A better part of valor, p.11
A Better Part of Valor, page 11
part #3 of Valorie Dawes Thrillers Series
Travis frowned. “That’s one scenario. One of many.”
Val sank deep into her chair. The words on her computer screen blurred, her optimism seeming foolish now. Rico’s comments made sense. This initiative was politically driven and seemed destined to fail. Even if it succeeded, her odds of getting assigned to it appeared nonexistent.
She pressed the “save” key and closed the application. “I guess there’s no rush to apply,” she said. “And they’re expecting me over at dispatch.” She pushed her way past the two men and rushed down the hall. After turning the corner, she glanced back at them. They wore sullen expressions and turned away from her.
That told her everything she needed to know about the hopelessness of her application.
***
“They’re full of crap.”
Gil’s emphatic repudiation of her colleagues’ comments startled Val so much, she nearly let his barbells slip out of her grip—a dangerous move for a spotter. Not only did she expect him to be at least as cynical as both Rico Lopez and Travis Blake, but Gil had often characterized Travis’s political instincts as spot-on.
“Careful!” He wagged his blocky chin at the rack, and Val helped guide the barbell onto the U-shaped supports. He sat up and wiped his face with a towel. “Your turn.” He slid down to the far end of the bench, and she held his arm while he stood and reached for his crutches. He stumbled for a moment, and he grabbed her forearm to steady himself. Val’s arm tingled long after he pulled his hand away, but he acted as though nothing had happened.
And nothing had, she reminded herself. Stop overreacting. She inhaled a slow breath of warm, humid air, her nose wrinkling a bit at the ancient police gym’s sweaty aroma. She’d looked forward to spending the morning with Gil before reporting in for her afternoon shift. Doing simple things with him, like running errands or working out at the gym, always marked the high point of her week. She swapped the heavier weights on the barbell for a lighter set and took his place on the bench, wiping away his sweat with a towel. “So, you think I should go for it?” she said, laying back and readying her grip on the bar.
“I didn’t say that,” he said. “I just don’t agree that, A, it’s doomed to fail, or B, that it would reflect badly on you. Wait for me, I’ll spot you.”
“Doc said no weight on your legs,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Just relax. So, you think the WAVE Squad has a good chance at catching the perps who did Olivia and Charlene?”
“I think it’s a great idea, whether or not you solve those particular cases.” Gil sat in a folding chair next to the bench, his muscular chest still heaving from exertion. “It’s long overdue, and as far as it being political, well, that’s always the case, isn’t it? The need’s been there. The politicians are just catching up to that fact.” He waved over another officer who’d just completed a set of leg presses. “Give her a spot?” The cop, a second-year African American man Val had never met, nodded and held up a digit. Wait one minute.
Val shook her head. Forget waiting. She lifted the bar and inched it downward toward her chest, then raised it again. “The Inter-City Task Force…wasn’t political,” she said, huffing out a breath. “That was…our idea…remember?” Another rep with the bar. A third.
“Exception proves the rule. Slow down your reps if you want to benefit from—”
“I know.” Val sighed and shook her head, but slowed her pace. “Okay, so let’s say…the WAVE Squad…does fail. You don’t think…that’d hurt my career?” Her fourth rep took twice as long as her third. The strain in her arms, shoulders, and chest intensified.
“Nah. If things go south, nobody’s going to blame a rookie.” Gil winced and shifted in his seat, cursing under his breath.
“Is your hip bothering you?” she asked, pausing with her arms at full extension. Where had that spotter gone?
“No—ow! Okay, yes,” he said. “Price? You coming, or what?” He waved at the young cop again and expelled a long, noisy breath through his teeth. “No offense. At calling you ‘too junior,’ I mean.”
“None taken,” Val said, not fully convinced of her own words. She lowered and lifted again. “Although Petroni wouldn’t hire someone who doesn’t accept their share of responsibility—for the work, or the blame. Assuming there is blame. Sorry about your hip. Maybe you should skip your next set.” She finished her sixth rep and guided the bar back onto the rack. Price glanced her way and winced. Sorry, he mouthed.
“I’ll be fine,” Gil said, pushing his weight onto his crutches. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether or not you blame yourself. Perception matters, and nobody points fingers at a first-year uniformed cop when an investigation comes up dry. Are you getting off that bench, or what?”
“Patience!” She sighed and slid off. Incorrigible. “So, there’s no downside. I should apply.”
“Not so fast.” He let her help him over to the bench, then waited for her to reset the weights on the bar. “There are downsides.”
“Such as?”
Gil glanced around, his gaze settling on Price, and lowered his voice. “These ‘special units’ have a tendency to employ old-school tactics. Things that you and I disagree with.” He nodded in Price’s direction. “Like profiling.”
“Racial profiling, you mean?”
Gil nodded, his face glum. “Think New York’s ‘Violent Crime’ Unit. They’ve earned a pretty bad rep for targeting young Black men. You don’t want to get painted with that brush.”
“Forget the hit on my reputation,” she said, her breathing returning to normal. “I wouldn’t want any part of that. But would Petroni engage in that? Gibson’s hand-picked leader of the unit?”
He shrugged and turned away, looking through the large, metal-framed windows that comprised the exterior wall of the gym.
Silence reigned for several seconds. Val followed his gaze out the window. Dark clouds rolled in from the southwest, pregnant with rain. A big electrical storm, one that might last all day. No doubt they’d get soaked on the slow trek to the car afterwards, with Gil still unsteady on his crutches. Maybe they should cut the workout short, get out while the weather still held.
“The timing is a problem, too,” he said, still facing away from her.
“How so?”
He turned toward her, frowning. “The assignment is at least six months, but probably longer—we both know that. Right?”
“End of September the earliest, but probably into next spring or summer,” she agreed. “So?”
He paused for a shallow breath. “What happens four months from now?”
Val held up her hands, shrugged. “Kids go back to school? Hell, I don’t know, what?”
Disappointment filled his eyes. “You’ve already lost track, huh?” Gil blinked and bit his lip. “Barring any setbacks, my scheduled return date is August 1.” He kept his steady gaze upon her, his eyes filling with moisture.
Realization dawned on her, and with it, a dull ache settled in her chest. “I’ll still be on assignment when you return. Which makes it less likely that we’d be reassigned as partners.”
Gil nodded and his gaze fell to his lap. The outside air grew dark, and a heavy raindrop splattered the windows, followed by a half-dozen more. “I mean, that’s not a good reason not to do it,” he said. “Hell, they’ll stick me on desk duty anyway for the first few months.”
“Maybe you can get assigned to the unit, too,” she said. “We’ll need people at HQ, coordinating—”
“Petroni and O’Reilly will coordinate everything and don’t need my dead weight,” he said. “I’m not mobile enough for the type of work you’ll be doing.” Dull tones of disappointment dripped from his voice.
Val gripped the barbell, searching for an answer. The thick drops fell with greater intensity on the giant windows, blurring her view of the grass-lined parking lot. At least, her vision got blurry. Somehow. Because she was not crying, dammit, no, she would not cry about this—
“Can’t you come back sooner?” she said, her throat tightening. “If you’re just doing desk work, anyhow, why not start now? I could stay put, and we could be partners—”
“No way.” Gil shook his head. “My doctor would never clear it. August 1 is the best date I could negotiate. Even that’s optimistic.”
The clouds opened up, and rain mixed with hail pelted the windows loud enough to force her to shout. “I’ll ask for reassignment as soon as you return!” Val dropped her hands off the bar, folding them across her stomach. Suddenly she had no strength for lifting.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Somehow his quiet voice cut through the cacophony of the storm. “You have to do it. I’ll—we’ll figure something out.” He rested his hand on hers. “If not at work, then in the real world. Okay?”
Warmth spread from her fingers, all the way up to her neck, her face, her chest. She folded his hands into hers, then sat up and glanced around. The gym had emptied, save for Price, who’d moved to the elliptical trainer, farther away, his gaze locked on TV monitors, headphones covering his ears.
Otherwise, Val and Gil had the spacious facility to themselves. The only sounds were the thrashing of the rising storm and the whirring of Price’s elliptical.
Somehow, Gil managed to join her on the bench without her assistance. His hand rested on the small of her back. They stared out the window, watching the rain fall, and the lightning flash, and listened to the roll of thunder echoing off the distant hills. Her head found its way to his shoulder. His free hand caressed her face, and the confusion of the cold, gray world melted away.
***
Being stuck on desk duty afforded Val one luxury she wouldn’t have enjoyed walking a beat: the opportunity to research the Charlene Washington case. While she lacked access to the official case files, internet searches of online news articles filled in substantial detail about the young woman’s accomplished resumé.
Like Olivia Lambert, Charlene attended Liberty Heights High School, where she excelled in both academics and sports. Nominated for a Scholar Athlete Award, she’d lettered in varsity soccer, volleyball, and track while earning a near-perfect 3.96 GPA. She also contributed as a photographer to both the school newspaper, the Liberty High Ledger, and the school yearbook. She and her mother volunteered often at the food bank founded by her father, a pastor at the Clayton Church of God in Christ. She also somehow found time to serve as treasurer of the school’s business club, the Association of Future Entrepreneurs.
Val shuddered at the last finding. When she’d attended Liberty Heights, the AFE had earned a reputation for being a bastion of white male arrogance—rich kids with a superiority complex. “Born on third base,” Uncle Val used to quip, “and they think they’ve hit a triple.” But according to the Ledger’s online publication, the group had morphed into an organization promoting service, scholarship, and open opportunity, often finding internships for Liberty Heights students in the business community.
Including Olivia Lambert.
Val’s pulse quickened. Olivia’s and Charlene’s lives had intersected on multiple fronts—classmates, volleyball teammates, and the internship program. One or more of those common interests could lead to their other shared trait: their violent deaths at the hands of a rapist. Possibly even the same one.
She moved her mouse to the “close” button on her browser, but her finger froze a moment before clicking. A photo on the AFE page caught her eye—one of Olivia accepting her internship at Constitution Finance. To Olivia’s side stood the AFE’s elected leaders, including Charlene. A middle-aged man Val didn’t recognize stood on the other side of Olivia, grinning and handing her a certificate. Behind him stood past recipients of the award from the company.
One of those faces, a curly-haired white man in his early twenties, looked familiar. She zoomed in on the photo and glanced closer…and confirmed his identity. No doubt about it. Kent Mercer, Diego’s running buddy, knew both Olivia Lambert and Charlene Washington.
***
The next Tuesday afternoon, Val exited the county courthouse in a deep funk after providing grand jury testimony on the Destiny Mathers assault case. The prosecutor had assured her they’d have enough to indict and convict the perp, but the process left her a little disoriented. Not knowing what other evidence he’d gathered, she had difficulty imagining a coherent narrative that would lock the accused up for the rest of his miserable life—an outcome she fervently desired.
A blast of exhaust from a city bus roaring by interrupted her musings. She glanced at the number on its rear display panel, growing smaller by the second, and cursed. She’d walked right past her stop and now had missed the damned bus! The next one wouldn’t come along for at least another half hour. Growling epithets at herself, she popped into a small café to shake off both the late-afternoon chill and her grumpy mood.
The shop’s layout required patrons to weave through four tiny stand-up tables to a service counter, staffed by a bored pair of twenty-something baristas, one male and one female. Nondescript pop music squeaked from speakers hung from an open, industrial ceiling, interspersed among wood-bladed fans circulating the shop’s warm humidity at a lazy pace. Twin lines of booths occupied the long, thin dining area past the service counter.
One of the baristas waved her over. Halfway to the counter, a familiar voice called Val’s name. She spotted its source, and a mix of affection and guilt flashed over her.
“Val!” Diego Collier hurried over, spreading his long, lean arms for a hug. Val grabbed his outstretched hand in both of hers. His face fell, but only for a moment, and he held on for several seconds.
“Hey, there,” she said in a weak voice, forcing a smile. She peeked at the two companions he’d left behind at a nearby booth—a curly-haired man wearing an Adidas jacket, and a woman with straight black hair that hung below her shoulders. The pair sat close together with their backs to her, giggling and whispering to each other. The remaining dozen or so tables sat empty.
Diego’s nervous agitation commanded her immediate attention, however. “What brings you here?” he asked, pulling her by the arm toward the coffee counter.
“Work,” she said. “And, um, coffee. You?”
Diego grinned. “I’m volunteering for the Iverson campaign, and we’re meeting with her staff to discuss our duties. ‘Go Nuts for Meg’, right?” He waved back at his two companions. Val gazed past him and her jaw dropped when she recognized both faces, now turned toward her.
“Kent?” she said. “And…Amy?”
“Wow,” he said. “How do you know Amy?”
“Val!” Amy squealed with delight and rushed over to her. Preoccupied with the shock of seeing Amy with Kent, Val couldn’t dodge the crushing hug her friend offered. She pretended not to notice the hurt look on Diego’s face and broke the embrace after a few seconds.
“You’re recruiting these two guys?” Val said in a teasing tone. “Iverson must be desperate.” She locked eyes with Kent against her own will, and he winced.
“Are you kidding? These guys are great!” Amy pulled Kent away from the table. “They signed up for phone-banking and neighborhood canvassing. How do you know these guys?”
“We met briefly,” Kent said, interrupting a surprised Diego. “Good to see you again, Officer Dawes.” He extended his hand.
Struck dumb, Val accepted his limp handshake. “A pleasure, Mister Mercer.” Back to Amy, she continued, “We met while running one day. Diego and I have, um, had coffee once or twice since.”
“Once,” Diego said. “Unless you’re counting right now. Join us!”
“I don’t want to interrupt official campaign business.” Val reddened and edged toward the exit.
“It’s okay. We were about to take a break to get more coffee,” Diego said. “Right, guys?”
“I’m good,” Kent said.
“Me, too,” Amy said. “You two go ahead.” She and Kent returned to their table and, once again, sat close together in the booth. Practically on each other’s laps.
Diego smiled. “What do you want? I’ll buy.”
“That’s not necessary,” Val said. “I was going to get mine to go, so I don’t miss my bus.”
“I can give you a lift wherever you want to go,” Diego said. That silly smile would not leave his face.
Val considered it. She’d get home in minutes by car, over an hour if by bus. And Diego was awfully cute…
Kent’s laugh resounded over the low buzz of conversation in the cafe, followed by Amy’s high-pitched giggles. Oy. But perhaps if she joined them, she could learn a bit more about Kent’s history with Olivia Lambert and Charlene Washington.
“Okay,” she said, smiling at Diego. “Cinnamon cappuccino, double shot. Thanks.”
After he ordered, they stood at arm’s length near the service counter, exchanging an occasional glance. After a minute had passed, she broke the silence. “I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls since the last time we went out,” she said. “I just felt a little awkward, and, uh…” Her voice trailed off. Words seemed so inadequate, especially with the hurt welling in Diego’s eyes.
“That’s okay,” he said in a dull tone. “I understand.”
“That’s gracious of you,” Val said. “I don’t know if I would be so forgiving.”
Diego shrugged. “It’s my nature, I guess. But you could make it up to me.”
Val’s heart skipped a beat. “How?”
He grinned and leaned closer. “Give me a second chance?”
Their coffees came, rescuing her for the moment. Val grabbed them off the counter and strode over to Amy and Kent’s booth, sitting across from them. “Have you solved the world’s problems yet, you two?” she said, her tone light.
Amy’s head jerked up and she scooted a few inches away from Kent. “We were just chatting about people we know in common,” she said, blushing. “Did you guys know that Kent works for Curtis at Constitution Finance? My boss is his boss! Small world, huh?” She grinned at Kent, who blushed and ducked his head.
