What do you write someone you let cuff and fuck you against a wall one night and then freak out when you wake next to the morning after? 

I can’t even get the salutation to sound right!  “Dear” sounds too intimate; “Hey” too informal; “Hello” too vague and neighborly.   

A couple of beers and several discarded versions later I at last have something I am willing to send off to Ms. Jinx.

 I’ve left off the salutation completely; gone straight in for the pertinent stuff.

 I’ve located a micro cassette in a pair of Sha-Sha’s.  Any clue what might be on it?  Anything you can tell me to narrow the search down to mere astronomical proportions? 

The way I see it you have two options.  The first is you sit back and keep crucifying yourself and eventually Sylvie will stop simply threatening to go public with the photographs and actually do it and you’re ruined in every way that matters to you.   

Or you can pull your head out of your ass and stop this noble, martyr shit and take control of the situation before she does.  It means going to McCafferty but she will back you.  She doesn’t deserve to be blindsided by this any more than you deserved having it happen in the first place.  If you go public with it first you control the initial smear attached to you and we both know that’s better than the alternative.  It’s a matter of damage control now; you know it’s going to happen.  Pull your head out and figure the best way out of this and save what you can.   

 I wish I could understand what happened this morning.   Maybe we could try to understand what happened together.  Maybe not.  Either way it has nothing to do with Massey or Chandler or this situation.  So don’t let it. 

 Email me or call me.  I’ll go with you to McCafferty’s if you’d like that. 

 Cooper 

There.  I don’t think I can write it any better than that.  I click and send it off.   

I find an 8x10 manila envelope taped to the underside of the lowest shelf in the pantry off the kitchen, a scant six inches off the terra cotta tiles. 

 I peer inside and see papers and at first I am thrilled; when I pull them out and realize they are love letters from Exstead to Sylvie, both hand written and email, I sink onto my ass to read them marveling at my incredible, irrational ability to hurt when there is no reason for it. 

 I spare myself most of it; at least that much has changed.  A month earlier and I would probably have sat reading them aloud to myself, to make the cut deeper, the pain more real.  Of course a month ago reading how much Exstead loved Sylvie Chandler wouldn’t have fazed me.    So there you go.  What a great trade off.   

God, I want to go home.   

 It takes no more than a quick flip through the increasingly volatile more and more agitated and incoherent letters to know these have to go to McCafferty.  They’re evidence.  Exstead will be furious with me, but they document the anguish, confusion and mental turmoil in such a way it makes the chest ache to even glance at them.  She was deeply, blindly, passionately in love and she would have done anything to figure out how to make this person happy, how to be who this person wanted.   She wasn’t in her right mind when she allowed those photographs to be taken.  This will no doubt cinch her losing her job because, after all, she was clearly unstable and SFPD isn’t going to want her on their payroll.  But it’s possible they will mean the difference between mere unemployment and facing jail time.   

I put them with the tape in my duffel bag and go to bed.

Sometime in the night I make my decision. 

 I’m done with this.  I’m not helping anyone and I’m not doing the job well either.  All I have succeeded in doing is complicating the life of a person I don’t dare worry or care about too much. 

 I don’t have anything to give Jinny Exstead.   I have way too much shit for any one human being to handle and I’ve always known it.  Jase could take it but even for him it had been too much at times and he had come from long summers picking huckleberries and the perfect cheery, Hallmark family.   Jinny and I…  We’re cut from the same cloth.  We’ll destroy one another, skin the other alive and barely notice we’re brushing off the shreds. 

   I call Sarge and lay it out for him and I don’t spare her. 

 I can hear him wincing over the phone.  It’s everything a man like Sarge loathes; blackmail, pornography, lesbians, politicians, dirty cops…  His reaction is swift and predictable. 

 “I want you out of there on the next possible flight, Cooper.  No shit.  Max Chandler is nobody to fuck with.”

“I’m right there with you.  I’m going to find out what’s on this tape and get it to McCafferty—“

 “No.  You’re going to put it back exactly where you found it and write a memo about this whole situation.  And then you’re flying back.  I’ll contact McCafferty myself and she can get a detail together and go over and get it.” 

“Sarge, let me just see what it is.  Maybe it’s nothing.”

 “Nothing wouldn’t be stuck in the heel of a shoe, Coop.  Get your happy ass out of there while it’s still in one piece.” 

 I pull the phone away to stare at it bemusedly.  My ass hasn’t been happy in so long I don’t even remember the emotion.  Did I ever actually possess a happy ass? 

 “I’m just going to—“

 He launches into his drill sergeant voice and practically takes me head off at the shoulders. 

I cringe and hold it away from my head and wait until he’s subsided before putting it back and murmuring “yes, sir” until he seems reasonably convinced. 

 When we hang up I flip through the yellow pages and find a car rental company that will deliver.  I tell the young man on the other end I’d like a Mustang GT, the deepest glossiest red they’ve got, automatic, CD changer and convertible if possible.  And I’ll be putting that on a platinum Visa.  

 It just gives me a warm fuzzy feeling, spending Massey’s money so liberally.

 I find a micro cassette player in less than twenty minutes.  I’m somewhat surprised until I remember I’m in the Silicone Valley after all and although they might not be very easily located in Texas, they’re certainly not new technology in San Francisco. 

 There’s a Starbucks what seems every twenty yards so I pick one and let Massey buy me an iced mocha cappuccino and take a seat at a small table at the rear beneath a bulletin board featuring free advertising space for locals looking for roommates and bands seeking gigs.  I slide the adjuster on the head phones to make them smaller and fit them over my ears, lean back against the wall and punch the tiny soft dot labeled “play”.

 When I realize who I am hearing and what they are discussing I can barely keep myself from leaping up and running in excited circles wringing my hands.  Less than two minutes into it I have to turn it off and rewind it because I cannot believe what I am hearing.  I make myself listen to it through and then I lean forward and put my shaking hands up over my eyes and try to think through the excited ecstatic pounding of my heart and the frantic cartwheels my brain is turning.

 This little tape is probably going to save Exstead’s job and definitely her life.  That she is still alive at all is amazing because she has no idea how jagged a cliff she’s been skipping along for over a year now.  It’s so easy to kill a cop, arrange for one to die; no one is surprised or stunned, anymore than they are when a soldier dies in battle.  

 I leave the Starbucks staring at the little piece of plastic in my hand.  I walk several blocks aimlessly in shock and trying to think my way through and around every option and angle I’ve got now.  Everything has changed.  All the puzzle pieces are flying around now and every one of them is a jagged, deadly shard of glass. 

 I use my cell phone to call McCafferty, first at the division and then her home number when they tell me she isn’t in and isn’t expected back in until Thursday.

 Fuck.  Not a good time to have her take some vacation days. 

 I get the machine at her residence and leave a message.  I try to keep my voice from shaking as I make sure she understands it’s urgent and to please get back with me as soon as she gets in, doesn’t matter how late it is.  I repeat my cell number twice and leave her my Yahoo addy. 

 Shit.  I have to calm down and think because a mistake right now could get Jinny killed.  And I can’t be walking around with the tape in my hand while I’m wandering around as dazed and unfocused as this.  I put it back in the case and tuck it in my bra; no chance of it being snatched or pocketed there. 

 I have to hide it until I can get it to McCafferty.  I can’t trust the postal system with this and I realize I have no idea where McCafferty lives to take it to her.  I could call the division and ask for her home address but I can’t risk the wrong people being told or overhearing and I don’t know who I can trust there other than Exstead—

 “Investigator Exstead is out in the field,” the female tells me and I’m fairly sure I recognize the voice as belonging to the tall blonde who’d made her position clear with a door slam my one visit there.  De Lorenzo.  Initial Initial something De Lorenzo. 

 “Does she have a partner?” I ask, closing my eyes and praying the answer will be yes,  my mind still reeling with the implications and the sense I have that time is running out. 

 Rehab.  She went into Rehab and was out for three months.  It probably bought her time; Massey probably assumed she’d never come back at all, not with the threat of the photos hanging over her on top of the stress of returning to her job after admitting to alcoholism and treatment for it.  Sylvie was probably told to chill and back off until Exstead came back, demanded her badge and took up her sullen, defiant, stomping routine.  It’s election year, campaign time.  Chandler must be freaking, thinking she’ll pull some rabbit out at the last moment, has some evidence he doesn’t know about ready to go.  Just the slightest murmer to a reporter, a little finger pointing back to the shaky circumstances of the suicide—

 “For fuck’s sake!  Does she have a partner or not?”

 The blonde isn’t real happy with me. 

 “Who the hell is this?”

 I remind myself it’s good she’s asking; strangers calling up a station and asking for the location of an officer and wondering if that cop works alone does not usually indicate anything healthy for said cop. 

 “This is Sgt. Finn.  This is De Lorenzo, right?”

 "Yeah.  It is.”  She doesn’t have a door to slam but her voice is icy enough she doesn’t need me. 

 “Does Jinny work with a partner?” I ask and add, “It’s important.  Does she?”

 “Yeah.  She’s partnered.   Why?”

 I ignore the question.  I sag against a building and close my eyes in relief then stiffen almost immediately.  Can she trust her partner?  I know nothing about this person; how much has Jinny told him or her? Do they have anything to do with any of this?  I can’t believe I have kissed and fucked and orgasmed with her and never asked about her partner.  Of course until twenty minutes ago I had no idea how deep the shit was. 

 I have to believe Jinny’s instincts would have clued her in to a dirty cop as a partner, that she would know if she could not trust that person. Partners are like married couples; the gender of either has nothing to do with the bond that forms between them.  I console myself with this thought for mere seconds before I remember that husbands and wives are often blind sided by affairs, mistresses, suddenly revealed off spring, drug addictions, gambling problems… 

 “I need to get a message to her, ASAP.  I need her to call me.  She’s got the numbers.”

 There’s silence and I can only hope the blonde is scribbling something and will actually pass the message on to Jinny.  God, please let her deliver it.   

“It’s important,” I add, then spin and kick the wall when I realize she’s hung up on me. 

 Fuck.  I am way outnumbered here.  And I have no idea who I can trust besides Exstead and McCafferty and neither of them are available.

 Legaspi and Weaver. 

 They can be trusted, but this… this is too big to dump on them, too potentially lethal to ask them to take it on.  I can hardly go to their home and hand them a cassette and then stress to them they could die if anyone knew they had it and not expect them to freak.  They’re civilians.   I know cops who wouldn’t take this on.   

I make myself stop for a moment, physically and mentally and I close my eyes and take a deep breath, ordering myself to think.   

I can’t walk around with it. 

 I don’t want it at the penthouse even with the security code changed.  Doors can be broken down and I haven’t seen the supposed security guard Massey told me about and even if I had, anyone on his payroll is hardly someone I can trust to protect me or keep anyone out of where I’m staying.   

I have to get it to McCafferty but I have to hear from her first and I have to stash it somewhere safe in the meantime but it has to be concealed in some innocuous, improbable manner. 

 Think, I order myself furiously.  Stop panicking and think!  Where would Jase hide it???  

 I’ve wandered aimlessly down the street using the shop windows as mirrors to check behind and around me for someone tailing me, not even having to think about it to do it because it is second nature.  It isn’t that I’m really worried about this because after all, I’m not the one in danger since no one knows I’ve got this tape.  Exstead is the one who needs protection and extra caution right now, not me.   

I pause in front of a small brick specialty store featuring organic soaps, lotions, candles and an amazing assortment of preserves, jellies, jams and wines.  Automatically I look to see if they have huckleberry for Jase and when I remember he is dead it doesn’t slam into me with the usual thud of a nuclear warhead.  It’s just a hand grenade.  I barely rock from the force of it as I shove the door open and stride inside.   

Two hours later I lean back and look at my handiwork.

I chose a jar with a wide mouth lid, the old fashioned heavy glass variety with the rubber seal and cork and the lid on a hinge with the metal clamp to seal it.  I had to buy a smaller jar of peach preserves as well in order to get the little checkered square of cloth off the top and although it doesn’t overlap as much as it had on the smaller jar, once I’ve tied the ribbon it looks as if it came from the shop that way.  It looks brand new, as if it’s never been opened. 

I hold it up to the light and eye it critically from every side to make certain the tape case isn’t visible.  It’s not.  I had inserted it carefully, wrapped in a small sheet of saran wrap to preserve whatever prints possible and pushed it beneath the jam standing on end rather than on its side so as to keep it in the center and taking up the smallest amount of space possible. 

I turn it over and look at the bottom but I’ve been careful; there’s still at least a half inch of jam between the case and the glass.  I’d used a spoon to smooth the surface, then tied the square of cloth with as elegant a bow as I can manage and all in all I am quite satisfied and pleased with myself.  It’s kinda handy having Jase there in my head sometimes. 

“Check the fridge,” he’d told me during one of our very first busts together, when we were still merely partners on the job, not in bed. 

“Fridges are like giant fire proof boxes, excellent for hiding either drugs or money.  Look in and pick whatever you least want to stick your hands in; that’s always a good safe hiding place.  Relish, mouldy left overs, ketchup, mustard~~  All the usual things anyone has in their fridge, the things that don’t leap out at you as being a likely criminal resource.  Anything sticky or messy or disgusting…  start there.” 

 It’s perfect.  I’ll take it to my appointment in the morning with the bottle of wine I purchased at the same store and offer it as a gift in thanks for letting me stay there the other night with Exstead, a sort of restitution for the broken glass on the stairs I’d caused.  I’ll find someway to make certain it goes directly into the fridge if I have to put it there myself.  It’ll be safe and they will have no idea what they’re holding for me and no one but Exstead knows I’ve found it. 

 Which reminds me. 

 I check my email and swear viciously when there is nothing in it from her.  God fucking damn.  I suck up my pride and try again. 

 “Jinny, 

I really have to talk to you about what is on that tape I found in Sylvie’s shoe.  It’s urgent.  Whatever you feel or think about me now is secondary to this, believe me.  Call me.  Email me.  Something. 

Cooper” 

I take a deep breath and open the email from Sarge.

 He wants my flight number and arrival time.  He’s in short-brief-commanding officer-mode.  No banter, no idle chit chat. 

 I sigh and ponder writing him but whatever I say is only going to get me in deeper.  If he knows I haven’t booked a flight he’ll fucking blow me out of the water and deliver it to me as a formal directive and if I disobey that I am looking at a formal counseling session and a C-1, a complaint.  A C-1 from my commanding officer on top of my months of mind-boggling ineptness and dereliction of the Ten General Orders and my ass will be seriously facing unemployment.  It will be a most unhappy ass. 

 I close the email, knowing I’m fucked already because I know Sarge.  He’ll have told Outlook to alert him when the email was delivered and when it was read.  My not responding immediately will only buy me a little time but when he has not heard from me tomorrow… 

 I sit silently, staring at the computer and my cell phone, mentally begging one of them to deliver something to me from McCafferty or Exstead.   

I call and get McCafferty’s machine twice.  I don’t leave another message. 

 At 0130 I give up and go crawl in Sylvie’s bed.

END OF SEVENTEEN

{~> Crossroads  Next Story, Please <~}