H_Cooper_Finn: Tell me the good news, S’Phear.

I leave the IM up on the screen, cursor flashing, and lean forward lacing my fingers together and lay my face in them. My hands are shaking. I’m not sure if it’s anger or regret or fear but I’m positive I don’t want to go anywhere near any of it at the moment.

I peer at the monitor through my fingers and wait. I have no idea what time it is where S’Phear exists since I have no idea where he’s located, but I’d lay money down that he hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since our last contact anyway. I’d lay more money down on his having rigged something to alert him should there be a ping from my computer.

H_Cooper_Finn: C’mon S’PhearHead. I’m running out of time here, dude.

I glance idly at the wet bar and the fridge but don’t move. Eight thirty’s a little early for beer given all the shit rolling downhill towards me. My mind leaps and races through a mental list: contact Sarge, write a memo reference Bad Ass, gather my shit and flee the premises.

Nope, getting shit-faced is nowhere on there. Not even a decent window of opportunity to work it in. Definitely not a good idea to hand that much ammo over to Ramirez either. Not to mention I need every brain cell I’ve got left.

I drop my hands and exhale slowly, watching the screen and willing the butterflies in my gut to give it a rest and land for fuck’s sake. It’s not until I lean back and drop my chin to my chest that I realize I am still wearing Jinny’s shirt and that she has left in mine. I think about it, grinning and I hope it reeks of me and sex and Ramirez gets a noseful all day.

I lift the collar, duck my nose inside, close my eyes and sniff; sex, sweat, skin and something clean with the barest trace of sandalwood, that’s the scent of us. I breathe it in and run my fingers over my lips, remembering.

At least I know why my hands are shaking now.

The heat of her, that was the first shockwave to rock through me.

I’d seen enough movies and read enough books and had imagination fertile enough to encompass the details of sex between women, long before my plane touched down in San Francisco, but nothing had prepared me for that heat. Scalding. I’d gasped louder than her as my fingers had slid inside, stunned at the delicious feel of slick inner muscles grasping and squeezing, tugging my fingers deeper into the incredible heat of her. And the sight of it, my hand cupping her there, holding her, the muscles of her thighs taut as she slowly rocked herself up and into my palm, my fingers gliding in and out of that soft, wet heat; nothing had prepared me for that. She had slid a hand down her body and let it rest there on mine, fingers stroking the back of my hand and dragging lightly up and down the skin of my arm silently showing me what she needed, then groaned and pulled her legs up, heels digging into the mattress as she bucked and rolled her hips to meet my hand. When she orgasmed and I felt that spasm and clench of muscle, her back arching as she shoved herself upwards crying out, then curling into me quivering and panting, still working herself against my hand~~ Nothing had prepared me for the intense rush of pleasure and delight, of power and pride and something akin to ownership.

It’s a side of me I’m not entirely certain I’m pleased to discover. I’ve always hated that particular brand of male bravado, always especially loathed that gloating macho statement, “I made her come.” It’s so demeaning to the female, as if she takes no responsibility for her own pleasure, as if she couldn’t have rocked her own world just as well, possibly better.

But last night, holding Jinny as she trembled and shook through them, her body helpless and convulsed in pleasure, grinning into her neck at the soft little cries and moans, I understand. It is receiving and so it stands to reason that the partner gives and takes and there’d been some little section of my brain gloating and strutting afterwards.

I made her come. I felt her pumping around my hand. She bit me in ecstasy and raked skin off my back. I made her come.

I glance at the screen and shift my feet around restlessly, then use the shirt’s collar to wipe the sweat from my upper lip, hands shaking as I search out the place she’d sank her teeth in. I can smell my own arousal and I need a shower. A cold one.

Twenty minutes later I’m showered, dressed and have reserved a room at the Hawthorne Suites on the Department’s Voyager card. I’ve laid Massey’s plastic on the top of the wet bar along with the cash I’ve got left and tossed my gear into my bags which stand waiting at the front door.

There’s still nothing on the screen from S’Phear. Panic bubbles and swells in my belly and I do a quick skim of the Top Stories and Headline News for the day; only slightly relaxing when there’s no glaring “FBI Arrests Cyber Criminal” obvious on the page. A quick Google search on S’Phear reveals no more than the usual hits from archived stories and I glance at my watch, feeling the butterflies stir and drift in big jerky swoops.

It’s close to noon in Texas. Might be a good time to attempt to contact Sarge, since he’s not likely to be there.

It rings five times which is a good sign; squad room is empty and the secretaries are at lunch and the PCO on duty is probably frantically chewing on a mouthful of fast food in an effort to clear their mouth enough to speak coherently.

“…’lo,” I hear in the middle of the sixth ring and relax a little more, grinning. It’s Newton, which today, for me, is good. He’s in his late fifties and notoriously laid back and lax. He won’t make any effort to find Sarge or anyone else; Sarge could be standing right there in the radio room and if it meant Newt had to stand up to hand the phone over he’d find some way to get out of it. And forget about him taking a message. We’ve all had him inform us he’s not our goddamn secretary.

“Newt,” I say happily and blink and frown when he immediately says, “Coop. Don’t go anywhere. They’re wanting to talk to you real bad.”

“They?” I repeat uneasily and close my eyes as he confirms my worst fear.

“They. Lt. Wayne, Major Meinike and Captain Shaw.”

I sink down on the nearest piece of furniture, feeling woozy.

“All those gold buttons, for me?” I squeak and he guffaws uncomfortably.

“’’Fraid so. Hang on. I’m putting you on hold. Don’t you dare hang up.”

There’s a click and then dull, somehow threatening silence. The Department doesn’t believe in putting music through the phone system to entertain callers put on hold. We don’t particularly care if people are amused while they wait for us.

When it clicks again I recognize the slight delay and open air sounds of a Speakerphone and can make out the faint clicking sound of the small fan Sarge keeps in his office and which runs non stop, day and night, all seasons. There’s the creak of a chair and then Sarge’s voice booms into my head, as if he’s leaned forward towards the telephone.

“Sgt. Finn.” His voice is formal, strained. I close my eyes and lean forward and swallow.

“Yes, sir,” I say and am amazed that my voice actually sounds rather strong.

“First, I want to make clear you understand this call is being taken on speaker phone and in the presence of your Chain of Command. Major Meinicke and Captain Shaw are both here.”

I murmur some affirmation and there’s a brief pause and then something clicks and he adds needlessly, “I also want to make certain you understand that this conversation is being recorded so that there can be no misunderstandings later.”

Oh fuck. I lean my forehead into my hand which is trembling hard now. Formality is bad. “No misunderstandings later” is bad. Recorded conversations in the presence of Chain of Command are very, very bad.

“Got it.”

I cringe because it came out bitter and defiant and there’s not even a second after the two abrupt syllables before a high pitched drone I recognize as my Captain’s voice demands, “What was that, Sgt. Finn?” in outraged indignation.

I grit my teeth before replying, “I stated for the record that I understand I am being recorded and my Chain of Command has gathered, Captain Shaw.”

There’s a brief pause. I bet Sarge would dearly love some quality alone time with me right now. When this conversation is terminated he will get a shrill and incensed tirade about my lack of respect for him, the Department and my Chain of Command.

I so suck at kissing ass.

“Before we go any further, what is your location Sgt. Finn?”

He knows damn well where I am. He wants it on tape.

“I am in San Francisco, California.”

Brief pause before he repeats it back to me, slowly, every syllable laced and drenched with rigidly controlled fury as if he can’t quite believe I didn’t do exactly as ordered.

“You’re in San Francisco, California. “

“And it’s May 30th and on the West Coast it is~~” I look at my watch, “~~10:18 and there in Texas it is 12:18CST. Yeah. We’re all clear on where I am and what day it is.”

There’s silence on the other end and I use it to grind my teeth. It’s two days until pay day. If they suspend me without pay out here I am fucked.

Suck it up. Take it. Eat it. It’s how the game is played and you’re not going to ever change that.

It’s in Jase’s voice, so clear I spin in a slow circle eyeing the corners of the room as if he’ll pop out any second.

They’re going to suspend me without pay fifteen hundred miles from home two days before pay day because I can’t keep the goddamn sarcasm and anger out of my voice and I’m having auditory hallucinations. Great. Just fucking great.

I’ve missed something~~ Major Meinicke’s going on and on in a low monotone. I sigh in exasperation and wait him out, crossing to the window overlooking the bay and lean my forehead against the cool glass.

I almost sound humble when I utter, “Sorry, I didn’t get that last bit, Major.”

He clears his throat and there’s a creak of chair and then the sound of papers before he speaks again.

Jesus Christ. They’ve got notes. They’ve made notes and I walked right into it.

“I was stating that you were in California assisting the San Francisco police with what appeared to be narcotics evidence missing from a storage room at their facility. And that you were to report to a Detective in their Internal unit, a Robert Massey.”

“Correct.”

“And you did this?”

“I did.”

“And when further information developed which led you to contact your Lieutenant, you relayed to him that this was not a simple case of someone in that division stealing narcotics, is that correct?”

Where are they going with this? What is Sarge doing? Has he given me up? Did someone say, she’s on fucking CNN, it’s a Senator Karl, and she’s a fuck up; cut her loose?

“Sgt. Finn I need to know if that statement was correct.” Major Meinicke sounds regretfully pissy. He likes me. He’s handed me an award or five.

“That’s correct.” I sigh hard at the end of it.

“Is there anything you’d like to add to that?” he asks, his voice almost kind and I shrug and shake my head and hope the noise I made didn’t sound like either a laugh or a sob on their end.

“No. No, sir.” I add. He’s a good enough guy, Major Meinicke. He deserves a “sir” tacked on.

“And you were told, were you not, to return immediately to Texas because it was obvious that this was not an investigation into anything for which you’re qualified or experienced? You were told to return to Texas by your immediate supervisor, were you not?”

Captain Shaw, on the other hand, is an asshole. And he uses the phrase, “were you not” far too fucking often in his high-pitched nasal Cajun brogue.

I press my forehead hard into the glass and stare down at a tiny little boat chugging its way in the direction of Alcatraz. It disappears almost instantly into a thick soupy bank of fog.

I’ve said something, apparently agreeing with Shaw. I wish I could just say, “Let’s skip this shit. Get to it, already.”

But I can’t. You have to play this game and everyone knows it’s a game and a formality and a waste of time. But we all have to play it anyway.

Sarge has been quiet, which is ominous, but he finds his voice now and it is seething with righteous fury at me.

“You were told to come back to Texas, not only because this is not your area of expertise Sergeant, but because certain things within this investigation indicated you might possibly be in a compromising position, maybe even in danger. You were told to return on the next flight and you chose not to. I want you to tell me why, Coop.”

His voice slips at the end of it; emotion creeps in and then he uses my name which no doubt earned him a royally displeased look from the arrogant Captain Shaw. He’ll probably get some regal little speech about consorting with the subordinates once the call is terminated, something along the lines of “You’re far too intimate and casual with your employees, are you not?”

God, what do I say? Because to the Department all that matters is that I was told one thing and chose to do another. It doesn’t matter why. Stringing the words together to ask the question is just a rule of the game~~ They have to do that so they can show later on you were thinking clearly, you knew what you were doing, you chose to disobey deliberately.

“You know, I can’t do this.” I shake my head and laugh, breathlessly and thump a fist against the glass of the window. It’s triple paned. Probably bullet proof too.

“…….what?” I can’t tell if it was Sarge or the Major and I laugh again and punch the glass harder.

“This. I can’t do this. Let’s just call it a day and skip it, what do you say?”

“Sgt. Finn~~” Captain Shaw begins and I thump my head hard against the glass, gritting my teeth.

“No. This whole fucking thing is stupid. I get it, you know? You’re all pissed. I didn’t mind. ‘Ooooh, bad Sgt. Finn.’ Slap my hand, spank my butt, yank my phone privileges~~ I don’t give a shit, do you understand? You sent me out here on a job and I’m doing it. Period. That’s all it boils down to except, are you suspending me with or without pay?”

There’s silence.

And then Major Meinicke speaks, his voice slow. “You’ve been accused of misuse of funds, Cooper. By a United States Senator. We can’t protect you if you’re not here.”

I count three sailboats. Nine yachts. Six commercial boats.

“With or without pay?” I demand furiously. “I’m paying off a fucking headstone, you goddamn assholes. And I’d hate to be arrested for a theft by check. Would reflect so badly on the Department and fuck~~ that’d be just awful, would it not?”

I deliberately drawl my words in an East Texas/Louisiana border burr and the soft cadence of a Cajun, mocking Shaw and laugh as I hear him go shrilly ballistic.

There’s a voice raised too high to be clear over the speaker phone; it fuzzes out in a squeal at the same time I hear Jase say regretfully, “You’re losing it, Coop. This is it.”

“I know I’m fucking losing it!” I scream over the sad, tired voice and I slam the cell phone into the triple glass of the window until there’s nothing left of it but splintered plastic and oddly comical electrical parts.

Then I yank the cord out of the phone jack and slam the laptop closed, stuffing it into my duffel bag and leave, the door wide open, the cash and plastic in plain sight.

I think it’s definitely going to be without pay.


END OF FORTY ONE