I've never been much of a sleeper and am even worse at waking. 

I don’t know how long I’d been out, head in Jinny’s lap, but I’m jerked to dizzy, incoherent consciousness by the gentle prodding of slim fingers around my cheekbone. 

I come up so fast I miss Weaver’s head by scant centimeters.  She pulls up startled and loses her balance, barely catching herself with her crutch and her other hand clutching awkwardly at air until an arm reaches out to steady her. 

I end up on my toes in a breathless half crouch, a full foot from the sofa.  The dull ache in the balls of my feet tells me I leapt there.  My heart is doing some wild revved up version of the Shed Your Skin Remix and I feel queasy and dizzy. 

Jinny gazes at me from the sofa with shocked, startled eyes and Weaver stares at me white-faced, all color leeched from her face so the red hair looks positively brilliant and dark against it.   McCafferty makes up the third person peering at me as if I’m a zoo exhibit gone whacko; it was her arm Weaver seized to keep from falling.  

In the twenty or thirty seconds it takes me to fully wake and grasp I’m not in any danger I hunker there, panting and then push myself up with my hands on my knees, shaking. 

“Don’t do that.”

My voice is trembling as hard as my legs.  I don’t know if I want to burst into tears or beat the shit out of someone, but either one is not a viable option at the moment so I settle for clutching at my hair and repeating hoarsely, “Don’t do that. “

Weaver looks ludicrously remorseful.  “I was checking to see if there were any fractures…”

I shake my head.  “There’s not.  Okay?  I’d know.” 

She starts to speak and then blinks and rather abruptly closes her mouth and half turns towards McCafferty, for once apparently speechless. 

The two of them exchange mute glances before Weaver clears her throat and says, “I’m sorry.  I wasn’t thinking.” 

I shrug and decide I’m not going to puke or faint and risk a peek at McCafferty;  the two people I most don’t want to see me fucking lose it, other than my Lieutenant, and of course they’re both witness to a Cooper Finn Freak Out. 

McCafferty looks coolly composed and actually manages something akin to a smile for me. 

Oh good.  Now I’m the dangerous lunatic and they’re going to humor me.  And I’m too raw to even dredge any fun out of it. 

“Sylvie?” I ask and Weaver’s red brows arch upward and I see her immediately fall into the role of medical expert; she slips into it easily and unconsciously, the whole persona as effortlessly shrugged into as a loose robe. 

“She’s stable.  She’ll be staying overnight for observation but there should be a full recovery.” 

“And what happened?” I ask and dart a look at Jinny who apparently has already been filled in while I was lying there sprawled out and unconscious. 

I can feel another freak out wanting to crash over me thinking how vulnerable I’d been; me, lying there, while they talked over my head, totally out of it.  It makes me cringe. 

Jinny rolls her eyes and shakes her head.  “She overloaded everything.  Short circuited her brain.” 

“We found at least fourteen different chemical substances in her blood work,” Weaver tells me, looking somewhat amazed.  “Some of them prescription, some of them illegal.  She had quite the pharmaceutical smorgasbord going on.  She’s claiming it was all an accident and bad timing.”

Bad timing.  Yeah.  And I’m positive it’s my bad timing she’s referring to.  Being arrested is just not convenient for your avid, devoted drug user. 

“But full recovery, right?  You’re not thinking she did any permanent damage?” 

Weaver shakes her head.  “We didn’t find any neurological damage.  She seemed quite lucid and rather too verbal when I left her with Kim.  She was demanding pain killers and her attorney, actually.” 

I can’t keep the grin from spreading over my face and I put a hand up to hide it. 

Knuckles stuck with a jonesing, crashing, pissed off Sylvie.  That’s rich. 

McCafferty eyes me dubiously, half-smiling. 

“I wouldn’t get too pleased with myself Sergeant Finn.  There are at least seven different news cameras and crews out front, just waiting to pounce on you.”

“Oh, fuck,” I groan.

“Mmhm.  And it gets better.  Senator Chandler arrived about half an hour ago and will be making a press statement on the steps of the hospital in just a few minutes.  He, of course, insisted on seeing Sylvie first.” 

“Being such a loving, attentive father,” Jinny says sarcastically. 

I groan again and McCafferty beams a deceptively sweet smile at me. 

“You did sometime today make contact with your chain of command, correct?”

Oh shit.  I suck my lower lip in and gnaw on it, pondering my future as an unemployed hyper-vigilant and paranoid ex-cop. 

“That’s what I thought,” McCafferty says, voice still misleadingly mild.  “Since Karl called me at the division this afternoon.” 

I grimace and Jinny sends me a sympathetic look.  Karl.  They’re on a first name basis now. 

“How bad?”  I ask and she shrugs. 

“I’d say formal counseling session/going in the file/disobeying a direct order bad.” 

I wince.  My file is already so fat I think they had to order a new cabinet just for me; formal counseling will suck but I’ll live through it…  The problem is going to be that ‘disobeying a direct order’ thing.  Someone higher up in the echelon may take a dim view of that and demand some repercussions, even if Sarge somehow decided to let it slide.  Which is by itself rather doubtful. 

“So what’s the plan then?  Because I don’t want to do the whole press thing.” 

The look McCafferty sends me is something less than ecstatic and I have a feeling I am now on her official shit list; Jase’s girlfriend/partner is not holding much weight compared to all this other crap I’ve managed to get into out here. 

“I’ll be the one stuck with doing ‘the press thing’.  And I am really hoping that your friend has got something for us, Cooper.” 

Yeah.  No shit.  Me too. 

“I’m sure he does,” I tell her, and fuck me if I don’t actually sound rather confident.  “I just need to be at my computer to get it.  And it just hasn't been happening for me today.” 

“Mmhm,” McCafferty says, lips in a thin line.  “Everything but what you need to be doing seems to always be happening.” 

I can’t argue with that so I nod and shrug.  A series of calamities fraught with beer breaks; that’s what Jase had told someone once when they’d asked him what it was like being partnered up with the Shit Magnet. 

“So since I need to get to my computer and do all that stuff I need to do…”  I glance at Jinny who stands, looking to McCafferty for some sign we’re dismissed. 

It comes in the form of a brief nod and Weaver gestures us down a hallway at right angles from the one we had traversed on entering the place hours earlier.   I glance back at McCafferty and see she is straightening her jacket, tugging at the lapels and pulling the bottom of it down more securely, girding her loins for the upcoming battle with Chandler and the press. 

“They’re all at the front so I’m guessing you’d like to exit elsewhere,” Weaver says dryly and I heave a heart felt affirmation for the plan and nearly jump out of my skin when Jinny’s hand brushes mine as we walk. 

“I told Security I want them kept outside and at the front so you ought to be able to sneak around and find your car. “  She hesitates and glances at Jinny, frowning. 

“Where’d you park?” 

“Right out front at the fucking curb,” Jinny growls, stopping so suddenly her boots squeak on the tiles.  She jams both hands into her hair and peers out at us with exasperated red eyes and shakes her head in amazement. 

“And I was so thrilled with myself to actually get that close,” she grumbles furiously, looking back and forth between the two of us.  “Went out five different times and fed the fucking meter to keep the spot.” 

She looks ready to kick a hole in the wall and Weaver, appearing exhausted enough to fall over, is considering with her head to one side, obviously plotting alternate escape routes for us.

“Well, but… They don’t know me, right?  Chandler doesn’t, new crews sure won’t.   You though.  Getting you past Chandler will be harder.” 

“I’m parked out back.  Jinny can go with me.” 

I know who it is before I even look; Legaspi cruising on high heels with her neon wrist cast like a super nova on her arm. 

Jinny shoots me a look and hesitates and Legaspi of course immediately senses what’s at issue here and smiles radiantly. 

“I’ll drop you off wherever you’re planning on going, Jinny.  No problem.” 

One of Jinny’s eye brows darts up as if questioning that, but she nods, silent, hands on her hips and Legaspi turns to me, still beaming. 

“Good job today, Cooper.” 

“Thanks.  I was just glad you caught the rescue breathing end of it.” 

She laughs briefly and says, “I personally was relieved she didn’t vomit.  Jinny?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.  You can just drop me off at the penthouse.”

I wonder how much it costs Legaspi to keep that charming smile smeared on her face or if she has actually decided I am not the antichrist when it comes to Jinny’s future. 

Maybe the little rendezvous’ with Sylvie spewing chemically induced rage and nonsense had made me seem like a blonde Mother Theresa with cuffs in comparison. 

Legaspi’s parked quite close; I can see the car gleaming under the amber glow of one of the lot’s tall lights.  Jinny turns toward it as Legaspi clicks swiftly across the pavement after a quick brush of the lips with Weaver, then hesitates and turns back to me. 

“You be alright getting to the car?”

I nod.  “They don’t know me.  You’re the one they’d spot and go after.  I’ll be fine.”

She nods and stuffs her hands into her jean pockets and swivels on her heels for a moment, frowning. 

“I’m not real sure where we’re at so if I do something wrong you should tell me, okay?”

I grab one arm and grip it through the soft black leather and swing her towards me and kiss her, very firmly on the lips.  

“That,” I say as I let go of her, “is where we’re at.  So if you just hang onto that you’ll do fine.” 

Her smile is lop sided and shy and heart-breakingly sincere. 

“I can hold onto that for a long time.” 

I grin at her as I take a few backwards steps. 

“Guess we’ll have to see about that.” 

“Try me,” she calls, grinning back and I wave and turn to find Weaver grinning at me from the overhang of the rear sally port.  I get a very un-Dr. CIA-ish finger waggle, which I return, feeling the blush burn up so hard my scalp must be sizzling,  then make my way up the sidewalk to where we’d parked the Mustang hours earlier, after following the ambulance in. 

It looks like it ought to be a fairly easy escape, actually.  The car is parked right at the curb, maybe twenty five feet from the hullabaloo. 

I recognize the Senator by the gleaming lion’s mane of white hair and the aristocratic stance he’s taken on the steps of the hospital.  There are flash bulbs going off all around him and men and women with manicured hair and microphones leaning in to catch his words, faces sincere and earnest.  Camera men angle in with equipment perched on their shoulders, shuffling for better footing and visual access and there’s a small crowd of sleepy yet curious on lookers on the steps and sidewalk, pausing to watch and listen as they shuffle out to their cars. 

It’s late for any type of press release; I figure Chandler must be desperate.  Someone must have told him his popularity ratings had dropped and nobody is buying the concerned father routine anymore; not with her arrested on substance charges and nearly dying before being transported to a hospital.  Somebody must have hissed the words ‘damage control’ into his dignified and tanned ear. 

McCafferty has taken a position a bit behind and to his left and looks coolly composed, waiting her turn.  I wonder if she’s got something prepared or if she’s just going to wing it and I scan the crowd quickly trying to figure out how many reporters are there and which of them, if any, are affiliated with CNN and hoping that for now at least it’s contained to the West Coast. 

I meander down the sidewalk, openly staring and watching because that’s what any passer by would do, walking up on a crowd of people with lights and booms and cameras and microphones jabbing in the face of a man on the steps of a hospital late at night.  Chandler’s voice is trained to carry and it detonates through the foggy chill with ease. 

“~~ ridiculous.  I have faith that the on going investigation will prove my daughter Sylvie is completely innocent and is the victim here.  I saw the bruises inflicted myself. “

I roll my eyes as the clamor rises.  I can’t make out the question he decides to answer but the next bit pulls me up short. 

“~~an undercover narcotics officer from Texas, not even SFPD.  She was arrested in her own home this afternoon by one Sergeant Cooper Finn here from Texas.  I’ve yet to receive a satisfactory explanation from Captain McCafferty here as to why an officer from Texas was able to arrest my daughter.” 

Oh shit.  It’s all I can do to not duck my head and run to the Mustang but I force myself to stroll casually along and listen as McCafferty speaks.  I can barely suppress the grin of delight at her words. 

“The Senator knows Sergeant Finn is here on loan from the Texas DPS on assignment and was simply doing her job and enforcing the controlled substance act.  It’s regrettable that his daughter was in possession but we can’t enforce the laws on a pick and choose basis.  His daughter’s possession of a controlled substance is just as illegal as any one else off the street.” 

There’s a little knot of what look like homeless people gathered on the fringes and they raise a rowdy little cheer at that statement, complete with whistles and fists jammed into the air.  I grin and eye the Mustang.  Less than twenty yards.  Piece of cake. 

“In the United States everyone is presumed innocent until proven guilty, Captain.” Chandler says coolly, “And need I remind you of the dangers of reverse discrimination?”

“Please don’t,” I hear McCafferty say politely and risk a quick look as I laugh. 

She and Chandler are almost toe to toe and although he tops her by at least a foot she doesn’t look intimidated in the least.  Their faces are blanched out by the camera lights but she somehow manages to look cool and contained nonetheless. 

Jase would be bombastic with pride, seeing her. 

I’m less than ten feet from the Mustang and I pull the keys out of my jacket pocket and stride towards the car at an easy pace.  And of course because I am feeling so certain and rather cocky about my escape right beneath the nose of Chandler and the press, the Fates look down and decide to wham me yet again. 

I hear her before I see her; having your name called out in a full throated alto when you’re less than twenty five feet from a swarm of press surrounding a Senator who’d like your head on a platter makes you rather attuned to that sequence of syllables. 

I raise the shoulder which is closest to the crowd and duck my head as if I’m trying to figure out which key to open the door with and increase my speed slightly while scanning the crowd through my lashes.  Who the hell could it be?  I don’t know anyone out here. 

“Sgt. Finn!” the voice calls again, louder and more insistent and I pinpoint the area it’s emanating from and see a woman striding towards me, head up and arms swinging.  

“Cooper Finn!” she yells again when I insert the key and yank the door open and I glance worriedly at the little group with the lights and cameras and see a few of them on the outer edges have turned, noses twitching for a story, ears perked in our direction now. 

Jesus Christ.  She’s changed shirts but it’s the lavender sweater from Holding.  She’s pumping her way towards me at full stride and looks like she’s going to beat the crap out of me and there’s something in her hand that she’s holding out towards me. 

There’s a hard rush of pure adrenaline and for five full seconds I am positive it’s a gun and I’m about to get whacked out here for god only knows what reason by a woman I bailed out of jail; then I see the flutter and realize whatever it is she is carrying it’s not a gun.  I practically melt over the Mustang’s roof in sheer relief. 

“Sgt. Cooper Finn!” she blasts out again and there is a definite surge towards us now from the little knot of press.  I can see them pointing and starting some sort of mad crab scramble in our direction.  I see the Senator looking startled and bewildered and make eye contact with McCafferty from twenty five feet; see she would very much like to bounce my head off the pavement a few times right about now.  I lift my hands in a helpless “fuck if I know” gesture before turning back to the woman who is now a mere foot from me. 

She’d looked beautiful and calm in Holding; on the sidewalk now, furious, panting with rage she’s too gorgeous to look at.  It’s blinding.  She stands there glaring at me, shaking with anger and thrusts the hand out to me in silent emphatic rage. 

It’s money she’s holding.  It flutters with the shaking of her body and hand and I look down at it and then up at her, mutely. 

“I don’t need your guilt money, Sgt. Finn.” She snarls and I blink and cringe as the lights are suddenly poured on us from the side.  She’s too angry to notice and glares at me imperiously. 

“What?” I ask, dumbfounded. 

“I don’t need and I won’t take your guilt money.  Your poor-black-woman-glad-it’s-not-me white ass guilt money.” 

“Guilt money?” I repeat, bewildered and glance at a couple of the reporters and camera people who are shoving in closer.  I blink and have to control myself from not hitting them when the mics are shoved under my nose.  A woman with what looks like fifty pounds of lacquer on her nails and a gleaming helmet of hair authoritatively asks, apparently either of us, “Are you Deputy Cooper Finn from Texas?” 

“Do I look like or sound like I’m some honky cracker white girl from Texas?” my unhappy benefactress demands, apparently quite irritated with this question and planting both slim coffee colored arms on her arrogant hips. 

Helmet Hair is nonplussed and swivels the microphone instantly beneath my nose. 

“Are you Deputy Finn?” 

I’m too pissed off to answer that particular question.

“What are you talking about; guilt money,” I spit out, glaring right back at her.  “It wasn’t guilt money.  It was you-didn’t-belong-in-there-so-I-got-you-out money.”

“Ooooh,” she says, eyes wide, “And I’m supposed to be what?  Grateful?”

“Well, yeah,” I say and resist tacking on a “duh”. 

“Uh huh.  And then you can go back home and lay in your bed at night and think about how wonderful you are, how generous and good and wasn’t it just so nice of you to bail that black girl out of jail~~”

“Wait a minute.  You’re pissed off because I bailed you out?  Am I understanding this right?  You’re mad because I bailed you out?”

From my left I hear Helmet Hair say in Newscaster Voice, “This is Sheila Preddy,  reporting from UCSF where we’ve just heard Senator Chandler issue a statement in regards to his daughter’s arrest earlier today and now here we are live with the arresting officer, Deputy Finn from Texas~~”

“Sergeant,” I snarl, without thinking.  “Sergeant Finn.” 

Helmet Hair blinks but isn’t fazed.

“~~with Sergeant Cooper Finn from Texas.  Tell us, Sergeant, about the arrest earlier today.” 

I ignore her, glaring at the woman from Holding. 

“Let me get this straight; you’re pissed because I bailed you out of jail?”

“Damn straight, I’m pissed.  I don’t need anyone’s charity and I’ve got half the money right here.  You take it.  Two hundred and fifty dollars.  Here.” 

She holds it out to me, hand shaking with rage so it snaps and flutters. 

 I plant both hands on my hips and stare at her.  “First it was guilt money, then it was charity.  Which is it?” 

“It doesn’t matter which it is because I’m not taking it.  Here!”

The last was as close to a shriek as I’d bet this woman gets and she jams the money under my nose and flutters it. 

Helmet Hair is still working on her story and she must be the Queen Media Bee because the others are hanging back verbally, merely sticking their lights and cameras and microphones up to catch the whole scene as it plays out.  Their heads swivel from side to side as if watching a tennis match, back and forth between me and the Holding Cell Chick with brief pauses to Sheila Preddy, as if she is the referee. 

“Sgt. Finn, would you care to explain why this woman is offering you money?”

“Because she’s nuts,” I growl and must look fairly ferocious because Helmet Hair backs off at least half an inch, blinking. 

She remains undaunted however and immediately tries to work the story from another angle.   Namely, my pissed off Free bird Shoplifter. 

“Would you tell us your name and why you’re here attempting to give Sgt. Finn money?”

“How the fuck did you find me?” I demand and when Helmet Hair sucks in her breath and cringes I remember we’re live on god knows how many televisions at the moment and mentally whack myself on the nose with a newspaper. 

“What, you think I’m stupid because you saw me in a jail cell?”

“Jesus Fuc~~”

Helmet Hair nearly inhales her microphone and I cut myself off, biting my tongue. 

“For gosh sakes,” I say carefully, looking at Helmet Hair who bats her eyes and beams in gratitude and relief.  “Did I say that?”

“People like you don’t need to say things for people like me to know what they’re thinking.”

I stand there and stare at her in utter bafflement.  Maybe on some shorter, less intense, bombastic day of my life that sentence might actually be logical. 

But not today. 

“What?” I hiss in exasperation. 

“Oh, you heard me.”  She tosses her hair defiantly. 

I look up at the light-polluted glowing amber clouds and shake my head in disbelief at the peculiar twists of my life; bail a perfect stranger out of jail, just a random act of fucking kindness and she hunts you down like a dog waving money under your nose~~ And on live television only a few feet away from the one person in the world you most want to avoid. 

I glance at the steps of the hospital where Chandler is now standing in bemused annoyance, watching his little audience trot over and congregate around Sheila Preddy’s gleaming hair and nails. 

I laugh.  It’s just all too fucking insane.  Caught here with the door of my get away car open no less.  By an irritated benefactress of my rather confusing and twisted idea of ethics. 

Holding Cell Chick is not at all pleased with my mirthful reaction.  I think it may upset her act of disdain and regal pride if I turn out to be some maniacal lunatic.  Little hard to pin deliberate racial and social prejudices on the insane. 

She stands there, one hand on her hip, the hand holding the money still slightly extended but drooping now, head to one side and beautiful face screwed into a ferocious and perplexed frown. 

“And what is your name, Miss?” Sheila Preddy asks, gamely sticking the microphone under her nose, determined to get something for her loyal viewers. 

Holding Cell Chick turns gorgeous but exasperated eyes to her and lifts one brow at the thing thrust beneath her nose. 

The newswoman withdraws it, blinking rapidly. 

To my left I see more movement and realize with alarm that Senator Chandler is now making his way over accompanied by an entourage of madly scrambling aides, several of which are leaping back and forth in front of him, apparently babbling advice he is choosing to ignore.  McCafferty, not to be outdone, is close behind although she pauses to throw some sort of dramatically wild Gaelic gesture at me and I don’t need a translator to interpret it. 

I groan and bend over the Mustang’s roof and gently bang my head on it a few times.

Holding Cell Chick and Sheila Preddy eye me with alarm, then exchange troubled glances before turning back to me frowning. 

“Oh, I’m fine,” I assure them, then burst into rather frantic, hysterical laughter and add, “Could you hand me my arm?” 


END OF THIRTY SEVEN