Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  “That’s not a recognized zone in this office. Sorry, I can’t help you.”

  London looked dumbfounded. “But—”

  “I’m kidding,” Wanda retorted without even breaking a smile. “I’ll reschedule my nine o’clock call.” She picked up her cell phone and sent a quick text. “There. Done.”

  “Wanda?” A worker Reid didn’t recognize rapped lightly on the door and poked his head inside. “You said we could use your office for our meeting at nine.”

  “Of course.” Wanda grabbed her cell as she stood from the desk. “Follow me,” she said, already on the move. “We can continue this discussion in another room.”

  She led them down the hallway to a door at the very end, scanning the keycard at her hip to unlock the door electronically. “We call this our Smash and Bash room. Workers in this office see things no human should see. As a result, we experience all the intense feelings that go along with that, including anger. Rather than stuffing it down, I encourage all workers to come in here and let loose at least once a week. We keep a sign-up sheet outside. No one’s usually here at this hour. But the day is still young.”

  Reid looked around. The room was large with four distinct stations. Each had its own punching bag and—What was that? She stepped over for a closer look. There, staring back at her, was a life-size cardboard cutout of her. It was riddled with holes. “What the hell is this?”

  “Is there a problem, Detective Sylver?”

  “That’s me!”

  “No.” Wanda shook her head. “You must be mistaken.”

  “It sure the hell is. Look!” She stood alongside the cutout of herself and assumed the same pose.

  Wanda stepped over and frowned. “It does bear an uncanny resemblance.”

  “Uncanny resemblance my ass. That’s me!” She glanced at the punching bag on her right and realized a paper cutout of her head was pinned to the top.

  “There are several cutouts from which to choose.” Wanda pointed to a bin alongside the punching bag. “But yours is definitely the most popular. Turns out beating you to a pulp or aiming slingshots at you is very therapeutic.”

  “You admit it, then.” She set her hands on her hips and turned to London. “Is that even legal?”

  “I admit nothing,” Mrs. Alinski stated. “Only that I had to do something to keep my staff from seeking revenge on the officer responsible for their near-death experience.”

  “That was an accident! How was I supposed to know those pies were loaded with laxatives?”

  “Full disclosure would have been nice. Something along the lines of, Hi there, Mrs. Alinski. An ex-con just got sprung from the joint and gave me these lovely apple pies. Right then and there, I would’ve told you to shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.” She crossed her arms and addressed London. “Instead, she lied and told me she baked them herself.”

  “No way,” London said, looking horrified.

  “Way.”

  London gave Reid the evil eye. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “You can’t be on her side,” Reid said. “You’re my partner.”

  “And she never said sorry,” Wanda went on, still fuming. “No note. No phone call. Nothing.”

  “Karma,” London said, raising an eyebrow in Reid’s direction.

  “Fine. Maybe I should’ve called or sent flowers or some—”

  “You think?” Wanda gave her the most intimidating stare down she’d ever received, nuns included. Shaking her head in apparent disgust, she turned to London once again. “You two are partners?”

  London nodded. “Unfortunately.”

  “Hey, I heard that.” Was this the same woman who’d made passionate love to her the night before? What the hell was happening here?

  “Then I imagine you’ll benefit from a pass at the punching bag.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” London slipped out of her coat and draped it over a nearby chair.

  Wanda bent down and plucked Reid’s likeness from the bin. “Full-body cutout or just the head?” she asked, holding each one up.

  “Ooh. Definitely full body.” London allowed Wanda to slide boxing gloves over her hands, then turned to Reid. “Can you please take my firearm?”

  “You want me to hold your gun while you beat me up?”

  London nodded happily.

  Sighing, she lifted London’s sweater, unsnapped the leather holster, and withdrew the Glock. “I’m sure there are cutouts of other cops in that bin, too. Aren’t there?” she asked, hearing the note of desperation in her own voice.

  “Nope,” Wanda replied, lips pursed. “Just you.”

  Reid humbly took a seat. She watched, mesmerized and a little unsettled as London landed powerful blows and quick jabs, one after another, to the paper cutout of her. Could having to ride in the car behind Mug cause this type of residual anger?

  After several minutes, London stopped, a little out of breath and grinning like an idiot. “Wow. That felt great.”

  Wanda stepped over to help London remove the gloves. “What do you need?” she asked, apparently pleased with the rookie’s boxing skills.

  “Can you look someone up in your system? He was in foster care for a while. We’re looking specifically for the names of any individuals who might’ve overlapped with him in one of his foster homes.”

  “How many years ago?”

  London looked to Reid.

  Reid mentally subtracted Gil’s age at the time he entered foster care—eight—from his current age—twenty-four. “About sixteen years ago,” she answered.

  “We kept everything on paper back then. All those files are in the basement.” Wanda shook her head and sighed. “Come on. I’ll take you there myself.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Poor Reid. She was such a good sport, looking on helpless as London beat up her paper replica. London had done so, of course, solely for Wanda’s benefit. Wanda was holding a grudge—a big grudge—and rightfully so. The only way they were going to get Wanda’s help was if London threw Reid under the bus. Once they had what they needed, she had every intention of picking Reid up, dusting off the tire treads, and making it up to her later in the best way she knew how…with her tongue.

  Flashes of their night together kept surfacing in her mind as she dug through old files in the basement. She caught Reid’s eye and winked.

  “I saw that,” Wanda announced from across the room.

  “Something in my eye,” London said, squinting.

  “Don’t think I fell for your scam. Nope. Not for one minute. I just wanted to see how far you were willing to go to get my help.”

  “Good,” Reid whispered to London. “Now, maybe your face will be added to the pile.”

  * * *

  Three hours and countless file boxes later, Reid and London were bidding Wanda farewell outside her office door.

  “Wait right here,” Wanda said, ducking inside to grab something from her desk drawer. She returned and held out a white keycard to London. “This unlocks the door to the Smash and Bash. Office hours are eight forty-five to four forty-five, Monday through Friday.” She winked. “I know you two are getting along fine right now, but she’s a troublemaker”—she pointed at Reid—“so I’m guessing that’ll change in the future. When it does, feel free to drop by and beat her up.”

  London accepted the keycard with a grin. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t I get one, too?” Reid asked, holding out her hand. “I’ll bring my own paper cutouts. In fact, I already have someone in mind. I’ll give you a hint—gray hair, glasses, and really good at holding a grudge.”

  Without bothering to answer, Wanda stepped inside her office, flipped Reid the bird, and slammed the door.

  “She doesn’t want to, but she likes me. I can tell.” Reid glanced at the white keycard in London’s hand as they walked to the elevator. “You’re not really going to use that, are you?”

  “Actually, I was planning on selling it to the highest bidder. I’m guessing there’s
a high demand for putting holes in your face with a slingshot.”

  “Funny.”

  London slipped her hand inside Reid’s as soon as the elevator doors closed. “Thanks for being such a good sport. I had to make Mrs. Alinski believe I didn’t like you so she’d help us get what we needed.”

  And now, thanks to London’s charming ways, they had a list of names to run through—boys around Gil’s age who’d come in contact with him during his years in the foster care system.

  “Well, you were pretty convincing in there,” Reid admitted, a little hurt.

  London withdrew her hand, stepped in front of her, and gently pushed her against the elevator wall. “I’m sorry for beating up the paper you,” she whispered. “I’ll make it up to the real you later. I promise.” She slipped her tongue inside Reid’s mouth in a fury of passion, taking Reid back to her own cries of pleasure from the night before.

  “Apology accepted,” Reid whispered back, out of breath and feeling tingly in places she couldn’t think about now as they made their way to Boyle’s truck.

  “Notice how the apology worked its magic?” London raised an eyebrow. “Just something to think about.”

  “Not so much the apology that did it as the kiss. And I am not apologizing to Mrs. Alinski.”

  “Then maybe you should kiss her.”

  * * *

  Back at the precinct, Reid and London stepped off the elevator.

  “Still alive, I see,” Boyle called out from his office. He stood, walked around his desk, and leaned against the doorframe. “Did you like the Smash and Bash?”

  “You knew about that?” Reid asked, incredulous.

  “Cap’s idea,” he replied.

  “Unbelievable. Cap promised me he’d take care of it and smooth things over.”

  “And take care of it he did.” He held up a paper cutout of her face. “Found a whole box of these when I was cleaning out his office.”

  “Hey, Lieutenant.” Marino stood from his desk. “Can I get one of those? I’m heading over to the shooting range later.”

  “In that case, you’ll want the whole-body cutout.” Boyle threw a thumb over his shoulder. “In my office. Second box to the right.”

  Mug trotted over to greet her. Apparently eager to test out his new stash, he’d managed to fit two tennis balls in his mouth—one in each cheek.

  She turned as the elevator doors parted behind her. An attractive, well-dressed couple in their sixties stepped out, holding hands. There was an air of familiarity about them—like Reid had seen them somewhere before. The man scanned the room and set his eyes on her.

  She gave Mug one final pat on the back and straightened. “Can I help you?”

  “Detective Sylver?” he asked, releasing the woman’s hand as he stepped forward.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Mom? Dad?” London came up beside her. “What are you doing here?”

  Neither of them acknowledged London—not with their eyes, body language, or words. Instead, they kept their attention fixed on Reid. “We need to speak with you,” Mr. Gold said. “Urgently.”

  Reid cast a quick glance at London, who stood frozen in place. She could hardly believe they weren’t greeting their own daughter after not seeing her in ten years. Definite candidates for parents of the year. Feeling herself getting hot under the collar, she pointed down the corridor and turned to Marino, who was now holding her full-body cutout and watching them with interest. “Detective Marino will escort you to somewhere we can talk. I’ll come find you in a minute.”

  Marino sidled up alongside her, obviously sensing the tension. “You want me to put them in an interrogation room?” he whispered, looking bewildered.

  She nodded. “Room four.” The dirtiest of the lot. A wino had recently treated it as his own personal urinal.

  Without another word, he introduced himself and led London’s parents away, her paper replica streaming behind him.

  Reid felt her heart thumping wildly against her rib cage. She turned to London, flushed with anger over the Golds’ insulting behavior toward their daughter. No one treated a member of the BPD like that, especially not in their own house. “Where is it?” she asked, trying in vain to take her anger down a notch.

  London looked at her, confused. “Why?”

  “I need it.”

  London gazed down the corridor as her parents disappeared around the corner. “Reid…”

  “Do you trust me?”

  London hesitated. Her eyes welled up as she reached inside her coat pocket. “I do,” she said, handing Reid the leather-bound journal.

  * * *

  London’s heart skipped a beat when she saw her parents. But they wouldn’t even acknowledge her, let alone look at her. How dare they show up here, of all places, and embarrass her in front of her colleagues?

  Her anger was quickly replaced by a hurt so deep, so soul-shattering that, for an instant, she actually felt her own grief as it manifested itself in her throat, chest, and stomach. Determined not to let them see her cry, she held strong to the anger and stood her ground, silent as she watched Reid interact with the strangers before her.

  Reid was composed, but just barely. She knew Reid well enough now to realize she had a plan. As Marino led her parents away to an interrogation room, Reid turned to her and asked for the unthinkable. She wanted the journal. The truest test of trust presented itself, fully, like a dog rolling over to expose its vulnerable belly.

  With her heart in her throat, she relinquished the journal and then headed to the interrogation viewing room for a front row seat.

  * * *

  Reid stepped inside interrogation room four and closed the door behind her. She made sure her cell was on and hoped the killer was tuned in, listening.

  The Golds were standing in front of the two-way mirror, hand in hand. A united front, apparently. They’d opted not to sit at the scarred metal table in the center of the room. The pungent stench of old urine made Reid’s eyes water. “What can I do for you fine upstanding parents?”

  “Excuse me.” Mr. Gold tightened his grip around his wife’s hand. “You’re not taking a tone of sarcasm with us, I hope. Especially not after we just lost our dearest friend.”

  Reid shook her head, silent. Were these people for real?

  Mr. Gold looked from his wife to Reid. “They told us downstairs that you’re the detective handling Governor Sullivan’s case. He was viciously attacked and murdered last night.”

  “I’m well aware of that.” Try as she might, she just couldn’t wipe the smirk off her face. “Karma’s a bitch.”

  “We came here to talk to you and offer our help. Perhaps it would be best for everyone if a different detective was assigned to the case. Someone who actually gives a darn,” Mr. Gold said sternly.

  “No need. I’m on it.” She tossed the leather-bound journal on the table. It landed with a hard slap.

  “What’s that?” Mr. Gold asked.

  “This was found inside a hidden closet inside the governor’s den.”

  Mr. Gold narrowed his eyes. “And?”

  “And it’s exactly what it looks like. A journal.”

  “Why are you bringing this to us?” Mrs. Gold asked, her forehead creased in confusion.

  “Because he wrote about the sexual assault he perpetrated ten years ago,” she answered, barely containing her anger now. “On your daughter.”

  Mrs. Gold started to shake. “Did London kill him? Is she the one who did that to Bill?”

  “Shit.” Reid looked from one to the other. “You two really have no idea who your daughter is, do you?”

  They stared at her blankly, obviously not comprehending the message.

  “London had nothing whatsoever to do with his murder. In fact, even though he raped her—”

  Mr. Gold visibly cringed at the word.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Reid went on. “Even though your dearest friend raped your daughter, she still wants to get justice for him. That’s the
kind of person your daughter is. And she’s a damn good detective, too—one of the best I’ve ever seen. There’s no need for you to sneak around behind her back, trying to give her a leg up in the BPD. She’s managing just fine on her own.” Without another word, Reid turned and stormed out, leaving the door open behind her.

  She grabbed her mug from her desk and headed for the coffee maker. London was nowhere in sight, but there was no need to go looking for her. Reid knew exactly where she was.

  With two cups of coffee in hand, she made her way to the viewing area of interrogation room four. London was standing there, alone in the dark, looking in from the other side of the two-way mirror. Reid let her eyes adjust before handing her a disposable cup of coffee. “We need to get you a proper travel mug,” she said, holding hers up as an example. “Best thirty bucks I ever spent.”

  “They took it,” London said, staring at the now empty table in the center of the room. “Do you think they’ll read it?”

  “I do.” She sipped the bitter coffee, her anger at the Golds like glowing embers in a fire. “They need to see for themselves how wrong they were. That’s the only way any of you can move forward.”

  They stood there together, shoulder to shoulder, looking in at the empty room and drinking coffee in silence.

  “I’m a good detective, huh?”

  Reid shrugged. “You’re okay.”

  “I’m one of the best you’ve ever seen.”

  “No idea what you’re talking about.”

  * * *

  Reid grabbed a notepad from her desk, motioned for London to follow her, and strode to Boyle’s office.

  Boyle was standing over the dual-compartment stainless steel trash bin he’d gotten for Mug. “Watch your step,” he said over his shoulder. Dozens of tennis balls littered the office floor, each one chewed just a little. He stepped on both pedals and gestured to the now empty bins. “I might have to put a timer on this thing,” he said, frowning at Mug on his dog bed in the corner.

  “They’re his potato chips,” Reid observed. “One’s never enough.” She set her phone on the desk and began writing. Killer probably listening. She held up the notepad, pointed to her phone, and set her finger over her lips.