A woman of valor, p.18
A Woman of Valor, page 18
She waited a moment, collected her thoughts, and let her breathing return to normal before joining him at the rear of the cruiser. He stretched out his hand toward her shoulder, and she jumped back.
“Hey, sorry about that,” he said. “I keep forgetting you’re not comfortable with casual touch.”
Val let out a noisy breath. “It’s not about you. It’s...a thing with me.” She looked away. She never could bring herself to explain this.
Gil waited for her to look back at him and kept his voice soft. “I get it. And I’m a hugger by nature. Men, women, everyone. I’ll keep it in check.”
“Thanks.” She exhaled a heavy breath. “So, why are we here?”
He shrugged. “One of the neighbors said he used to hang out here. I suggest we poke around a little. By the time they serve us anything, we’ll be off shift. And I need a beer.” He pulled open the heavy metal door and waved her inside.
She stopped a few steps past the door, letting her eyes adjust to the dim lighting, shed mostly by neon signs advertising cheap beer and terrible whiskey. A wooden bar absorbed most of the back wall, and men of various ages occupied three of the spinner stools fixed to the floor, with a half-dozen or more seats between them. U-shaped booths padded with ripped red-vinyl seat covers lined the walls on either side. Spent peanut shells crunched beneath the feet of a couple of old gents heading toward the men’s room. The whole bar reeked of grease, stale tobacco smoke, and spilled beer.
Gil leaned over the bar and conversed with the bartender in a low voice. After a few moments, the bartender shook his head and pointed to one of the vacant booths. They slid in moments later.
“What did he say about Harkins?” she asked.
“Nobody’s seen him lately, but he was a regular until a few weeks ago,” Gil said. “My guess is he’s in Hartford now, like Camila suggested.”
The bartender brought two sleeves of yellow, fizzy beer and a bowl of peanuts in the shell. Gil held up his beer in a toast. “To catching Harkins,” he said.
Val wasn’t sure if their shift had officially ended yet, but she had to drink to that. She clinked his glass, sipped, and grimaced. Cold, bitter, and otherwise tasteless, like all beer in her experience. She shoved it aside.
“I loved what you did out there tonight,” he said. “The work you did with Pope, Dog, and Camila—it’s nothing short of amazing. You have a knack for this.” Under the table, his foot bumped hers. She moved hers away from him. “I never could have gotten that info out of Camila,” he went on. “Only by you sharing your own personal experience—”
“Which I didn’t mean to do,” she said. “It just kind of slipped out.”
Gil smiled. “I could tell by the way you blew me off afterwards,” he said. “Which is fine. It’s your own business, not mine.”
She paused, took a breath. “Thanks,” she said. An awkward moment passed. She should tell him the rest, but...
“You bring a whole new approach to things,” he said. “It’s creative, energetic, and exciting to be around.” He smiled at her, a wistful smile. “Old-timers like me,” he said, “we get too jaded and lose sight of what it means to be a cop.”
Val sipped her beer again. It didn’t taste as awful this time. “You’re no old-timer,” she said. “You have, what is it? Eight years on the force?”
“Eight in Clayton. I was in New Haven for eight years before that,” Gil said. “What a hellhole.”
“Hellholes need good police protection as much as Clayton. Maybe even more so.” She stretched her legs out and this time she bumped his foot. He didn’t react, and she curled her feet back under her seat. “Not that anyone has to be stuck their whole career in a hell hole to be a good cop,” she continued, her words rushed. “But those are the people that resonate with me—the ones who feel stuck, or powerless.” She slowed her speech, and words came out sounding slurred. What a lightweight. Slow down, girl. Shut up.
“There’s that idealistic enthusiasm of yours again.” Gil smiled and patted her hand, then frowned and pulled it away. “Sorry,” he said. Her hand tingled. Damn, what was he doing to her?
Her stomach growled, and she chuckled in relief for the distraction. She tipped her glass at him and sipped again. “Shall we get something greasy to wash down with this witches’ brew? Some Cajun fries?”
He grinned. “Girl after my own heart.” Her face warmed. Was she sending signals she didn’t intend?
Gil seemed not to notice and turned to wave at the barkeep. “Cajuns?” he said, just loud enough, and the bartender nodded. He turned back toward her. “Those fries are salty, greasy heaven.”
“Friend of yours?” she asked.
“Friendly enough that we’re safe to spend the last five minutes of our shift here.”
Val set her half-empty glass on the wooden table, right over where someone had carved their initials into it. The beer was going down much too fast. She needed to slow down, keep her wits about her.
Silence lingered. Neon flashes reflected in Gil’s dark eyes, dancing with humor. She noticed the strength of his square jaw, the coarseness of individual whiskers in his five o’clock shadow. He ran his hand through his thick, wavy black hair, now a few inches longer than the military cut he’d sported when they met seven weeks before.
She realized with a start that she was admiring him. His looks, for God’s sake.
“So, why did you leave New Haven?” she asked after an eternity.
“I needed a change,” Gil said, glancing away. He drank most of the rest of his beer and set the glass on the table, scooted deeper into the “U” of the seat, and lowered his voice. “After five years on the force, I met the woman of my dreams, I thought. We dated a few years, got engaged, and moved in together. But she discovered, luckily before we tied the knot, that she couldn’t live the life of worry that comes with marrying a cop, and broke it off. I needed a change of scenery, and Clayton was hiring.”
Finding it difficult to hear him, Val edged deeper into the “U” as well. They now sat at a 45-degree angle. She cleared her throat, searching for something appropriate to say. “So, you never married?”
Oh, how stupid stupid stupid—
“No,” he said with an easy smile. “The experience with Jessica made me realize that only another cop would understand the life we lead. And you may have noticed, there aren’t many of women on the force my age. One, to be exact, and Shannon O’Reilly’s married.”
“What constitutes ‘your age’?” The words left her mouth before she could stop them, and she reddened.
“Plus or minus five years, so, roughly, a woman in her thirties. Don’t worry, you’re safe,” he said, laughing. “By, what, seven or eight years?”
“Seven, in a few weeks,” she said, with a nervous laugh not matching his in energy. “My birthday is in December.”
“Noted. Mine was October 14.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have—”
“Birthdays are for kids. No offense.” He spun his beer glass on the table between his hands and laughed again.
She joined him this time for real. She hadn’t celebrated a birthday in years. Not since—
Val's laughter died as if someone had hit a “mute” button on her face. The last time she celebrated a birthday, her twelfth, Uncle Val had given her a brand-new gi to wear to her jiu jitsu classes. On her thirteenth...she shook away the awful memory.
The fries arrived, as did Gil’s second beer. Gil dove in with enthusiasm, while she picked at the fries, too nervous to eat much. He saved her the final handful, after which they leaned back in their seats. Val noticed that they’d moved close together on the seat, both at the short end of the “U,” facing the same direction. Close enough that a casual observer might mistake them for a romantic couple. Which neither of them wanted. She should move away.
She almost did, too. But what message would that send? That she thought he’d moved too close, that he was some sort of creep? They weren’t touching or anything, although they sat close enough that they could.
But they weren’t. And they wouldn’t. Because he was a good guy.
“Gil,” she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you before. With my story, I mean.”
“No apology needed,” he said. “I haven’t earned your trust yet. I’m okay with that.”
“No, that’s not right,” she said. “You have earned it. You’ve been nothing short of amazing as a partner—and as a friend. And I want you to understand.”
He bowed his head in a slow nod. “When you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.”
She sipped her beer. “I’m...almost ready.” She surrendered a sad smile and turned toward him. He turned, too, and their bent knees touched on the seat. She jerked it away, then hung her head, blowing air out between her lips. “And, yeah...I’m such a goddamned liar.”
Gil laughed. “4;00 a.m. isn’t the time to start a long life story anyway. You can tell me about it on the drive to Hartford.”
“Okay, I—what? What drive to Hartford? When?”
“On our next day off, we’re going to the Silver Fox to find Richard Harkins, or at least his dancer girlfriend,” he said. “Unless you don’t want to go.”
“Of course I want to go! But didn’t you say we should leave that to the detectives?”
He shrugged. “I think it’s time we do a little poking around on our own. Unofficially, of course. I have a buddy on the Hartford P.D. who owes me one. I thought we‘d hit him up first, find out what he knows, then lurk around the nightclub and track down the dancer Camila mentioned, see where that leads us.”
“You’re amazing!” Val raised her nearly empty glass and toasted him. “I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait to go to Hartford.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Val dragged her sorry ass out of bed well past 1:00 p.m. the next day. She found Beth busying herself in the kitchen, preparing a platter of Buffalo wings and nachos big enough for an army. Which meant, of course, she’d stashed Josh in the bedroom again.
“What are you doing home this time of day?” Val asked.
“Watching football. It’s Saturday,” she said. “UConn plays UMass today. Want to watch with us?”
Val shook her head and opened an overhead cupboard, then wondered why. Her brain would not wake up. She should never drink after 3:00 a.m.
“We’re out of coffee,” Beth said. “I can send my boy out to get some.”
“He’d do that?” Val raked through the fridge to find something easier on the stomach than Cajun fries for breakfast.
“For me, yes.” Beth jiggled her boobs and laughed. “For these, I mean.”
“Ask him to get eggs, too, then,” Val said. “And aspirin.”
Minutes later, a 30-ish rake with the dark shadow of a beard and an easy smile emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a UConn sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Joshua’s tousled mop of light brown hair seemed even more unruly than usual. He held his phone out to Val. “Hey, do you know this guy?”
Val squinted at the palm-sized screen and read the first few lines of the article before recognizing the truth-slashing style of Paul Peterson. “Yeah, sort of,” she said. “He’s a muck-raker. I ignore him.”
“Okay,” Josh said with an easy grin. “You say so.” He pulled on a jacket. “So, coffee, eggs, and aspirin? Anything else? Beer?”
“God, no,” Val said.
“Guns and drugs?” Josh said, laughing.
“What? No, of course not,” Val said. “What the hell?”
Josh pointed at his phone and shoved it into his pocket. “I guess you can’t believe everything you read, then.” He whistled tuneless noise and ambled out the door, landing a wet smooch on Beth’s smiling face on the way.
“What do you see in him?” Val plopped onto the sofa.
Beth laughed and her eyes focused on a far-distant place. “It’s not what I see in him,” she said, “although his eyes are dreamy. It’s what I feel in me...if you catch my drift.” She giggled and flicked on the TV.
Val leaned back on the sofa and tried to rest, but Josh’s words bounced around in her head. She sighed and tapped her own phone’s browser, finding Peterson’s blog. She groaned.
Crooked Cops Corrupt Clayton
Clayton residents once could rest assured that the unsavory practices often featured on late-night cop shows would never infect our safe little town. But what we have learned suggests that such assurances are no longer warranted.
Our sources (who wish to remain anonymous) indicate that the worst imaginable police tactics are as common in Clayton as they are in New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago—even the TV versions of those cities.
Not only do our men—and women!—in blue terrorize and shoot innocent citizens. But, our sources say, police regularly plant evidence such as drugs, guns, and stolen goods on suspects to create false justifications for their illegal acts.
Almost as bad, rumors persist that police routinely accept bribes—free food and drinks, valuable gifts such as jewelry and tickets to local events, and cash—to look the other way when local “businesses” (crime syndicates) are involved.
I wish I could say that this net of corruption snares only the jaded old-timers on the force. But the truth is much uglier. Even rookie police men—and women!—are apparently on the take.
Val’s hands shook so hard, she dropped the phone before she could finish reading the article. How could this moron get away with posting such trash? Libel laws must apply, somehow. She considered phoning the department, but the lawyers wouldn’t do anything about it until Monday, at the earliest. She still had a pair of nine-hour shifts ahead of her before Monday morning rolled around.
Val re-read the article’s outrageous claims and got ripping mad again. She’d never met a single cop in her short career who’d even consider planting guns or evidence on suspects, much less taking bribes. She doubted that even Alex Papadopoulos would cross that line.
And Peterson calling out “rookie women”—of which Clayton had exactly one—amounted to a personal attack. Without a shred of evidence. That lying, scheming ass!
She calmed after a few minutes, listening to Beth cheer the home team for something awesome they did. The calming helped clarify her thinking, and she checked the article again. Sure enough, it alluded to gifts of “jewelry.” She recalled the necklace with the gun pendant. Would this be one of those “gifts?” If so, she wondered how Peterson found out about it. He’d mentioned it in the coffee shop that day...the day he’d called her “Valley Girl,” just to get under her skin. How had he discovered that as well?
***
The following Tuesday, Val followed Gil inside the Dutch Door, a 50s-style throwback diner on the street level of a three-story, mixed-use brick building in southeast Hartford. A brisk wind pushed the door shut behind them, but not before blowing in a few stray grocery sacks, empty potato chip wrappers, and brown oak leaves. The sounds of clanking dishes, steaming pots, and shouting kitchen workers filled the overheated air, lit by dim, low-slung light fixtures overhanging each table from twelve-foot ceilings.
“I love this place,” Gil said. He took a deep whiff of the humid air, saturated with the aromas of coffee, stale grease, and frying bacon, and patted his stomach. “Food for kings.”
Val stared at him, wide-eyed. “I can feel my arteries hardening just standing here. Have they even heard of salad?”
Gil led her to a booth in the back. “Let’s get a head start on coffee while we wait for them.” He waved down their waiter, a burly man whose five-o’clock shadow belied his obnoxious cologne, something Val described to herself as eau de cigarette. He delivered an insulated carafe of weak coffee and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Tell me about this guy, Jalen Marshall,” Val said. “You used to work with him?”
Gil nodded, stirring four teaspoons of sugar into his mug. “Jalen and I went to the Academy together. He’s the one that recruited me to Clayton, but he moved here when Hartford made a big push for diversity in their detective ranks. A good cop. As in, really good. Gibson nearly had a heart attack when he left. So did Pops.”
“Why Pops?” Val followed Gil’s lead, dumping what the Surgeon General would describe as three days’ worth of sugar into her coffee, and an equal measure of cream. With all that, the stuff almost became drinkable.
Gil scanned the room and lowered his voice. “Pops was Jalen’s first partner at Clayton. Just between us, that’s a big reason he left. Jalen is a cop’s cop, and he couldn’t trust Pops to have his back.” He leaned back. “But you never heard that from me, right?”
“My lips are sealed—oh, shit!” She ducked low in the booth, hiding behind Gil’s large frame from the lanky man in his early twenties who’d just entered the front door. With his short brown hair and that awful smirk he always wore, Ben Peterson resembled his journalist cousin Paul far too much for comfort. Only his attire—a blue-gray police uniform with a silver badge and a bright yellow shoulder patch—set him apart from his muck-raking relation. “What the hell’s he doing here?”
“Who?” Gil turned, then stood and waved at the tall, husky African American officer entering the diner behind Ben. He gestured again, and the man said something to Ben, then pointed at Gil. They approached the table together.
“Oh, no,” Val said. “Please, tell me this isn‘t happening.”
“What’s your problem?” Gil asked, but the two men arrived before Val could answer.
Jalen removed his hat, revealing short, curly black hair parted around his shiny, ebony dome. “Gil, you old dog,” he said with a grin, and the two men embraced, pounding each other’s backs. “It’s been too long.” He turned and gestured to Ben. “This is my new partner I’m training. Ben Peterson, meet Gil Kryzinski. And you are...?” He smiled at Val.
“I can help you out with that,” Ben said, sliding into the booth next to Val. “Dawes and I went to Academy together.” He gave Val a quick tap on the shoulder. Like he would for a man. Sort of. She slid away from him in the booth.
