Elise
“I’m walking out now,” I yell, fuming at the Chief of Police. Three hours I’ve been detained for his bureaucratic bullshit. Three hours of my time wasted. When you get paid hourly and you’re currently eating ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, that becomes a big deal.
I can’t believe I used to work for this asshole.
Chief Newark is sitting in front of me, reclining so far back his shirt threatened to slip from the band of his pants. I’d worked with him in this department long enough to know that no one wanted to see the man’s torso. Oh, he wasn’t terribly unfit. But he was building the spare tire that came with more paperwork than working cases, and his hair (and lack thereof) was telling of the stress of the job.
You think cops wanna be promoted to Chief?
You think wrong .
This jerk has our number, too. He hung a mirror behind his desk. Instead of a cork board he has this enormous mirror that he writes on with dry-erase markers. He claims it helps him map out his shit.
Yeah, right.
It’s so we can see how fucking ridiculous we look when we try and fight back.
I can see it now. My brown hair is escaping from its usual ponytail, looking more crazy-cat-lady than professional. I mean, in my job, “professional” is what you make it, but right now I just look like I haven’t seen a hairbrush in a year. My v-neck t-shirt is wrinkled, my coat even more so. Thank God for skinny jeans. They hug my fuller hips and no matter how many hours I wear them, that lycra is there to help.
My shoes are high top Converse and gray. Scuffed and comfy as hell. These are shoes you can’t say “they don’t make’m like they used to”-- because they do. This is my second pair in two decades. And I wear my shoes hard.
What the mirror shows me, more than a bedraggled appearance, is my raging blue eyes set in a red face.
It’s red because I’m pissed off .
“Go ahead and walk, Martin. But the next time I catch you at a crime scene before my boys get there--”
“You’ll thank me for collecting the evidence before they trample it.” Take that, Chief.
His grin soured and he rocked forward, sitting straight. “No, Martin. I’m going to have you arrested for tampering with evidence. Disturbing the crime scene.”
“Screw you,” I spit back. “You know how good I am! I pay attention to details. I--”
“No, I don’t.” Chief Newark cuts me off and it just reminds me again why he’s an ex boss. “I know that when you were Detective Martin, you were one the best. Now you’re just some PI, and I don’t have time for you. I have an appointment waiting. Call us first next time, Martin. Our ties aren’t that fucking tight.”
It’s a dismissal. Chief always likes to have to last words. Too bad his words could just as easily have been mine. My ties to the department used to be tight; now they were all but unravelled. This became painfully obvious three--no wait, three and a half -- hours ago when a cop put me in cuffs and booked me at my old Raleigh station for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
My hands clench and I whirl, ready to get out before I say something that will jeopardize what little good will the Chief has with me. Before I can huff out, I run right into the exceptionally firm chest of an even more exceptionally tall man. I’m not tall , but I’m not petite, either. Freaking five foot five, a buck fifty, made with curves and hellfire. That at least was my old partner, Lloyd’s, description of me.
So chest at my eye level? This dude is enormous. I kind of bounce back, my body tensed.
“Watch it, asshole,” I blurt. But the investigator in me is already taking in the make of his suit--fancy. Italian wool? His emerald-encrusted cuff links-- fancier. And he smells of cologne, but it’s subtle. Not that stupid body spray that screams “I’m a fifteen year old stuck in
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