The cabby is sympathetic. 

 “Lover’s quarrel?” he asks and I meet the benign and gentle eyes in the rearview and heave a sigh that is laced with unshed tears and sink as far down in the seat as I can. 

 “Something like that,” I manage and he is kind and just lets me sit and stare out the window without making further conversation. 

 God, what have I done?  What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just shut everything down again and turn it off and nail Massey’s ass and go home? 

 My cellular begins ringing before we are anywhere near the penthouse. 

 I don’t know what I’ll do if it’s her. 

 I don’t know what I’ll do if it’s not her.

 I’m so fucked up I don’t even know what voice to answer with.  Do I go with Cooper Finn legendary Bad Ass or do I answer as this new supremely wimpy version of her I thought I’d killed off in childhood? 

 I settle for an unemotional, “Yeah?”

 It’s Sarge.  Relief and disappointment flood through me so strongly my skin burns and I feel faint. 

 “Coop?”

 “Yes, sir.” 

 “Connection’s weird.  You in a car?”

 “Yes.” I clear my throat and try not to sigh in aggravation.  “What did you need?”

 “I just wanted to check in…” there’s a pause and I know this man so well.  There’s something else and he’s searching for the exact words to phrase it which means it’s something that’s going to piss me off or catch me blindsided. 

 “What?”  I ask. 

 “Had an open records act request on your file today.  Austin notified me since you’re on assignment.”

 “Let me guess…  Detective Massey, I.I.D. SFPD.”

“Bingo.” 

 I can’t help it.  I start laughing.  He’s requesting open records from Austin and I’m running amok right in his cyber backyard.  He’s going to be looking at my driving history and the background investigation done when I was hired and I’ve spent the last two hours reading McCafferty’s detailed accounts of this man’s amazingly slippery grasp of sexual harassment and civil rights.  Hope he enjoys all those “excessive acceleration” and “racing” charges on young Cooper’s DL.  The shit that could give him a hard on isn’t on paper because I was never caught. 

 “Coop, what’s going on out there?”

 “Sarge…  You know when I told you it was hinky?”               

 “Yeah.”

 “Well, I had the last four letters right, anyway.”

 “...what?”

 I have to get myself back under control.  I’m laughing my ass off and really, none of this is funny. 

It rings again in the elevator. 

I’m less cautious this time and I think its relief I feel when it isn’t Exstead but is instead, Legaspi. 

“Cooper?” 

It’s rather bizarre to hear my first name in that voice without sarcasm or frustrated rage mixed through it.   

“That would be me.” I say, striving for lightness. 

“I just thought I’d check in and be sure you got the email.” 

“I got it.  I’ll be there.  Honest.”

There’s silence and I know she and Weaver are standing there doing some silent communication thing with the eyes and I don’t know why exactly, but it’s like having someone kick me right in the balls.  Except of course I have no balls anymore, not even imaginary mental girl-cop ones. 

Apparently Weaver wins because the phone is passed and I hear Legaspi’s whispers now dropping into the background.

“Sgt. Finn, this is Dr. Weaver.”

The elevator has arrived at the top floor and I punch in “MASSEY IS A FUCKING DICKHEAD” with a lot less glee than I had originally anticipated. 

 “Yes, ma’am.”  I respond immediately.  I can fuck around with Legaspi and give her hell but Weaver is off limits to my irreverence in some mysterious way I can’t quite grasp except I know people are not simply born with CIA eyes.  When a person has that coolly removed Do Not Fuck With Me levelness to their gaze they have earned it and you simply have to give that to them.  It’s a rocker bar on the soul and it’s been stitched deep. 

 “This is not standard procedure but I--  We,” she amends and I know Legaspi has just widened those blue eyes and cocked her head to the side, “want to make sure you understand that you are welcome to contact either of us if we’re needed.” 

 I’m just inside the door in the entrance hall.  I can barely see through the tears to punch the code in again to secure the place.  I haven’t left a light on because I had not anticipated being back this late and I lean forward and lay my head against the cool white plaster.  She is not a person to whom this sort of offer would ever come lightly.  The mix of professionalism and kindness undoes me.   

 “Sgt Finn?”

 “I’m here.” I say. 

 When she speaks again I can tell she has turned away from Legaspi and every bit of her is now focused on me.   And I absolutely cannot handle that.  Even over the telephone it is like being suddenly spotlighted in an interrogation room. 

 “Sgt. Finn, do you need us to come over there?” 

 “No.  I’m fine.” 

 There’s silence and I know I’m not being believable.  I wouldn’t believe me either. 

 I grind my forehead into the roughness of the wall and sigh.

 “I’m not going to do anything stupid,” I get out. 

 “I have the distinct feeling that our perceptions of ‘stupid’ might be widely varied, so you can understand my caution here.” 

 What an extraordinary bundle of caustic kindness she is.  I can’t imagine her as a GP, treating tonsils and sinus infections and there’s no way she can have opted for gyno or pediatrics; pregnant women and children would not be dodgy and hazardous enough. 

 “You’re some kind of Emergency doctor, right?”

 Silence. 

 “That’s right.” 

 I have to smile.  Rescue work; of course. Balls to the wall, everything out there, life or death, the constant struggle to stop the results of violence, anger, cruelty, insanity, or just mere stupidity and ignorance.  Perfect.  She’s a tiny knight wielding a crutch in lieu of a sword. 

 “Sgt. Finn?” 

 “Yeah.”  I swipe at my nose which is quickly becoming disgusting. 

 We can be there in twenty minutes.”                        

 What has happened to me that people know me so well?  What has happened that I am so weak and so fucking goddamn needy? 

 “No.” I tell her.  “I’m fine. I am going to drink a couple of beers and then go to bed.  Honest.  I swear.”   

 “A couple of beers,” she repeats.  “Can I hope that in Finnish that actually translates to approximately 24 ounces of .05% alcohol?  Without a side dish of anything lethal?”

 I have to laugh.  “Yes, ma’am.” 

 There’s a pause on the other end and the noises in the background change as she walks into another room.  I can hear music in the background now, probably a stereo or CD player. 

 “Sgt Finn, I don’t normally do this but I’m going to give you a number where you can reach me. “

 Jesus.   That takes me by surprise.  I know instinctively she is a private person.  I must be in some major obvious tailspin if Dr.  CIA is about to share her pager number with me.

 “Dr. Weaver, honestly, this isn’t necessary.”

 “I think it is.  Do you have a pen?”

 I find one and write the number down.  She actually makes me repeat it back to her as if she doesn’t trust that I’ve copied it. 

 “Good.  That number can reach me anytime.”

 “Dr. Weaver—You don’t have to do that.”

 “I know that, Sgt. Finn.”

 “Okay.  The rank has to go.”

 “Pardon?”

 “The Sergeant Finn thing.  Just… I haven’t handled things very well out here and I feel really strange with you calling me that.  Cooper is fine.”

 “Alright.” Pause.  “And I would be more comfortable with you calling me Kerry.”

 I can’t help it.  I start giggling. 

 “What?” she asks and it’s a couple of seconds before I can stop myself long enough to answer. 

 “I can’t possibly call you ‘Kerry’.’’ I tell her. 

 “Why not?” she demands.  I can just imagine the look on her face. 

 “I just can’t.  It’d be like calling my Lieutenant ‘Karl’.” 

 “Oh.”  I don’t imagine the politely amused and distinctly pleased note in her voice.  “Maybe some sort of compromise then.”  She offers. 

 “Maybe.”

 “Fine.  And I want to make certain you understand that I gave you that number to use if you need it.   And I mean that even after you become an official patient of Dr. Legaspi’s.”

 I clear my throat and hope it doesn’t sound as clogged with tears as it feels on my end. 

 “You know I’m not going to be out here long enough to really become an ‘official patient’, right?  I was sent out here on an assignment and when it’s completed I’ll be going back to Texas and to be honest with you, I’m expecting to wrap it up pretty quickly now.”

 “Well, be that as it may, while you’re here I do think Dr. Legaspi can help you.”

 Interesting how she seems to separate “Kim” from “Dr. Legaspi” as if there is a clear mental delineation in her mind about the various roles they play, as if they are unmistakably separate to her.

 There’s really nothing to say but thank you.  So I say it.  Even I am somewhat surprised at the rather choked, emotional tone of my voice.

 Weaver clears her throat and declines comment.  I bet she’s writing up some sort of mental chart up on me, something like:

 “Patient presented with hoarse tone indicative of unshed tears.  Signs of nuclear mental breakdown evident.  Unproductive sleep patterns and established aversion of reality, dealt with using various escapist products such as alcohol and false bravado.  Clear signs of clinical depression, probably some childhood trauma which established early on patient’s inability to deal with her emotions without pharmaceutical buffers.  Multiple follow up visits likely.”

 I feel dramatically relieved when we’ve hung up and Dr. CIA has switched the light off.

 Plugging my laptop in using the power cord instead of the battery backup I snag a beer and make myself comfortable on Sylvie’s couch and decide to re-enter McCafferty’s files for a bit more light reading. 

 My favorite Massey story so far is dated sixteen months previous to any of the disappearances from the evidence room.  He had been over heard referring to McCafferty’s division as the “Twat Squad” during an evidentiary hearing in a local court room.  Witness names included the Judge and both defense and prosecuting attorney. 

 McCafferty has done a careful job of documenting his distinctly prejudicial and narrow minded viewpoints and because of this and the sheer volume of them I am assuming that it is rather like the Department in that it is practically impossible to fire someone once they are out of the rookie probationary period.  It can be done but it must be done carefully to avoid any sort of violation of their rights once they are employed and to keep Legal from stepping in and slapping hands rather than actually eliminating the person off the force.  I know troopers who dressed in KKK hoods and cloaks for a black troop’s birthday party, claiming it to be all in fun, just a harmless prank and they’re still on the job.  Their penalty?  A month’s suspension, with pay.  In other words; a vacation. 

 The thin blue line is a very hard thing to fight, especially from the inside.  Even when it’s in khaki.   

By 2130 I’ve pretty much read myself into a Massey induced coma and begun on the bare facts I can find within SFPD division records in regards to Andrea Peyton. 

 What I wish I could find would be some clear cut indication of collusion between the two of them but this is too much to hope for and if it exists it’s not immediately evident in her files.

  He is not listed as family nor as one of her references at the time she was hired three years previous.  There’s nothing indicating the two of them spend any off duty time together or live near one another or have been involved on any cases until I.I.D. was called in to investigate the Case of the Supposedly Missing Narcotics, nothing to indicate that other than a perfunctory statement from her in reference to the validity of the sign in/out sheet and the hours she mans the desk she has been involved or spoken to Massey in regards to it.  

 Her normal work hours are a solid eight hours of day shifts which isn’t typical of how the Department works but I’m not familiar enough with SFPD’s division schedules to know if it’s normal for them or not.  When she is not on duty the desk is manned by an Officer James Munroe who is apparently on street patrol but is working an additional eight hours on the desk in order to earn OT.  The third person appears to be out on maternity leave, but there’s no name given and no replacement officer listed to cover that last eight hour shift and no explanation of precisely how they rotate to cover all 24 hours and still allow each of them time off. 

  I add Munroe to my list and make a note to myself to call McCafferty and ascertain the identity of the third person.  It may very well be there isn’t one.  I’ve seen budget cuts in the records within the last fiscal year which have eliminated several clerical and secretarial positions and given the fact the room is at the end of a hall deep within McCafferty’s division and accessible only to law enforcement personnel who have to know the code to punch in to access the room itself, it’s possible SFPD decided to let those eight hours slide or possibly be included in the duties of others actually assigned elsewhere but in near proximity to the room.  And if the security system installed had been actually functioning this would have been a perfectly acceptable judgment call. 

  It would be nice if someone had jumped up and down and waved flags indicating they personally had discovered the missing drugs since that’s typical of a thief who is deliberately removing something in order to cast suspicion on someone else; it’s hard to frame someone if nobody notices anything’s missing, but this isn’t the case other than Massey’s frantic dance around Exstead.  The discrepancies were found when the evidence in question was needed for trial.  The first few disappearances were minimal enough to not rouse much suspicion because it is typical for certain drugs to weigh less after several months or a year in evidence storage due to them drying out or evaporating, but the later ones were large enough to be impossible to chalk off to any sort of natural occurrence.

  What I find particularly interesting is that Massey is documented having begun his investigation prior to the first disappearance of any major importance.  As in one day prior.   It’s a rather odd coincidence and the fact that the really big disappearance do not begin until after an investigation has begun is simply bizarre.  That there are dirty cops is a given.  That some of them steal and sell drugs back on the street is as well.  But it makes no sense for an investigation to begin before there are narcotics missing and it makes even less sense that the amounts would then increase when you would assume that security would be upped and enforced. 

 It “feels” to me as if someone slipped up somewhere.  There was a plan and it was worked out and more than one person was in on it, but something happened and the timing got off.  Massey probably has not even realized it because he has been so intent on focusing the direction of the investigation and too, he’s not a paperwork kind of guy.  I bet he doesn’t even have copies of everything he gave to me, I bet he didn’t sit down and work the logistics out on paper although it’s clear to me he was at least partially responsible for the outline of the set up itself.  But who all was he working with? 

 I find McCafferty’s memos in regards to the malfunctioning surveillance camera and feeling rather devious I pull up a program I use to trace hackers and examine the full headers on the email she had sent out to the various SFPD higher ups and am relieved to see she’s not forged the date she gave within the body of the memo.  It is now May.  She reported the camera’s malfunction in late November.

 I am debating whether I should have a third beer and make it 36 ounces of .05% when my cell phone rings. 

 I’ve placed it beside me on the sofa and for a moment I just stare at it as if it’s a coiled snake or some other potentially deadly creature. 

 It’s going to be Legaspi or Weaver.  Maybe Sarge again.  Maybe even McCafferty.  Exstead is on a date and I cannot imagine anyone sharing her.  I know I wouldn’t. 

 My voice is cautious when I answer. 

 “Hey.” she says and my pulse rate leaps to triple time. 

 I’m silent.  My hands are shaking and I actually think for a moment I might faint before I pull myself together and draw in a deep shaky breath.

 “Hey yourself.  I thought you were… busy.”

 “Um, yeah, well…  I am.  But I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

 I can hear music in the background, loud, techno-dance stuff, heavy on the bass and boom.  And below it the chatter and white noise of a club or bar. 

 “I’m okay.” I get out.

 Silence except for muffled breathing and the noises in the background. 

 “Okay.  Good.” She says finally and my head races trying to decide if that was relief or disappointment I hear.  I can’t tell. 

 And then someone close to the phone says something and I hear the background noises fade as she puts her palm over the receiver and speaks to them.  Ahhhh.  The girlfriend didn’t want to share and probably hadn’t been consulted.  I feel wickedly thrilled and pleased and giddy. 

 “I’ve got to go now.  I just wanted to check in.  Make sure.” 

 She’s about to hang up.  I can hear the other person talking again and this time Jinny doesn’t smother the phone in her hand.  The voice is pitched low and has a seductive quality to it, an indication of intimacy and serenity that knocks me right off my heady little “She Called to See if I was Okay” pedestal.  I close my eyes for the fall and take it hopefully on the chin and undetectable on the other end. 

 “Jin-ny,” that other voice purrs.  “You promised me you wouldn’t work tonight.”

 “Just this one quick call.  I swear.”  Exstead says, her voice oddly strained and there is the unmistakable sound of a kiss and then a little giggle from the other person before she speaks to me again.

 “Okay.  Good.  I’ll get back with you about the investigation.”

 I think maybe I whisper, “Sure” but it’s drowned in the other woman’s laughter and teasing voice saying, “Oooooh, you know I love it when you talk cop…” before the line goes dead.

 I feel sick.  What is wrong with me?  Why do I feel betrayed?  How have I let this happen to a nice heterosexual girl from Texas like myself?  Do they put some kind of lesbian inducing drugs in the water supply out here?

 I hit *69. 

 I try to tell myself that it’s strictly to do with the investigation.  I don’t even come close to believing it.

 The reverse search gives me a number to one of the clubs on the list. 

 The G(irl) Spot.  401 6^th Street. 

 I have a momentary dizzy fit of hubris.  Is it some kind of portent or omen that it would be on 6^th Street when that is synonymous to every Texan as Austin’s infamous and famous musical/club district? 

 I am absolutely terrified but I’ve never let that stop me before. 

 What do you wear to a lesbian nightclub? 

END OF PART TWELVE

{~> Crossroads  Next Story, Please <~}