A woman of valor, p.16
A Woman of Valor, page 16
“I would never—”
“None of us ever expect we will. But it’s hard to resist. Tell me, how have you been feeling these past few weeks since the shooting?”
Her eyes found an interesting shiny spot on the pavement. “Like crap.”
“Do you feel good about shooting that guy?”
“What? No, of course not!”
“Good.” Gil lifted her chin with one finger, then placed gentle hands on her shoulders. She fought the urge to knock them off, and, this time, succeeded. He waited until her eyes met his to speak again. “That’s the feeling I want you to hold on to. You know why?”
Val shook her head, fighting nervous tears, willing them to stay in her eye sockets. Do. Not. Show. Weakness.
“Because,” he said in a soft voice, “that’s your humanity talking to you. That’s what keeps us on the right side of the thin line between good and evil out here. That’s what separates the good cops from the bad. And, Val, you’re a good cop. A damned good cop already, and you’re going to be a great cop.”
Her vision blurred, but by some miracle, the tears stayed off her cheeks. “Thanks, Gil.” After a long moment of hesitation, she patted his hands with her own. “That means a lot, coming from you.”
“Now, the other half of them,” he said, waving one hand in the general direction of the world, “will say you’ve already crossed the line. Any time a cop pulls out a gun, we’re abusing our power, no matter what the circumstances. Even in self-defense. By saving your own skin, you‘ve only given them more proof of how terrible we are. Don’t listen to them either.”
She shook her head and sniffled. Her nose had gotten wet. So much for holding back the tears. Dammit.
“So who do I listen to?” she asked.
Gil smiled. “Tune into that little voice inside you, the same one that’s guided you all along.” His smile turned into a grin. “And, of course, listen to me. Always listen to me.”
She shuddered out a laugh, tension draining from her. “As long as you believe in me, Gil,” she said, “I will. That, I promise.”
He squeezed her shoulders again, and this time it didn’t feel weird. In fact, in that moment, all felt right in the world.
***
Gil said he needed to check in with someone before hitting the streets, so they returned to the precinct building. While she waited, Travis Blake flagged her down outside of his office. He waved her inside and handed her a large yellow mailer envelope, addressed to her. Per department practice, the package had been opened.
“This came for you,” Blake said. “From ‘Anonymous.’ Take a peek.”
She glimpsed inside. The mailer contained a black box, about eight inches long. The kind jewelry came in from chain stores. She slid the box out onto the table. “Is it safe to open?”
Blake shrugged. “It’s not going to explode, or anything. At least, that’s what Security concluded.”
Val opened the box and lifted out the contents. A small pendant swayed from a thin gold chain.
“You can’t keep it, of course,” he said. “But we thought you ought to see it.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would someone send me cheap jewelry? Wasn’t there a note, or anything?”
He took the envelope and shook it over the desk. A small card fluttered out.
Val she caught the card in the air, flipped it over and read it. “What the...? ‘Officer Dawes. May this ever remind you of the “good” you’re doing. — An Admirer.’ They put ‘good’ in quotes.” She shook her head and sighed. “Not very subtle, are they?”
Travis snorted. “That’s for damn sure. Take a closer look.”
She held the necklace closer and examined it: a simple, thin gold chain with a tiny pendant.
In the shape of a revolver.
She slammed the chain back in the box and threw the entire container into Blake’s garbage can. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke? Because it’s pretty damned sick, if it is!”
He wagged his head in disgust and retrieved the package from the trash can. “Hey, that’s city property now. Any idea of who might have sent it?”
Val’s mind raced. Half the world would hate her, Gil had warned. A disproportionate number of them, she added to herself, wore blue uniforms like hers. “No,” she said, seething, “but whoever it is better hope I never find out.”
She stomped out of Blake’s office, right past a very surprised Gil Kryzinski.
Chapter Nineteen
Walking the beat calmed Val, as did Gil’s soothing baritone voice and his steady demeanor. “It’s just some asshole’s idea of a prank,” he said. “Forget it. You have way bigger fish to fry out here.” He returned a stray basketball to a group of neighborhood kids on a street-side court, and they waved back in thanks. Other neighbors came out on their front stoops to watch them stroll by, some waving, others staring in stony silence.
“I’m hungry,” Val said when she spotted Taufiq’s Quick Mart on the next corner. “Let’s make a stop.”
Gil pushed the door open and held it for her. She scooted inside and smiled when she saw her friend at the cash register.
“Welcome back, Officer Valorie!” Taufiq opened his arms wide and rushed around the counter and embraced her in a long, tight hug. “So good of you to come in. I have missed you!”
Val‘s body trembled a bit in the embrace, and she signaled her partner for a rescue. Gil smirked and pretended to take an interest in a rack of Little Debbie cakes.
“Uh, thanks, Taufiq.” The unexpected hug had not only unnerved her, but pushed most of the air out of her lungs. She wiggled free after a few uncomfortable moments and nudged Taufiq back toward his station behind the counter. “I just need a quick bite and wanted to see how you’re doing. Are the neighborhood kids giving you any trouble?”
“The teenagers,” Taufiq said with a sad grin, “prefer the tricks to the treats this Halloween.”
“I’ll talk to them.” She stepped aside as Gil returned with their coffees and set two snack cakes on the counter. Val reached into her pocket.
“Oh, no. Your money is no good here,” Taufiq said. “You come by any time.”
“I can’t accept that,” Val said, with another “Please help me!” look at Gil.
Gil smiled and held his arms out wide. “As much as we’d love to, as underpaid and under-appreciated public servants, we can’t,” he said. “Department policy says nothing more than a cup of regular coffee.”
“Besides,” Val said, “you have a business to run. You’re not going to make any money if you give all your profits to the cops.”
“Not to all cops,” Taufiq said. “Just you, Officer Valorie, and Sergeant K. It is a thank-you for making our neighborhood safer.”
“We all work together on that.” She dropped cash on the counter and sipped her coffee. “But thank you for the kind words. By the way, this coffee is excellent.”
He grinned. “Thank you, Officer Valorie.”
Neighbors greeted her with a mix of reactions along their walking route that night—some with scowls, but most with smiles and waves. Universally, though, business owners showed support. Shop owners offered thanks, congratulations, even gifts that she politely declined. “You look cold,” a sporting goods shop owner said, offering her a New England Patriots skull cap. She almost accepted that—after all, it was freezing out, typical of early November. A clothing store offered her a parka. Others offered DVD’s, food, a lifetime membership to a yoga studio—all turned down, with sincere thanks.
“See? Like I said. They love you!” Gil said when they took another coffee break in McDonald’s around 8:00 p.m.
“That’s not what you said!” She laughed when she realized he was teasing. “I only wish we could have spoken to Antoinetta’s Aunt Camila. I really wanted to get a lead on Harkins.”
“Let the suits handle the detective work.” Gil stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee. “Focus on your job: policing the beat and engaging with the neighbors. Which you’re doing very well, I might add.”
“Are they being genuine, or putting up a front?” she asked. “I expected more negative reactions, after your warning earlier.”
“Their reactions are far more positive than I expected.” He sipped his coffee. “Most of them do seem to love you.”
“Because I plugged a guy?” Val sat next to him at the counter overlooking the street through wall-to-ceiling glass. “That doesn’t seem right. At least, it’s not very consistent with community policing.”
Gil shook his head. “Not only that. You’re doing what nobody else has done around here in years: paying attention to them. They feel empowered and listened to.”
“It does feel good,” she admitted, and grew excited. “We need to tap into this somehow, get them more involved. If we could do that, we could clean up this area, make it livable again.” She sipped on her coffee. It scalded the roof of her mouth.
“Now don’t get all touchy-feely on me here.” Gil scowled. “They’re not excited about democratic participation and liberty, Val. They’re happy that you wiped one of the dirt-bags off the street who’s been making their lives miserable. That’s why they think you’re listening. But they don’t want to become cops. They just want you to keep on doing it.”
She swirled her coffee, blowing on it again. “Maybe, after what we saw tonight, we have an opportunity to change things.”
“You got a plan?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not yet. But I will. And soon.”
Gil clapped his hand on hers, clutching it in a rough embrace. “You do that,” he said. “And when you do, I’ll back you, a hundred percent. And who knows? Maybe it’ll help us track down guys like Harkins. Anyway, I gotta hit the men’s. I’ll be right back.” He pulled back his hand, gulped his still-scalding coffee, and ambled off to the restroom.
Val stared at her hand, still tingling where his fingers had touched hers. Normally she’d brush away contact of that sort. This time, her instinctive reaction to the friendly gesture remained dormant, for some reason. The touch felt almost...good.
Maybe she was healing.
Maybe.
***
Seated at a small table in The Claytown Cafe the next morning, she jotted ideas on a pocket-sized notepad, focusing on her community policing idea. If she could engage the neighbors to be more proactive and make them think it was their own idea—
“Bang! Bang! Hey, there, Annie Oakley. Looks like I got the drop on you this time.”
Val jumped at the sound of Paul Peterson’s grating voice. The ball of her pen jabbed a hole into the sheet of paper in front of her, clear through to the chipped Formica. She gripped it and took a deep breath.
“Don’t you have some other place you need to be?” she said without looking up. “Say, Afghanistan?”
“Aw, c’mon there, Officer Dawes.” Peterson sat his lanky frame across from her. “Where’s your sense of humor? Anyway, I meant it as a compliment.”
“A compliment?” That made her look up. She shook her head in wonder. “You’ve got a funny way of making a girl feel good, Mr. Peterson.”
“Leave my sex life out of this,” he said with a smart-assed grin. He’d grown a wispy mustache in recent weeks, and it made his pointed, thin face resemble a rat’s. “And please, call me Paul.”
“Fine. Paul. I’m very busy, so if there’s nothing else...”
“You know, Dawes, you truly are impressive,” Peterson said. “You’ve been on the job what, six weeks? Already the bodies are falling.”
“Get the hell out of here, Peterson.” Val searched the room for someone who could remove him, found no one. Not even the pink-haired waitress.
“You’re on quite a pace,” Peterson said. “And not a scratch on you. Like in that movie Tombstone. Maybe we ought to call you Val Kilmer instead of Val Dawes?”
“You’d be happier if he had shot me instead?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“No, no.” Peterson leaned back in his chair and held his hands out in front of him. “Believe me, Dawes. Nobody wants to read a blog about the scum you lock up every day. But a free-shooting rookie cop attracts a whole slew of readers. My numbers are way up.”
“Count me among those who have unsubscribed.” Val returned to her notepad.
“In all seriousness, Dawes, I am impressed. You’re a fabulous shot. Just like Ben said you were.”
Val closed her eyes, drawing in and exhaling a slow, noisy breath. She’d forgotten about Ben, who had hit on her a few times in the Academy. She drew upon the one factoid she remembered him mentioning during an otherwise stultifying night of group socializing with her fellow cadets: Paul’s hated nickname.
“I’m busy...Paulie.” Childish, but she had nothing else at the moment.
Peterson stiffened at the diminutive, then chuckled and shook his head. “See? So serious. All business. But I tell you what, I’m glad we’re on the same team, Valley Girl.”
Val froze, and the world froze with her. That horrible nickname from her past, the one she’d hoped to have left behind forever, echoed in her ears. The man’s tenor voice transformed with each echo, deepening, slurring, taking on the nails-on-the-chalkboard rasp that her tormentor had long ago used, fooling her parents into thinking of Milt as a kind old uncle instead of the child rapist that he was—
With an angry roar rising from somewhere within, her finger shot up to within an inch of the man’s eyes. “Don’t call me that!”
His face blanched, and Milt’s visage morphed back into the smirking Paul Peterson. He pushed back, hands raised, the legs of his chair scraping on the linoleum floor. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Sorry. Dawes. Jeez, I’m just glad that finger wasn’t loaded.”
“Argh!” Val stood and grabbed for his throat, but couldn’t reach. “You rotten shit! Get out of here!” Her breathing came hard, her face hot.
Peterson jumped away from the table. He stared at her a moment and forced a hollow laugh. “Fine,” he said. “I have other things to do. I don’t need to hang around trying to see where you’ve hidden your sense of humor.” He stood, took a few steps, then turned. “But, Dawes?” A sardonic smile creased his face, making him appear even more repulsive.
“Yeah?” She calmed a bit with his retreat. This was not Milt. Just a slimy blogger with an ax to grind. Her breathing slowed.
He hedged, cleared his throat. “I’ve, ah, kept my silence on this latest incident of yours out of respect for the victim’s family—”
“Victim’s?”
“But I’m not done with you. You’ll be seeing your name in the headlines of my publication again very soon.”
“Your publication is a heaping, online pile of click-bait, and I told you, I’ve unsubscribed!”
“Heh. You’ll be back. Your type, you glory-seeking heroes, you can’t resist seeing your names in print.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Anger flattened Peterson’s condescending smile for a moment. Then, as if a light blinked on, his face brightened, and the snarling smile returned. “What’s that, Dawes?” he said in a loud voice so that everyone in the place could hear. “You want me to buy you breakfast? Why, doesn’t that violate your department’s policy on gifts and bribes? Especially to a member of the press?”
“I wouldn’t accept a ‘gift’ from you to save my damned life!”
A cruel smile crossed Peterson’s face. “Now, what sort of gift might save a rookie policewoman’s life?” he asked. “Or, more important, her career? Say, a gun, planted on an innocent victim of a police shooting?” The cruel smile hardened. “Read my blog, Dawes.” He turned and strolled out of the restaurant.
***
“How many times have I told you to ignore that Peterson creep?” Gil said with a shake of his head as they walked down Albany Street the next evening. “He’s just trying to stir the pot and get under your skin. Don’t let him.”
“My head agrees with you,” Val said, waving at a group of kids gathering at the basketball court. They ignored her and continued choosing teams. “But my heart disagrees with my head on this one.”
“Listen to your head, then,” Gil said with a grin. “Trust that amazing intelligence of yours.”
Val scoffed but said nothing.
They walked along in silence for a block or two. Gil threw her a few skeptical glances, then sighed. “You’re still thinking about it.”
Val sighed. “One thing he said sticks with me,” she said. “That whole thing about planting guns. I’ve heard about that, but how common a practice is it?”
Gil frowned and scanned the area. “Let‘s not discuss that out on the street,” he said in a low voice.
Val stopped walking, stunned. “In other words, it’s common,” she said.
“Not here,” Gil said. “Listen, police don’t shoot people that often in Clayton. Before yours, the last one was nine months ago. The most we’ve had in a single year is four, and that was the year your uncle—.” He stopped, covering his mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”
Val’s head felt light, and she steadied herself by leaning against the chain-link fence abutting the sidewalk. She fought to catch her breath, and the only sound she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat.
“Are you all right?” Gil asked.
Val glanced at him, nodded her head. “It’s okay,” she said. “I need to get over my uncle’s death...one of these days.” She sucked in deep gulps of air and fanned herself. Despite the chilly November night, her head and neck felt as hot as a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.
“We all do,” Gil said. “His death was a great loss to everyone in the department. Not that our grief compares to what you and your family went through.” He set his hand on her shoulder. “And I didn’t mean to say that what you did—”
“It’s okay, dammit.” She pushed his hand off and twisted away from him. “I’ll be fine.”
After a moment, Gil sighed. “Okay, partner. You say so.”
They resumed their beat-walking, stopping to chat with shopkeepers and neighbors from time to time. Val showed them a picture of Harkins, but nobody had seen any sign of him.
A short while after darkness fell, they reached the theater parking lot at the corner of Albany and MLK, Jr. Boulevard, the place Val thought of as The Disciples’ headquarters. They didn’t get far before a few Disciples, each sporting one or more gold loops in each ear, formed a human blockade. Cardinal Thomas, who wore three rings, stood cross-armed in the center of the group.
“None of us ever expect we will. But it’s hard to resist. Tell me, how have you been feeling these past few weeks since the shooting?”
Her eyes found an interesting shiny spot on the pavement. “Like crap.”
“Do you feel good about shooting that guy?”
“What? No, of course not!”
“Good.” Gil lifted her chin with one finger, then placed gentle hands on her shoulders. She fought the urge to knock them off, and, this time, succeeded. He waited until her eyes met his to speak again. “That’s the feeling I want you to hold on to. You know why?”
Val shook her head, fighting nervous tears, willing them to stay in her eye sockets. Do. Not. Show. Weakness.
“Because,” he said in a soft voice, “that’s your humanity talking to you. That’s what keeps us on the right side of the thin line between good and evil out here. That’s what separates the good cops from the bad. And, Val, you’re a good cop. A damned good cop already, and you’re going to be a great cop.”
Her vision blurred, but by some miracle, the tears stayed off her cheeks. “Thanks, Gil.” After a long moment of hesitation, she patted his hands with her own. “That means a lot, coming from you.”
“Now, the other half of them,” he said, waving one hand in the general direction of the world, “will say you’ve already crossed the line. Any time a cop pulls out a gun, we’re abusing our power, no matter what the circumstances. Even in self-defense. By saving your own skin, you‘ve only given them more proof of how terrible we are. Don’t listen to them either.”
She shook her head and sniffled. Her nose had gotten wet. So much for holding back the tears. Dammit.
“So who do I listen to?” she asked.
Gil smiled. “Tune into that little voice inside you, the same one that’s guided you all along.” His smile turned into a grin. “And, of course, listen to me. Always listen to me.”
She shuddered out a laugh, tension draining from her. “As long as you believe in me, Gil,” she said, “I will. That, I promise.”
He squeezed her shoulders again, and this time it didn’t feel weird. In fact, in that moment, all felt right in the world.
***
Gil said he needed to check in with someone before hitting the streets, so they returned to the precinct building. While she waited, Travis Blake flagged her down outside of his office. He waved her inside and handed her a large yellow mailer envelope, addressed to her. Per department practice, the package had been opened.
“This came for you,” Blake said. “From ‘Anonymous.’ Take a peek.”
She glimpsed inside. The mailer contained a black box, about eight inches long. The kind jewelry came in from chain stores. She slid the box out onto the table. “Is it safe to open?”
Blake shrugged. “It’s not going to explode, or anything. At least, that’s what Security concluded.”
Val opened the box and lifted out the contents. A small pendant swayed from a thin gold chain.
“You can’t keep it, of course,” he said. “But we thought you ought to see it.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would someone send me cheap jewelry? Wasn’t there a note, or anything?”
He took the envelope and shook it over the desk. A small card fluttered out.
Val she caught the card in the air, flipped it over and read it. “What the...? ‘Officer Dawes. May this ever remind you of the “good” you’re doing. — An Admirer.’ They put ‘good’ in quotes.” She shook her head and sighed. “Not very subtle, are they?”
Travis snorted. “That’s for damn sure. Take a closer look.”
She held the necklace closer and examined it: a simple, thin gold chain with a tiny pendant.
In the shape of a revolver.
She slammed the chain back in the box and threw the entire container into Blake’s garbage can. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke? Because it’s pretty damned sick, if it is!”
He wagged his head in disgust and retrieved the package from the trash can. “Hey, that’s city property now. Any idea of who might have sent it?”
Val’s mind raced. Half the world would hate her, Gil had warned. A disproportionate number of them, she added to herself, wore blue uniforms like hers. “No,” she said, seething, “but whoever it is better hope I never find out.”
She stomped out of Blake’s office, right past a very surprised Gil Kryzinski.
Chapter Nineteen
Walking the beat calmed Val, as did Gil’s soothing baritone voice and his steady demeanor. “It’s just some asshole’s idea of a prank,” he said. “Forget it. You have way bigger fish to fry out here.” He returned a stray basketball to a group of neighborhood kids on a street-side court, and they waved back in thanks. Other neighbors came out on their front stoops to watch them stroll by, some waving, others staring in stony silence.
“I’m hungry,” Val said when she spotted Taufiq’s Quick Mart on the next corner. “Let’s make a stop.”
Gil pushed the door open and held it for her. She scooted inside and smiled when she saw her friend at the cash register.
“Welcome back, Officer Valorie!” Taufiq opened his arms wide and rushed around the counter and embraced her in a long, tight hug. “So good of you to come in. I have missed you!”
Val‘s body trembled a bit in the embrace, and she signaled her partner for a rescue. Gil smirked and pretended to take an interest in a rack of Little Debbie cakes.
“Uh, thanks, Taufiq.” The unexpected hug had not only unnerved her, but pushed most of the air out of her lungs. She wiggled free after a few uncomfortable moments and nudged Taufiq back toward his station behind the counter. “I just need a quick bite and wanted to see how you’re doing. Are the neighborhood kids giving you any trouble?”
“The teenagers,” Taufiq said with a sad grin, “prefer the tricks to the treats this Halloween.”
“I’ll talk to them.” She stepped aside as Gil returned with their coffees and set two snack cakes on the counter. Val reached into her pocket.
“Oh, no. Your money is no good here,” Taufiq said. “You come by any time.”
“I can’t accept that,” Val said, with another “Please help me!” look at Gil.
Gil smiled and held his arms out wide. “As much as we’d love to, as underpaid and under-appreciated public servants, we can’t,” he said. “Department policy says nothing more than a cup of regular coffee.”
“Besides,” Val said, “you have a business to run. You’re not going to make any money if you give all your profits to the cops.”
“Not to all cops,” Taufiq said. “Just you, Officer Valorie, and Sergeant K. It is a thank-you for making our neighborhood safer.”
“We all work together on that.” She dropped cash on the counter and sipped her coffee. “But thank you for the kind words. By the way, this coffee is excellent.”
He grinned. “Thank you, Officer Valorie.”
Neighbors greeted her with a mix of reactions along their walking route that night—some with scowls, but most with smiles and waves. Universally, though, business owners showed support. Shop owners offered thanks, congratulations, even gifts that she politely declined. “You look cold,” a sporting goods shop owner said, offering her a New England Patriots skull cap. She almost accepted that—after all, it was freezing out, typical of early November. A clothing store offered her a parka. Others offered DVD’s, food, a lifetime membership to a yoga studio—all turned down, with sincere thanks.
“See? Like I said. They love you!” Gil said when they took another coffee break in McDonald’s around 8:00 p.m.
“That’s not what you said!” She laughed when she realized he was teasing. “I only wish we could have spoken to Antoinetta’s Aunt Camila. I really wanted to get a lead on Harkins.”
“Let the suits handle the detective work.” Gil stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee. “Focus on your job: policing the beat and engaging with the neighbors. Which you’re doing very well, I might add.”
“Are they being genuine, or putting up a front?” she asked. “I expected more negative reactions, after your warning earlier.”
“Their reactions are far more positive than I expected.” He sipped his coffee. “Most of them do seem to love you.”
“Because I plugged a guy?” Val sat next to him at the counter overlooking the street through wall-to-ceiling glass. “That doesn’t seem right. At least, it’s not very consistent with community policing.”
Gil shook his head. “Not only that. You’re doing what nobody else has done around here in years: paying attention to them. They feel empowered and listened to.”
“It does feel good,” she admitted, and grew excited. “We need to tap into this somehow, get them more involved. If we could do that, we could clean up this area, make it livable again.” She sipped on her coffee. It scalded the roof of her mouth.
“Now don’t get all touchy-feely on me here.” Gil scowled. “They’re not excited about democratic participation and liberty, Val. They’re happy that you wiped one of the dirt-bags off the street who’s been making their lives miserable. That’s why they think you’re listening. But they don’t want to become cops. They just want you to keep on doing it.”
She swirled her coffee, blowing on it again. “Maybe, after what we saw tonight, we have an opportunity to change things.”
“You got a plan?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not yet. But I will. And soon.”
Gil clapped his hand on hers, clutching it in a rough embrace. “You do that,” he said. “And when you do, I’ll back you, a hundred percent. And who knows? Maybe it’ll help us track down guys like Harkins. Anyway, I gotta hit the men’s. I’ll be right back.” He pulled back his hand, gulped his still-scalding coffee, and ambled off to the restroom.
Val stared at her hand, still tingling where his fingers had touched hers. Normally she’d brush away contact of that sort. This time, her instinctive reaction to the friendly gesture remained dormant, for some reason. The touch felt almost...good.
Maybe she was healing.
Maybe.
***
Seated at a small table in The Claytown Cafe the next morning, she jotted ideas on a pocket-sized notepad, focusing on her community policing idea. If she could engage the neighbors to be more proactive and make them think it was their own idea—
“Bang! Bang! Hey, there, Annie Oakley. Looks like I got the drop on you this time.”
Val jumped at the sound of Paul Peterson’s grating voice. The ball of her pen jabbed a hole into the sheet of paper in front of her, clear through to the chipped Formica. She gripped it and took a deep breath.
“Don’t you have some other place you need to be?” she said without looking up. “Say, Afghanistan?”
“Aw, c’mon there, Officer Dawes.” Peterson sat his lanky frame across from her. “Where’s your sense of humor? Anyway, I meant it as a compliment.”
“A compliment?” That made her look up. She shook her head in wonder. “You’ve got a funny way of making a girl feel good, Mr. Peterson.”
“Leave my sex life out of this,” he said with a smart-assed grin. He’d grown a wispy mustache in recent weeks, and it made his pointed, thin face resemble a rat’s. “And please, call me Paul.”
“Fine. Paul. I’m very busy, so if there’s nothing else...”
“You know, Dawes, you truly are impressive,” Peterson said. “You’ve been on the job what, six weeks? Already the bodies are falling.”
“Get the hell out of here, Peterson.” Val searched the room for someone who could remove him, found no one. Not even the pink-haired waitress.
“You’re on quite a pace,” Peterson said. “And not a scratch on you. Like in that movie Tombstone. Maybe we ought to call you Val Kilmer instead of Val Dawes?”
“You’d be happier if he had shot me instead?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“No, no.” Peterson leaned back in his chair and held his hands out in front of him. “Believe me, Dawes. Nobody wants to read a blog about the scum you lock up every day. But a free-shooting rookie cop attracts a whole slew of readers. My numbers are way up.”
“Count me among those who have unsubscribed.” Val returned to her notepad.
“In all seriousness, Dawes, I am impressed. You’re a fabulous shot. Just like Ben said you were.”
Val closed her eyes, drawing in and exhaling a slow, noisy breath. She’d forgotten about Ben, who had hit on her a few times in the Academy. She drew upon the one factoid she remembered him mentioning during an otherwise stultifying night of group socializing with her fellow cadets: Paul’s hated nickname.
“I’m busy...Paulie.” Childish, but she had nothing else at the moment.
Peterson stiffened at the diminutive, then chuckled and shook his head. “See? So serious. All business. But I tell you what, I’m glad we’re on the same team, Valley Girl.”
Val froze, and the world froze with her. That horrible nickname from her past, the one she’d hoped to have left behind forever, echoed in her ears. The man’s tenor voice transformed with each echo, deepening, slurring, taking on the nails-on-the-chalkboard rasp that her tormentor had long ago used, fooling her parents into thinking of Milt as a kind old uncle instead of the child rapist that he was—
With an angry roar rising from somewhere within, her finger shot up to within an inch of the man’s eyes. “Don’t call me that!”
His face blanched, and Milt’s visage morphed back into the smirking Paul Peterson. He pushed back, hands raised, the legs of his chair scraping on the linoleum floor. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Sorry. Dawes. Jeez, I’m just glad that finger wasn’t loaded.”
“Argh!” Val stood and grabbed for his throat, but couldn’t reach. “You rotten shit! Get out of here!” Her breathing came hard, her face hot.
Peterson jumped away from the table. He stared at her a moment and forced a hollow laugh. “Fine,” he said. “I have other things to do. I don’t need to hang around trying to see where you’ve hidden your sense of humor.” He stood, took a few steps, then turned. “But, Dawes?” A sardonic smile creased his face, making him appear even more repulsive.
“Yeah?” She calmed a bit with his retreat. This was not Milt. Just a slimy blogger with an ax to grind. Her breathing slowed.
He hedged, cleared his throat. “I’ve, ah, kept my silence on this latest incident of yours out of respect for the victim’s family—”
“Victim’s?”
“But I’m not done with you. You’ll be seeing your name in the headlines of my publication again very soon.”
“Your publication is a heaping, online pile of click-bait, and I told you, I’ve unsubscribed!”
“Heh. You’ll be back. Your type, you glory-seeking heroes, you can’t resist seeing your names in print.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Anger flattened Peterson’s condescending smile for a moment. Then, as if a light blinked on, his face brightened, and the snarling smile returned. “What’s that, Dawes?” he said in a loud voice so that everyone in the place could hear. “You want me to buy you breakfast? Why, doesn’t that violate your department’s policy on gifts and bribes? Especially to a member of the press?”
“I wouldn’t accept a ‘gift’ from you to save my damned life!”
A cruel smile crossed Peterson’s face. “Now, what sort of gift might save a rookie policewoman’s life?” he asked. “Or, more important, her career? Say, a gun, planted on an innocent victim of a police shooting?” The cruel smile hardened. “Read my blog, Dawes.” He turned and strolled out of the restaurant.
***
“How many times have I told you to ignore that Peterson creep?” Gil said with a shake of his head as they walked down Albany Street the next evening. “He’s just trying to stir the pot and get under your skin. Don’t let him.”
“My head agrees with you,” Val said, waving at a group of kids gathering at the basketball court. They ignored her and continued choosing teams. “But my heart disagrees with my head on this one.”
“Listen to your head, then,” Gil said with a grin. “Trust that amazing intelligence of yours.”
Val scoffed but said nothing.
They walked along in silence for a block or two. Gil threw her a few skeptical glances, then sighed. “You’re still thinking about it.”
Val sighed. “One thing he said sticks with me,” she said. “That whole thing about planting guns. I’ve heard about that, but how common a practice is it?”
Gil frowned and scanned the area. “Let‘s not discuss that out on the street,” he said in a low voice.
Val stopped walking, stunned. “In other words, it’s common,” she said.
“Not here,” Gil said. “Listen, police don’t shoot people that often in Clayton. Before yours, the last one was nine months ago. The most we’ve had in a single year is four, and that was the year your uncle—.” He stopped, covering his mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”
Val’s head felt light, and she steadied herself by leaning against the chain-link fence abutting the sidewalk. She fought to catch her breath, and the only sound she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat.
“Are you all right?” Gil asked.
Val glanced at him, nodded her head. “It’s okay,” she said. “I need to get over my uncle’s death...one of these days.” She sucked in deep gulps of air and fanned herself. Despite the chilly November night, her head and neck felt as hot as a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.
“We all do,” Gil said. “His death was a great loss to everyone in the department. Not that our grief compares to what you and your family went through.” He set his hand on her shoulder. “And I didn’t mean to say that what you did—”
“It’s okay, dammit.” She pushed his hand off and twisted away from him. “I’ll be fine.”
After a moment, Gil sighed. “Okay, partner. You say so.”
They resumed their beat-walking, stopping to chat with shopkeepers and neighbors from time to time. Val showed them a picture of Harkins, but nobody had seen any sign of him.
A short while after darkness fell, they reached the theater parking lot at the corner of Albany and MLK, Jr. Boulevard, the place Val thought of as The Disciples’ headquarters. They didn’t get far before a few Disciples, each sporting one or more gold loops in each ear, formed a human blockade. Cardinal Thomas, who wore three rings, stood cross-armed in the center of the group.
