Five minutes later I am standing in front of Officer Hamilton again, asking directions to Holding. 

I find it and it’s full of prostitutes and sniffing, weary heroin chicks and two or three gang bangers.  I scan it swiftly and discern with my keen observational powers that there’s no coke-crashing, black leathered, scowling daughter of a Senator. 

Am I surprised?  Not really. 

I’m turning to go demand where Sylvie has been taken when I spot a female in the cage every bit as out of place as Sylvie would have been with this crowd, but for very different reasons. 

She’s standing, at the rear and has one hand up clasping the bar to her left, gazing at me.  She’s dressed conservatively, although Mr. T would be conservative compared to some of the outfits on parade before me.  Her jeans are baggy, not new but obviously recently laundered, her lavender sweater a size too large but the same.  Her skin is a deep rich ebony and her eyes almond shaped and enormous and staring at me without rancor or guilt or fear or any other discernible emotion. 

She is quite easily the most absolutely stunningly gorgeous creature I have ever seen in life or on television or in movies.  Her calmness is like a balm that’s acted on Holding; the area surrounding her is quiet while the far corner is agitated and eruptive. 

“What’s she in for?” I ask the Holding clerk.  “The one in the far corner, in the lavender sweater?”

She scans a sheet rapidly, flipping the first one over and eyes flashing over the second before she pauses in her gum chomping. 

“Shoplifting.”

“What?” I ask wondering what someone with that much self-possession could possibly have needed so badly as to risk being penned in with the rest. 

“Um… diapers.  And baby formula.” 

I nod.  “How many arrests before this one?”

She shakes her head, blowing a hasty bubble and snapping it out of existence.  “None.  First offense.” 

She looks up at me and puts her head to the side and adds.  “First known offense.” 

“Bail?”

“Standard five hundred.  Just a Class C.” 

I pull a wad out of my pocket and count the five out to her. 

“Get it started,” I tell her and she stares at me, unblinking, and then turns half away before spinning back on her heels. 

“You know her or something?” 

“Nope. Never saw her before in my life.  So where is ‘Miss Chandler’?”
 

Sylvie’s down the hall charming several Detective types with her black vest and her amazing disappearing Now you see ‘em! Now you don’t! nipples. 

I pause in the doorway to watch the show. 

One of them spots me and stands hastily and then several others follow suit, swallowing nervously and trying to figure out if they should nod their head at me or at Sylvie and most of them opting for Sylvie.  Obviously they have an idea of who I am. 

“Hey, Sylvie,” I say casually, striding in.  “I’m afraid you’re being evicted from this room.  But the good news is I have a room waiting for you.” 

She sniffs and does some pretty little thing with her shoulders that I suppose if I were either male or a lesbian would hamper my ability to think straight.  As it is, it does nothing for me.  Now, if Jinny did that move…  But Jinny never would.  And there you go. 

“You know, it’s the most amazing thing,” I say conversationally, smiling as I stroll towards her.  “I never realized that being under arrest for felony possession and assault on a peace officer could mean such different things in two different states of the same country.  In Texas, for instance, right now you’d be wearing some hideously ugly orange jumpsuit.  But look at you here in California.  You look like a Lil’ Kim video.”  

The coke’s worn off and she’s losing her sense of humor about all this. 

“Oh Jesus Christ!  You again.”

I grin.  “I know.  I’m like Freddy Fucking Krueger.”

“And only slightly cuter,” she snarls and I laugh hard. 

“Hey, easy!  I’m really sensitive about my looks.”  I glance around the room.  “Where’s Uncle Robbie?” 

She sniffs, glaring at me.  “I have no idea.  I tried to call him and Daddy both.”

I turn in the direction of the suits which are attempting to blend into the wall and slink out into other parts of the building. 

“Just so y’all will know?  She’s under arrest.  She wore my cuffs in here and they’ve obviously done a Houdini so I’d like to borrow some.”

Nobody moves and Sylvie smiles at me, smugly. 

“Give it up.  None of them are as stupid as you are.” 

“No?  God, you really can’t judge a book by its cover, can you?” 

It takes them all of sixty seconds to get it and then there are slightly angry male rumblings.  I ignore them and stride back out into the hallway and grab the first uniform I see. 

I flash my badge, toss in the name McCafferty and confiscate a pair of cuffs. 

“Oh fuck!” Sylvie hisses when I march back in. 

“Already told you, you’re not my type,” I say, grinning.  “I’ll cuff you in the front if you promise to be a good girl.” 

“I’m never a good girl, Sergeant,” she growls. 

Sylvie is looking much the worse for wear.  She’s crashing from the earlier ingestion and jonesing for whatever drug cocktail she generally consumes at this hour of the evening.  Her nose is running and the mascara on her lashes has been smeared because she can’t keep her hands from clawing agitatedly at her face. I take a wrist which is limp in my grasp and gently pull the arm out and see the bumps there, tiny red marks like insect bites. 

“When’s the last time you had an AIDS test, Sylvie?”

I think she tries to sneer at me but it comes across as more of a sleepy leer. 

“I only use clean needles.  I open the packages myself.”

“That’s good.”  And I mean it.  I’m not going to quibble with her about this when it’s Jinny at stake as well. 

I keep my fingers around the tiny wrist and lean closer and keep my voice very low. 

“I’m going to cuff you in front so you can take care of your nose.  Okay?  I don’t want you booked in with snot all down your tits.  But if you give me any trouble I am going to remember that you gave me a really nice black eye a few hours ago.  I’m not from here and I don’t care who your daddy is and I don’t have to play by the rules like these fuck heads.” 

I pause and look at her over the tops of the shades. 

“We clear?” 

She nods.  “Yeah.”  She lifts a hand and runs it under her nose, then lets it drop into her lap limply.  “I’m sick.”

“Yeah.  I see that.  What is it?  Heroin?”

She shakes her head and then nods, wearily.  “Yeah.” 

“Speedball it?”

Her eyes lock in at the very word and even if she hadn’t uttered a single syllable I’d have known.  Coke and heroin.  She’s the ultimate freak; a Belushi Head. 

I snap the cuffs on and leave them loose; her skin will be crawling and sensitive and the slightest touch, the least bit of pressure will make her nuts.  I turn to the nearest suit who is staring hopefully at her chest apparently willing the appearance of a nipple and ask where the nearest ladies room is. 

We find it and she sags against the sink, shaking and gagging.  I yank paper towels out of the dispenser and dampen them then turn her face towards me and clean her up a little. 

“Why are you being nice to me?” she asks and I’m sure she’d have liked the tone to be demanding and belligerent and hostile but it comes across as some sort of exhausted glumness. 

“I have no fucking idea,” I tell her honestly.  “You going to throw up or anything?”

“I don’t know.  Jesus God, I’m sick,” she moans, holding the sink edge with both hands and leaning forward from her waist to lay her forehead on the cool whiteness. 

Fuck.  I want to hate her but she’s so pathetic right now.  Junkies are such cry babies and it dredges up too many memories for me and I always find myself resorting to this care taker role and even my hatred of it only cozies me in deeper. 

“Yeah.  I know.” 

“No, you don’t,” she moans pitifully to the floor, grinding her forehead into the sink. 

Okay.  One argument you can never win with a junkie:   Who is More Pathetic? 

“I’ll do the booking fast,” I tell her sighing.  “And I’ll tell them you need to be in a clinic, not a jail and I’ll see you get in one.  Do you have a preference about that?”

“Jesus,” she spits, trying to get her head up.  “Rehab?  You’re going to put me in goddamn fucking rehab?”

“Either that or jail.  You can choose.” 

She contemplates it while gagging into the sink.  When her hands flail at the faucet I turn it on for her and she scoops cold water into her mouth, drinking thirstily. 

Cotton mouth.  God, do I know what that’s like. 

“Rehab’s better than jail,” I urge. 

“Yeah?” she asks, coming up for air finally.  “Why?”

“They give you drugs.”  I figure this will be a bigger draw than any mental health promotional I could come up with.  

She stops and looks up at me in disbelief and I shrug.  “Some of them anyway. The private kind like you’d enter.  Jail you go cold turkey except you could probably work a deal.  Of course, they’re not particularly thrilled with socialites at county and I can’t see you as a bottom.” 

She snorts what sounds like laughter into the sink then gulps more water and splashes her face, doing what she can to repair it before smiling at us both in the mirror. 

“Mr. De Mille, I’m ready for my close up,” she says in a low and husky voice, widening her eyes so the whites show and doing a great Carol Burnett doing Norma Desmond.

I laugh, surprised, and realize this was the person Jinny saw, this is the person Jinny fell in love with.  Maybe if Sylvie had been born to another family, one with a loving, attentive, kinder father and a less self-absorbed, socially conscious mother she might have turned out okay.  But I’m chasing my own tail on that one because I don’t believe in grasping at every last shred of cruelty or indignity visited upon your childhood to excuse reprehensible behavior.  You can disappear up your own ass doing that. 

You have to play whatever cards you get dealt and life isn’t exactly a big Go Fish game.  It’s more of a high stakes Russian roulette. 

“Senator Chandler?  This is Cooper Finn with the Texas Department of Public Safety.”

We’ve been connected after half an hour of transfers and being put on hold by one person after another.  I can tell by the background noise that he is on some type of high tech very expensive car phone; I picture him in a limo, reclining behind the tinted windows and some press secretary across from him lining up a PR photo shoot involving puppies or small children. 

Across the squad table from me Sylvie is fading fast.  Her face is splotched and red where she’s rubbed, her eyes are teary and lined with the remnants of her makeup and she’s got the sleepy, peeved expression of the chronic drug addict who’s crashing at warp speed.  Even her hair has gone limp and sweaty and the black hair mascara has oozed itself in small rivulets down her bony chest. 

There hasn’t been a perky nipple in sight for the last hour. 

There’s silence on the other end of the phone.  I wonder if I have warranted a high enough rating in Massey’s book to have made an appearance in Chandler’s world.  I seriously doubt it. 

But I’m wrong.  This makes me feel immediately wary. 

“From Texas, yes.  I believe you have generously donated your time in order to help with an investigation in our city.”

More like the DPS had donated my time but whatever. 

“That’s me.  I’m here at the division with your daughter.”

Silence. 

“Your daughter Sylvie,” I prompt. 

Silence. 

And then finally, “What has she done?”

No, “Is she alright?”  No, “Has there been an accident?”

I gaze at Sylvie across the table and say, “She’s fine.  She’s a little strung out and she needs to be checked into a hospital or a Rehab, but she’s okay.” 

He doesn’t even bother to put his hand over the phone as he speaks to someone else within the vehicle. 

“Before six a.m. is impossible, Martha.  It’s just a local station and that entire area is voting Republic, for Christ’s sake.  Tell them I’ll be there at eight or we don’t go at all.”

“Senator Chandler?  I need a few moments of your undivided attention, if that is at all humanly possible for you.” 

I hear the trembling anger in my voice and I close my eyes and try to steady myself.  He is obviously a fuck up as a parent and as a human being in general.  I cannot take him on over the phone because I will lose.  When you not only cannot win but will lose ground it is stupid to indulge in battle. 

“Of course,” he says immediately.  “How may I help you, Miss Winn?” 

“Finn,” I correct him.  “Sergeant Investigator Finn.  And you may help me by clarifying your choice of a private hospital or rehabilitation clinic for Sylvie.”

“Clinic?” he repeats and I can see even over the phone the way his aristocratic lip is lifted in distaste at the word. 

“Yes.”  God fucking damn if I’ll add a sir on there. 

“I’m afraid I’m not following you Miss~~ Sergeant.”

“I’ll go slower and you try to focus then,” I growl and across the table Sylvie’s eyes go wide and round and a hand goes up over her suddenly grinning mouth. 

“Sylvie is here with me under arrest on various felonies.  I don’t believe she belongs in jail.  I am positive she needs help.  I am politely asking if you have a preference regarding clinics or hospitals.  I wouldn’t normally make this gesture but given your social and political prominence~~”

“She’s what?” he spits in sheer disbelief. 

“Under arrest on multiple felony charges, including possession of controlled substance and two assaults on a peace officer.” 

There’s a frigid lack of speech on the other end before he says, ”I want your badge number and the name and phone number of your immediate supervisor.  This is preposterous!”