Seven disks. 

 I have seven disks with enough on them to end Chandler’s political career, blow Sylvie’s black mail schemes out of the water and put Massey in line for food stamps.  That’s before they all do federal jail time.  The guys at least; Sylvie’s the type to turn evidence.  She’ll squeal for a lighter sentence.   

Then again, she might really enjoy prison.  Interesting thought.  What’s a masochist to do when nobody understands the phrase “safe word?”

 Seven disks worth a hundred times their weight in gold and I’m out here with nobody and have managed to alienate pretty much the whole West Coast Cop and Doctor Contingent. 

 Way to fucking go, Cooper.   

I copy the stuff onto another seven disks while I’m trying to figure out what to do with it.  Not like I can leave it here and not like I can walk around with it and just hope I’ve done such a good job at being a stupid cop that Massey thinks they’re all safe still.   

I try McCafferty’s again and slam the phone down in frustration when I get the machine.   

I try her at the division and it’s rung five times before it’s picked up, just as the horrible thought forms in my brain that Exstead might be there.   

No.  I can’t possibly be that unlucky.  No way.   

“Exstead,” she says, monotone, in that voice you use when you answer the phone five hundred times a day and don’t even hear yourself anymore.  She sounds tired, her voice craggy and hoarse.   

Apparently, my unluckiness knows no limits. 

I hang up on her and then stare at my phone in stupefaction.   

Jesus.  No wonder she wants me to leave and go back to Texas!  No wonder she was so furiously angry with me that morning.   Who would want me trying to figure their shit out when I can’t even deal with a phone conversation like a sane adult?  Who would want to have to deal with a chickenshit like I have become?   

I sink down on my heels in Sylvie’s plush Oriental rug and lay my head on my knees and close my eyes and have a mental conversation with myself featuring Knuckles Legaspi in a starring role.   

“You can’t come into someone’s life and just fuck her and expect her to be fine when you can’t even look at her the next morning.” 

There.  Don’t woose out.  Deal with it.  That is what you did.  You.   

But it’s not about the Gay Thing, my brain whines pitifully.  It’s about Jase.   

Oh, that’s good.  Blame it on a dead guy.  He can’t tell you to stop and you get to look all noble and brave, the grieving widow, the poor suffering girl friend.  Legaspi knew better.  She saw it.  She saw it for exactly what it was. 

 Not true.  Absolutely not true.  It’s about Jase.   

 What difference does that make?  It changes nothing.  You still fucked her; you still couldn’t look at her the next day.    

It felt like betrayal.  It felt like adultery.  And that makes a difference to me.    

“I don't want to make it be more than it was but I also refuse to pretend that it was less.” 

Jesus.  There is no getting away from the absolute implacable honesty of that.   And there’s nothing to do but hit redial and then wait through the rings with my eyes squeezed shut and my jaw clenched.  I don’t know if I’m praying she’ll answer or praying she won’t, but I am definitely offering up some sort of plea to anybody listening.   

“Exstead,” she rasps again, then when I can’t manage to make any sound she sighs hard.  

“Bored today, Sylvie?” she asks and there’s a rustling and shifting sound and what sounds like a chair creaking as she sits.  “I’m not playing.   And here’s something hilarious for you; I’m going to file phone harassment on Congressman Max Chandler’s psycho daughter if you don’t fuck off and leave me alone. That would make some nice headlines in the society section for you.  This is the recorded line, you know.  Two minutes and I’ve got a clear trace.”  

“You should have done that shit a long time ago,” I croak and clear my throat and then say needlessly, “This isn’t Sylvie.”  

There’s a sudden squeak as she leans forward abruptly and I can feel her on the other end of the line, can picture her frowning as she realizes who it is.  When she speaks next I know she’s lowered her forehead into a hand; her voice is intimate and husky and sends an unexpected shiver of gooseflesh down my neck and arms.   

“Cooper…” she breathes and then roughly clears her throat.  “Sorry about that.”   

“No need.” I say, striving desperately for lightness and a businesslike tone.  I fail miserably though and my voice breaks when I ask how she is.   

“I’m here,” she says wearily.  I can hear a tapping sound as if she’s thumping the desk or table top with a pencil.  She sighs again. 

“It’s kind of a relief to have it be over with, you know?” she asks finally.  “To know it’s going to be out there and done with and whatever happens just happens.”   

“Have you talked to McCafferty yet?” I ask and close my eyes and pray the answer will be no.  I stifle my little yell of relief when it is.   

“What?” she asks, her voice leery and then before I can reply, interjects, “I’m done with it Cooper.  I can’t do it anymore.  I just… can’t.” 

 “You don’t have to.” I tell her and then remember what she had said about the line being recorded and quickly back peddle, covering my tracks.  “Alone, anyway.  Let me go with you.”

Who knows how closely they’re monitoring her?  Our entire conversation may be going directly into Massey’s ear.

 There’s a pause before she speaks and in it I can hear the background noises of any police station; phones ringing, drawers slamming, good-natured bitching between fellow officers. 

 “Jinny,” I say when she doesn’t respond, “Let me go with you.”   

It isn’t until she speaks that I realize I am leaning forward holding my breath waiting on her answer.  It isn’t until she speaks that I realize exactly how important this is to me.   I’ll go to McCafferty alone for her if I have to but I want her to want me to take this on with her. 

 “I don’t know,” she says and my throat aches at how tired she sounds.  And then, “You don’t have to do this.”

 “I know that.”  I sound impatient and I take a deep breath before I speak again.

 “I know that.  That’s understood.  I want to go with you.” 

 There’s a huge sigh on the other end of the phone.

 “Let me think about it, alright?  How’s that?”  

“That’ll work,” I say and when I ask if she’s made contact with McCafferty I close my eyes in relief that the answer is negative.  

“Nope.  She’s down in Santa Cruz with her daughter.  She should be back either tomorrow or the next day I think.”   

“Okay.  Good.  I need to talk to you.  We need to get together.”  

Her laugh is anything but amused or pleasant.  

“I don’t think that’s really a good idea, do you?  I mean, really?” 

“Yeah, I do, actually.  In fact, we have to.  What shift are you on?” 

“Well…  I am actually in the middle of typing out my resignation.  I’m technically supposed to be out with Magda until around midnight on the same surveillance we’ve been on which is turning out to be a total fucking dead-end so I thought I’d do this instead. “  

Her resignation.  Jesus.  She’s really given up.  She’s really going ahead with it.   

“You cannot type that up just yet.  I know I’ve done nothing to make you trust me or have faith in me but just try anyway and believe me on this.  I see a way out but I have to meet with you to tell you.” 

 The silence on the other end is deafening.  I lean forward and hold my breath and wait it out.  If she says no then fuck it; I’ll go to her.   

“This isn’t a good idea,” she says, her voice careful and I grind my teeth in frustration and try to stifle the disappointment as I reply.   

“I don’t care if it’s a good idea or not.  I have to talk to you.  I have to see you.” 

 “Oh Jesus, don’t do this to me.”  Her voice is thick and I’m stunned to feel an answering prickle in my nose at the emotion she’s attempting to keep in check.   “I just can’t handle this right now, Cooper.  I can’t.” 

 “I’m not asking you to handle anything—“ I start and then realize that yes, I am and stop myself abruptly. 

 “Fuck.” I growl in annoyance and she laughs briefly. 

 “I think that’s what got us in trouble.  Another bad idea.” 

 I blink.  I’m floored at how disappointed I am that she regrets what happened between us, that she considers it a mistake.  I totally ignore the little voice in my head reminding me that my awkward and juvenile behavior the morning after is a big part of why.  I also choose to ignore the little voice which is speculating exactly how much Massey is loving this if he’s listening in. 

 I select my next words cautiously.

 “I understand how you feel and I owe you an apology for how I behaved.  Nothing has to happen between us.  I don’t expect anything from you, I swear.  I just have to tell you some things before I go home.  Just give me that much.”

 I hear her shifting in the chair and she half covers the phone with her hand as she speaks to someone who has paused at her desk with a question.  When she speaks to me again her voice is amused and lighter and I feel almost giddy with relief at the sound. 

“Magda really fucking hates you, by the way.” 

 I grimace.  “Yeah.  I noticed.” 

 “She wants your head mounted on her wall or something.”

 “Keep her off me, would you? She’s scary for a teeny little thing.”

 This time the laugh is honestly boisterous and loud.  “Oh fuck, that’s funny.  But apt.  Yeah.  She’s a little hell cat.” 

 “A good partner.”

 “The best.  She’d die for me.  And kill for me if it came to it.”

 “And this is supposed to reassure me how?” I demand and she laughs again, harder and I am ludicrously, ridiculously thrilled with myself. 

 “Seriously, Exstead.  I like my head where it’s at.” 

 The laughter stops abruptly and her voice is low and rough when she speaks. 

 “I like your head where it’s at too.”  She clears her throat huskily. “So don’t worry about it.  I told her hands off.”   

I swallow whatever huge thing it is that’s formed in my throat. 

 “Thanks,” I manage.  And then, “Meet me somewhere.  Sit on that resignation until I talk to you.” 

 Thirty or forty seconds of silence later I get it out. 

 “Please.” 

 I feel like shrieking with relief when she finally breathes out a low and throaty assent. 

 God, she is not going to make any part of this easy.

END OF TWENTY THREE