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MASSEY IS A FUCKING DICKHEAD. I should either make it shorter or attempt to dredge some joy up for that little joke of mine. Punching something like that in shouldn’t be such a dreary chore. Email first. I boot the computer up and then climb the stairs for clean clothes. I showered at the Legaspi-Weaver HQ and my hair is still damp after the taxi ride but I’m clean. A pair of jeans and a DPS Narcotics shirt later, I’m cross legged on the floor in front of my computer. Brief note from Sarge; he needs my weeklies Monday morning. Gawd. You can overdose, commit what feels like adultery to me at the moment, have every illusion about yourself as a person shattered, have someone you really need as a friend right now stomp off in a tizzy, be apprehensive about a certain blue eyed shrink who is somehow mysteriously ferreting out information whether it is divulged or not and DPS will still insist that your idiotic HQ 28’s be turned in on time. I heave a put upon sigh and slam the numbers in then attach them and mail them off. Now is not the time to remind the Department how pissy they are about bullshit paperwork. I do consider tacking the time at the G Spot in as OT, but decide against it. Even if what happened between Exstead and I had not occurred, even if I had relayed to Sarge that this seemed to be more of some sort of internal SFPD semi-sexual harassment case rather than a narcotics issue, I wouldn’t put that time down. The Department is not cool with even the accepted norms of sexual behavior and activity. There is a very definite “Don’t Ask; Don’t Tell” policy. I can hardly justify to the Colonel that I really, really needed orgasms at a lesbian night club and that I was working at the time, can I? Although I remember one whole year when Jase got away sticking the time he spent at “Infinity” in San Angelo as being on duty. But that was a male at a “gentleman’s club”, not a supposedly heterosexual female in a San Francisco gay bar. Ah, the many injustices of being born penis challenged. My head is so fried from conflicting thoughts and lack of sleep I actually attempt to make a list of what I know and what is still annoyingly vague. WHAT I KNOW IS UTTER BULLSHIT 1) Exstead taking narcotics from the evidence room to sell. Well, that was easy. WHAT I KNOW IS CERTAIN 1) Exstead is being blackmailed by Sylvie & Max Chandler. 2) Massey is in on it. 3) Andrea Peyton may or may not have something to do with some or all of it. WHAT I NEED TO DO 1) Search the penthouse for anything directly incriminating Exstead. 2) Figure out where that computer is. 3) Look for more clues in the photographs I’ve got. 4) Make contact with McCafferty and find out if she is aware that Massey is connected to Max Chandler and moonlighting as a limo driver for Sylvie and see if this violates any SFPD policy. 5) Sound her out, carefully, to see if she has a clue what is really going on here and if so, can she see a way out that doesn’t involve Exstead losing her badge along with her pride and privacy. I start on the bottom floor in the foyer and I move down it on my knees checking for loose flooring or mop boards and then move into the living area and start down the inner wall doing the same, checking for a carpet corner that’s been pulled up or a piece that’s been added in. When I have made a complete circle of the room and returned back to the foyer I move on to checking the walls, searching behind prints for wall safes, unscrewing vents to look inside air ducts. And when that is done I begin a careful and thorough search of each piece of furniture. This is
not my specialty. In fact, I suck at it. It’s tedious to me and
boring; it’s a Jase thing, something he would have done with me following
behind, more or less paying attention. For a place like this, with so much
room to cover and so many things inside the area with so many surfaces and
cracks I am sadly inept. If Exstead hadn’t had her little hissy this
morning she could be helping me. I’d like to indulge in a bit of self pity
except I know I at least partially deserved that temper fit and her desertion. This would be a whole lot simpler if Sylvie Chandler was a little nearer poverty level than millionaire status. Four hours and several beers later I at last find something which may prove useful. She’s hidden it in the heel of a shoe in a box labeled with a Sha-Sha logo. They’re leather dyed a metallic gold, open toed sandals with stacked heels made of clear Lucite enclosing a black inner base around which floats brilliant gold glitter. On closer inspection I decide it’s actual gold flakes; obviously Sylvie has splurged for the $500 variety. The entire heel of both shoes swivel out to the side revealing a 1x2 inch space, ironically enough referred to by the manufacturer as the “G Spot”. At first I’m just ecstatic to actually have found a pair; I’ve read about them during those six months I was at the narcotics analyst desk job. They’re a favorite of “Club Kids” who use them to conceal user amounts of Ecstasy for Raves although The Sha-Sha Fine Shoes Inc. representatives insist the compartments were originally designed to hold money or keys. Kids are so ingenious. Imagine them hiding illegal drugs in a secret compartment in shoes decorated with floating glitter and flashing lights and sweeping painted flames and marketed to Ravers. The right shoe is empty. The left holds a Sony MC60-BM in a hard plastic case. I find a pair of tweezers in one of Sylvie’s drawers and extract the micro cassette carefully so as not to ruin any fingerprints. I have nothing to play it on but it has to be something or Sylvie wouldn’t have hidden it. The odds of it being just a recorded fuck session are, in my opinion, fairly low since Sylvie’s hardly the type of girl to think that would be something to hide, not with a drawer full of everything from butt plugs to photographed sexual adventures. That it may not necessarily be anything to do with Exstead is definitely higher on the possible scale; that Sylvie may have her skinny little fingers in several different pies is as well. I put it in a sandwich bag and fold it carefully before tucking it away in my jacket pocket and going back at it for another hour before I finally decide either there is nothing else hidden upstairs or it’s hidden too well for me to find. There is still the kitchen and dining area to cover as well as the downstairs bath but my watch tells me it’s almost 1800 and I haven’t eaten. I make myself a sandwich dreading what a job the kitchen is going to be with so many drawers and cabinets and pantries. I’ll have to lift every plate, remove every drawer, take out every sheet of lining paper, peer into and behind and beneath every gleaming stainless steel utensil but there’s no point in trying it at the moment when I’m tired and hungry. I carry my sandwich and a fresh beer into the living area and look down at the list I’d made earlier. Obviously, as I’d already decided, there is no computer here either so that’s two off it for now. I gather up all the photographs and stretch out on the sofa to study them under the bright light of a floor lamp as I eat. Now that I’ve seen Sylvie in the flesh I can more positively identify her in even the photos where she isn’t looking at the camera or is wearing the leather mask. I can’t be absolutely positive but I think there are no more than two other females and of course neither bear any resemblance to Exstead. The male I am not so sure about, meaning whether it is the same guy in every shot or if it’s several different men. There’s never enough of him visible to be certain and he is taking the photographs in every one so that what is visible is at odd and distorted angles. I need some programs I don’t have on my portable lap top. I need the graphics programs on my desktop in Austin, or on any of the criminal analysts’ computers within the Department. The one where the male photographed Sylvie in the bathroom mirror for instance… He is in the photo as well although he is hidden behind the reflection of the flash from the chest up. A little tinkering, a little graphics work and I could have a face on this guy. I’ve already considered the possibility that it might be Massey. That had actually occurred to me prior to finding out he is Sylvie’s uncle by marriage; I’m not sure now if that makes it less or more possible. He drives her limousine, he is familiar with her penthouse; it’s entirely possible he is Mr. Porn Toe and the photographer of these shots who inadvertently captured his own image on film. Neither of them strikes me as being sticklers for conventional family relationships. But there is no way he was present when the shots of Exstead were taken. I absolutely cannot believe she would have ever been drunk enough or self destructive enough to allow him in the Penthouse at the same time as herself. Exactly how had she phrased it? When Sylvie wanted to take photos of them together she didn’t stop her. It dawns on me suddenly that I had not asked her what type of camera had been used, whether a digital or web cam or Polaroid or a more conventional Nikon or Canon. I grab my lap top and check my email. Nada. I can email Legaspi and beg for Exstead’s home email address but that’s embarrassing. Even if I specify that it’s to do with the investigation it’s not going to erase that little scene on the stairs earlier today or the two of us arriving hand in hand last night. I can feel my cheeks heating remembering last night and Legaspi’s cool look of amusement when she answered the door to us there on her front porch. Sushi fucking take out. God. I absolutely will not be asking her for it. So I decide to try McCafferty instead. I get the answering machine and almost hang up but decide at the last minute to leave my number. I’ve barely begun speaking when it’s picked up and McCafferty apologizes, sounding slightly out of breath. “I was carrying groceries in, Sgt. Finn. What can I do for you?” “I need Exstead’s email address at home.” A sudden moment of panic hits me. “She does have a computer at home right?” “She does.” She hesitates for a moment and I think I’m about to have to actually do some version of begging for it when I realize she’s just absorbed in setting her bags down. “Sorry,” she tells me, “Eggs were about to go overboard. I think she uses Earthlink at home but let me get my address book and double check that.” “Sure.” “How is everything going?” she asks me and I can tell she’s moving from room to room as she speaks. She covers the phone with her hand partly and yells at someone to turn the stereo down and I catch a blast of Gravity Kills before it’s dialed back several decibels. “Sorry.” She tells me, “Okay. Here it is. Got a pen?” I copy it down, grinning. Jinx0404@Earthlink.net “Jinx?” I repeat back to McCafferty, not even trying to keep the smile sound out of my voice but hoping I don’t sound quite as goofy and juvenile to her as I do to my own ears. “It’s a nickname she’s earned around the division. And believe me, it suits her.” There’s amusement in the voice and fondness but she also means the statement. There’s barely a pause before she repeats the question I’d deftly avoided answering just a few seconds earlier. “How is it going, Sergeant?” “I need to meet with you actually.” I say. “There are a bunch of complications within this whole… mess that I hadn’t exactly anticipated and which aren’t really my field of expertise.” I wait. There’s silence on the other end and finally I perceive a heavy sigh. “I was hoping certain complications I’ve been catching rumors of were only rumors.” She says her voice lower and deep with what I interpret as regret and disappointment. God, I hate doing this to Exstead! She needs to be the one to tell her Captain. It is not my place to do anything out here except prove she did not remove drugs from evidence, period. I am a Narcotics Officer; not Special Crimes, not Internal Investigation. She needs a good attorney and she needs her Captain to hear it from her and she needs to stop pounding the fucking nails in with her own hands. I realize I’ve spoken the last half of the sentence aloud when McCafferty snorts and responds dryly,” Yes, that’s a Jinx Special. Self crucifixion. I’ve watched her do it many times.” My laugh is sharp. “And does she rise again in three days?” “Usually. Yes. She’s a tough kid. If you were to meet her father you would know why.” I bet. I’ve dug back through that folder more than once now. Mother committed suicide by shooting herself in the head with his service weapon. I can’t imagine a more succinct way of saying, “Fuck you,” and making sure the point was entirely clear about exactly who and what had driven her to that place. “I need to meet with you,” I tell her again but add, “I’d rather do it with Jinny but she hasn’t agreed to it yet.” “Do you need me to demand an audience with her in an official capacity?” she asks me and I can imagine exactly how her head is tilted as she says this and the alert little light in her eyes. I close mine briefly. Sometimes Jase, you just need to stay buried, I think. Like now. Like this morning. And to McCafferty, “Not yet. Give me another day or so to convince her it’s what has to happen.” “I’ll do that. When you’re convincing her Sergeant, make clear to her that she has my support. I’ll back her.” “I’ll do that. Also, what is SFPD’s policy in regards to moonlighting?” “Moonlighting,” she repeats. “You’re referring to the act of holding down another job, right?” “Yeah. For instance, being a chauffeur during off duty hours.” “SFPD’s stance is standard police policy. As long as there is no conflict of interest and it isn’t done in uniform or while posing as an SFPD officer, there’s no problem.” Too bad. But it’s what I expected since it’s Texas DPS policy as well. “I’d like a way to reach you, Sergeant, if you wouldn’t mind. Email would be fine.” I feel like whacking myself upside the head when I realize I have neglected to give her either my email or my cell number. I apologize to her and give her the email.
“H_Cooper_Finn@yahoo.com. Make sure you put the underscores between names or it’ll get Daemoned back.” “Got it,” she says and then, “Sergeant, sometime before you fly back to Texas I would like to talk with you privately, in a non-official capacity, about Jase. I realize you’re not out here to do that but I’d appreciate it if you would at least make the attempt. For me. Might be good for you as well.” It’s so weird the way my head works, how amazing the disassociation and compartmentalizing of feelings and thoughts is. I’ve been standing here carefully avoiding anything in my brain connecting this woman with Jase which means I have to know she is connected to him and yet when she states she’d like to get with me to talk about him I am at first confused as to why. Maybe I should start some list for Legaspi as well. Label it something like: “ALL THE TRICKS COOPER FINN’S HEAD CAN PLAY IN LESS THAN THIRTY SECONDS; MONITOR SHOWING CLEAR MENTAL/EMOTIONAL FLAT LINE AT ELEVEN. “
END OF SIXTEEN
{~> Crossroads Next Story, Please <~}
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