky as hell and just as hot. She’s got that fiery hair and a mouth to match—not to mention those curves. I know she’s trying to cover them up under that white doctor’s coat, but when I was in there last week, I saw the way her hips swing as she walks. Baby’s got back—there’s no doubt in my mind. I entertain a vivid fantasy of stripping that white coat right off her when I hear an obnoxious honk pierce the cool evening air.

  Morgan just honked at me.

  Alright, alright. She’s not only man-hating, but she’s got the patience of a gnat. What’s smaller than a gnat? A microscopic one-celled plankton maybe.

  “You coming, Everson?” she mouths through my window with an annoyed look contorting her features.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mouth back at her. I plop my campaign hat on my head and make my way out of my Tahoe. “Do we know what this is about?” I ask when I fall in at Morgan’s side.

  “Yeah, the landlord has complained there’s a squatter in this unit.”

  It’s off season at the beach, and there is a ton of rental property here. Not only that, but a lot of the landlords don’t live here or don’t live here year-round. It’s not unusual for local homeless people to squat during the colder months. I brace myself for a sob story, because they always have one. They lost their job, got kicked out of their own houses, et cetera.

  Morgan knocks on the door, and we wait for a moment before the handle twists open. There’s a small-boned older white lady with dyed platinum blonde hair sporting a feathered hairstyle popular back in the Eighties—my favorite decade for sure, but I think the hairstyles should be banned from ever making a comeback.

  “Hi, I’m Corporal Everson, and this is Corporal Morgan,” I introduce us. “We’ve had a report that you don’t have a lease for this property.”

  “What?” She raises a concerned brow at us. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you have a lease?” Morgan reiterates. “The landlord says you’re not his tenant.”

  “Of course I have a lease!” she scoffs, her hands flying up to her hips. “Do you want to see it?”

  “Do you mind showing it to us?” I try not to sound accusatory, but, I’m a cop, so it probably does, just by virtue of the uniform.

  “Well, it’s in the other room. Imma have to go find it for you,” she says, a hint of southern accent peeking through. “Can y’all have a seat?”

  We both nod and take a seat on her sofa, which sports a floral pattern from the same era as her hairstyle. She disappears down a hallway, then returns a few minutes later with a folded document. “Here,” she announces triumphantly, shoving the paper toward me with a smug smile.

  Morgan snatches it up, of course, her eyes darting over the printed text. “Huh. This looks legit, and the dates seem right. We’re going to have to take this with us, ma’am,” she says.

  The woman crosses her hands over her chest. “Whatever y’all need to do. I told you I was s’posed to be here. I pay my rent on time ev’ry month.”

  Morgan snickers a bit under her breath as her eyes catch on a picture book wedged under the pillow next to her. “I think this thing was poking me.” She laughs as she pulls the book out from under the pillow.

  “Oh, that’s my grandson’s favorite book,” the woman explains. “I have to hide it when he’s over, otherwise I have to read it about a zillion times in a row!”

  “’Sammy Swims To Sea,’” she reads, then trails her fingers over the embossed watercolor picture on the glossy cover. “How cute!”

  I feel a wave of heat rush over me as she starts to thumb through the book. The woman looks on, a smile curling her lips up as a fat tabby cat waddles in from the kitchen. I reach my hand out for the cat to sniff. A sudden pang pierces my
heart when I think of how my baby boy Tubbs never returned home in all this time. I’m so full of conflicting emotions, I think I zone out for a little bit.

  “What’s wrong with you, Everson?” Morgan asks, glancing over at me with concern arching her brows.

  “Nothing. Let’s take that lease back to the landlord, okay?”

  “Alright. Thank you, Ms. Underwood. We’ll follow up with you later,” Morgan promises as she rises from the sofa. She places the book back down on the pillow where she found it.

  I can’t seem to get out of the condo fast enough.

  “So, it turns out that this landlord’s buddy was renting out the vacant units unbeknownst to him,” I explain before taking another swig of my beer. “Well, allegedly.”

  “What do you mean ‘allegedly’?” Sam questions. We’re all gathered around a high-top table at Rehoboth Ale House.

  “Well, the buddy says the landlord was letting him rent out the properties since he’s local, which may have been true, but he apparently wasn’t giving the landlord his cut. I think the landlord got pissed that he thought he had vacant condos, but it turned out they were full, and he just wasn’t collecting the rent. His buddy was.”

  “Crazy,” Meric remarks. “How can there be so many con artists here?”

  “Beach town. Lots of tourists. Lots of older folks. Lots of people to be duped,” I explain. “Keeps things interesting. I suspect the judge will have to sort this whole thing out.”

  “So, enough about crime,” Drew cuts in. “I think it’s time to talk about something more important, don’t you?”

  “Oh, he thinks we’re here to plan his bachelor party,” Jack pipes up from the corner. He raises his beer to his mouth and takes a hearty sip.

  “Bachelor party? Our boy is presumptuous, isn’t he?” Luke joins in, laughing.

  “I don’t know anything about a bachelor party,” Meric states with a straight face.

  “Can we have the bachelor party in Ocean City or something? I’m thinking it might be best to take this party out of state,” I suggest.

  “Ocean City? I don’t want to go to Maryland. I thought you guys were taking me to Vegas?” Drew furrows his brows and twists his facial features into a perfect picture of disappointment.

  “Wait, you’re getting married?” Jack jokes. “Since when?”

  “Since I proposed to my fiancée backstage of YOUR show,” Drew fires back. He then turns his attention to me. “Isn’t the best man supposed to plan the bachelor party?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m the best man?” I join in playing dumb.

  I love how we’re all getting Drew so riled up, pretending we don’t know what the hell is going on. He has no idea that his bachelor party is all planned for Dewey Beach in two weeks, and we have a couple of extra surprises in store for him too.

  “Hey, can we gang up on someone else for a while? How about Everson?” Drew suggests. “Got a date for the wedding yet, man?”

  I roll my eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  I have been thinking about a date. I’m actually considering asking that redhaired doctor if she’ll go with me. Would that be an awkward first date? Yeah, probably would be, so I guess we’d need to have at least two dates prior to the wedding to make it less weird. I think we have enough time for that. Barely.

  “Hey, Everson, my mom could use a date,” Sam chimes in.

  They all guffaw and chuckle at my expense. Drew is looking especially smug now that the attention has shifted from him to me.

  “Hey, Everson, you’re a cop. Can’t you just handcuff some lady to you and drag her along to the wedding?” Luke suggests.

  More laughter. Naturally.

  “Everson, you’re such a badass. I dare you to go up to any woman here and ask her to be your date to my wedding. Come on, guys, what do you think? You think Everson should rise to the challenge and find a lady here to ask out?”

  Jack scans the room. “There’s a cute blonde over that way. The one with the—oh, wait, looks like she’s with someone.”

  “Wait, wait!” Drew pipes up. “What about that foxy brunette over there?”

  Meric peers across the room. “Wait a minute, that’s my girlfriend!”

  Our collective eyes swing over to him. He squints and shakes his head. “I knew she and her teacher friend were going out, but I didn’t know they were going to choose the exact same bar we did!”

  “Is her friend single?” Drew asks, a hopeful sparkle in his voice.

  “Hmmm…only one way to find out,” Meric answers, giving me a wink.

  “I bet you fifty bucks you won’t go up to her right now!” Sam challenges.

  Then, they all began chanting my name, enunciating each syllable: “Everson! Everson! Everson!” The peer pressure is officially ramping up.

  Soon they’ve created a loud enough spectacle that all eyes in our corner of the bar have turned their focus to us. Well, I’ve never been one to lose a bet.

  I turn to Drew with a confident smirk. “Here, hold my beer.”

  I’d only met Lindy, Meric’s girlfriend, once, but she clearly felt sorry for me when I ambled up to their table. I am pretty sure her friend rolled her eyes at me before I even had a chance to introduce myself.

  “I’m Chris Everson,” I tell her, sticking my hand out and locking my hazel eyes onto hers while still projecting all the confidence befitting the badge I wear.

  She gives me the kind of look that says Not in a million years, buddy.

  “Hi, Chris, this is my friend Alayna. Alayna, Chris.”

  I swear the look in Alayna’s eyes only grows colder and more hostile. I probably would have just walked away and given the guys some bullshit story, but Lindy is sitting right there. She’s sure to report the entire conversation to Meric, and then it’ll be dispersed to all the guys. It’s like the probability of me arresting someone leaving Dewey Beach for DUI on a Saturday night: approaching 100%.

  “So, hey, I noticed you beautiful ladies from across the way, and, Lindy, I know you’re taken, but I wondered if your lovely friend would want to go out with me sometime?”

  I mean, fifty bucks is at stake here, right?

  Lindy starts laughing. “Did Meric put you up to this?”

  Alayna glares at her, then at me.

  I shrug. “Well, I—”

  Lindy starts laughing so hard, I think she might fall off her barstool. Her friend still doesn’t look even the slightest bit amused, and I know right then and there I wouldn’t want to go out with her anyway. I can’t go out with someone who has zero sense of humor!

  Lindy leans toward me, her green eyes bearing down on me with mostly seriousness but also a few sparks of mischief. “Chris,” she says matter-of-factly, “Alayna is a lesbian. She likes girls.”

  “Oh, man! I’m so sorry!” I apologize, now feeling like a steaming turd. “And Meric knew this?”

  “Yup!” Lindy confirms, the laughter still spilling out of her like water through a leak in a dam.

  Alayna finally cracks a smidgeon of an apologetic smile. “Sorry, it’s nothing personal.”

  “No worries,” I assure her, then turn to face my friends with an angry glare.

  They’re all whooping and hollering so loudly, I’m afraid we’re all going to get kicked out. I imagine trying to explain that one to my sergeant. See? This is why I vote for taking the bachelor party out of state. What am I going to do with these guys?

  Six

  Water is still clogging my right ear, and the only scent permeating my nostrils is that of chlorine, even though I got out of the pool an hour ago. I even smell chlorine over the glorious aroma of my coffee—it’s ridiculous. I haven’t been able to make the swim club’s practices the last few nights because of work, so I got a swim in today, and I’m feeling quite sanctimonious about it. Almost saintly, in fact.

  That bridesmaid’s dress fits a little more snugly than I prefer, so maybe if I work hard this next month, it will zip up more easily on the big day. Eith
er way, I think I look amazing in it, and I’m not one to like the way I look in dresses. I may have to relinquish my tomboy card if I keep this up.

  I’m only a few sips into my coffee, which probably has enough sugar in it to completely negate the calories I burned in the pool, but at least I’ll stay awake this morning. It’s so hard to switch from nights to days. It’s like crawling out of a deep, dark cave to face a million-watt light bulb.

  “Accident coming in,” Anita tells me just as I’m about to swallow another gulp of it.

  I suck a deep breath into my lungs and spring into action. Turning the corner, a pair of glittering hazel eyes are the first thing I see. It’s Trooper Asshat. Just the way I wanted to start my morning.

  “Sixty-two-year-old female complaining of neck pain after a car accident,” the paramedic rambles off as they wheel the patient into one of the free rooms. Poor lady’s face is pale and gaunt, and her chest is heaving with labored breathing.

  “Well, look who it is, my favorite doctor,” comes his smooth-as-silk voice before I turn to follow the patient into the exam room.

  “Just dropping her off?” I ask, hoping to get a nod.

  “Thought I might hang out, see if I can annoy you for a bit.” The corner of his lips cranks up into a devious grin.

  I roll my eyes, not bothering to offer any other reaction as I slip past the curtain. Outside, he’s still rambling on. “Aren’t you going to ask me how my bite wound is? Do you want to see it?”

  The nerve of that guy!

  “Hello, Ms…Goodpaster, is it?” I question, looking down at the woman in the bed. She’s only sixty-two, but she has a frailty about her, her wrists tiny enough that I could probably encircle them with my fingers twice over.

  “It’s Mrs. Goodpaster,” she corrects me, “though my husband has passed on.” She heaves a dramatic sigh and waits for me to offer my condolences.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am—”

  “Well, he’s not dead,” she explains, emphasizing the last word. “He merely ran off with some forty-year-old skank. But he’s dead to me, the fat bastard. He had a small willie, anyway.” She rolls her eyes and sighs again.