I realize I’m in trouble the moment I open the gleaming rear door of the forest green Volkswagen Passat and slide onto the rich cream colored leather seat. 

I am in trouble because Weaver is driving which leaves Legaspi undistracted and free to focus her attention on me.  By the delighted upturned grin she gives me, I see this is planned.  I also see she’s brought a file which she immediately opens in her lap and peruses before curling a leg up on the seat so she’s half facing me. 

“So,” she says brightly.  “You look terrible.  I’m assuming insomnia is a chronic problem for you.  Have you tried any remedy other than near death experiences?”

I probably manage half a grin for her and resist the urge to bang my head into the tinted window to my left. 

I’m too tired for her today.  I can’t play “up the ante” on her level. 

“Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality and privacy?”

“Well, they’re in force when the patient shows up at my office for the appointment.” Legaspi tells me.  “When we’re in my car on the way to lunch I can ask anything I please.”

I cringe as I meet Weaver’s steady gaze in the rearview.  I have a sinking feeling she’s about to demonstrate some CIA thing on my weary ass.  I can see the wheels and gears spinning as she takes an X-Ray of my mental state and then at the last moment I am granted a reprieve as she switches to low beam, mercifully. 

I slouch lower in the leather, out of reach of that gaze and tuck my hands between my legs and frown.   Sometimes my mouth or my fingers in this case, get away from me.   What had I written?  Something about sex slaves and animal dandruff?  Fuck…  And I’ve forgotten my sunglasses.  I never go out without my sunglasses.  I can’t bear anyone just being able to look into my eyes.  It’s like being naked and spread with my feet in stirrups during a gynecological exam.

“Sgt?” I realize Legaspi has been talking to me for awhile now, asking me something. 

“Just… Cooper.”  God.  They’ve seen me sprawled out unconscious.  I’ve had my nose nearly in Legaspi’s crotch.  They’ve seen and heard me hurl up my toe nails.  I don’t deserve any rank after that. 

“I asked how long you’ve been in law enforcement?”

“Oh.  Thirteen years.  Little under thirteen years.”

”And was that what you wanted to be when you were a little girl?”

I stare at her bemused.  I have very few memories of being a little girl.  All I remember wanting to be was an orphan.  Maybe a hermit.  An orphaned hermit would have been perfect.

But of course I am not giving up that answer. 

So I shrug and look out the window. 

“Is it a family occupation?  Other police officers in your family?” she inquires and I find the question so absurd and startling that I jerk my head around to stare at her and laugh before I can stop myself.   The look I get is intent and then she scribbles something in her notes, frowning in deliberation.

“Can we just…”  I start off and then stop when those blue eyes dart up and focus on me again. 

I gather myself and try again.

“Can we just maybe go out to eat this time?”   

God I sound pathetic.  I sound exactly like I look.  I’d spent fifteen or twenty minutes in Sylvie’s bathroom trying to make my face look like I was not reading for a part as a Zombie in Night of the Living Dead, but I’ve failed.  The circles under my eyes are like bruises and I’ve dropped more weight since I’ve been in California.  I’m not one of those women who look chic when underweight.  The word “chemo” is much more deservedly apt.  I did makeup but then I looked really scary so I scrubbed it off. 

“Didn’t sleep?” Legaspi asks and I shake my head and immediately yawn, hugely. 

“What do you do when you’re not sleeping?”

She’s got herself all comfortably settled, turned towards me with an elbow propped on the back of the seat and her chin tucked into it.  She’s all attention and concerned focus doctor. 

I am definitely not telling her what I did last night when I couldn’t sleep.  In-between pacing and tossing and working through every possible way Sylvie and Exstead became involved and exactly how much damage is done my head had insisted on demanding immediate answers to questions such as; where is the computer that produced the first photos? How many more are there of Jinny and Sylvie floating around? Who has the negatives? Does Jinny know these photos exist? How can she not know since these are obviously carefully posed?  Who was the photographer? Was Jinny present when the other woman posed with Sylvie? How many people are involved in this shit? And how in the hell did this person manage to convince Jinny to be so incredibly stupid and careless?

And I could not get the photograph itself out of my head.  You would think with a drawer full of sex toys and porno magazines I could have found another image to have stuck on replay in my head, but no.  That’s the one.  I’d finally given up and retrieved it from beneath the plush coral toilet lid cover where I’d hidden it and just sat on the side of the Olympic size Jacuzzi and indulged my sick desire to stare at it. 

It’s aesthetically pleasing; the line of the one leg balancing the curve of the lifted one; the straightness of the arm overhead and below it the thrown back abandonment of the neck and throat; the back arched into a C shape with that straight smooth fall of pale hair accentuating it. The casualness of the pose is in direct conflict with the hand that is fisted in Exstead’s hair; her head is tugged back at a sharp, unnatural angle. There is no way the same guy took this photo as the cheesy smut shots featuring Sylvie, no way it’s the Guy With the Porn Star Toe.  It’s much more professionally done.  The lighting is even, the subjects are centered; someone took a lot of time and trouble to set this shot up and pose the two of them.  It’s… beautiful.

I haven’t had a single indication of a sex drive or libido since Jase’s death.  I assumed that part of me died with him.  So I was not at all happy with myself and the contrariness of my body when I realized it was suddenly very much alive and awake and feeling rowdy.  For fuck’s sake, not now.   Why now?  And if it has to wake up again and go nuts on me let it be over one of those magazines, not this particular photo because while I have never had any problem whatsoever with any of my friends or acquaintances being gay or lesbian it is simply not anything to do with me and not something I’ve ever been especially interested in thinking about or found for the most part even appealing or arousing. And I don’t want that to start with this one when it’s got Jinny Exstead in it.  That’s got to violate some peace officer code.  Why do I have to find myself paddling frantically on what feels like wave after wave of pure lust now over this? 

I’d eventually decided it didn’t matter why I suddenly found myself frenetically berserk.  I just needed to cure that and get some sleep.  Only I’d discovered I’d apparently fallen into some deep abyss of incurable lust and no matter how many times I reached for and found that bliss the second it was over I wanted more.  So I’d spent most of my sleepless night masturbating incessantly, discovering myself to be insatiable.

This is why today I look like one of the recently embalmed. 

Legaspi is still gazing at me with her chin in her hand, waiting. 

“What was the question?” 

Fair eyebrows climb up the smooth forehead and she makes another notation on the papers in her lap. 

I sigh and the eyes flash right back up again, narrowing, zeroing in.

 I am not doing very well with the Flippant Repartee today.  And I know she’s taking in the body language too; hunched shoulders, hands tucked between my knees, head down and minimal eye contact. 

“Do you have a phone number for Exstead?” I ask and she blinks slightly and glances at Weaver. 

“Of course,” she responds and I wait but she makes me ask it.

“If Jinny wanted you to have her phone number she would have given it to you,” she tells me in a reasonable voice and I nod and look out the window because this is exactly what I’d expected to hear. 

She’d said she would call.  I know she will because she said she would.  But I am going to go insane before then trying to juggle all the new complications the advent this photograph has introduced to the case on top of my newly awakened libido.  I’d also known Legaspi would not violate Jinny’s privacy.  Fair enough. 

“I need to talk to her and it needs to be soon.  It’s about Syl~~”  I stop just before I screw up.  “It’s about why I’m out here.” 

Legaspi nods.  I can’t tell from her expression if she has any idea about Jinny and Sylvie or about the supposedly missing narcotics.  I can’t tell what she’s been told about why I am in California although she must assume it is on police business.  I wonder how much that file says about Jase?

“If you hear from her or make contact with her you can give her these.”  I fish in my jacket pocket and locate a Department business card which has both my cellular and pager number in black over the gold Star of Texas Department seal.  I have that photograph in the same pocket because I was too leery of leaving it in the penthouse.

 I’ve almost convinced myself that’s really the reason. 

Legaspi takes it, looks down briefly and then smiles at Weaver. 

“Look, Kerry.  More ways to annoy and harass Sgt.  Finn.” 

“Oh goody,”  Weaver says lightly, the first words she has spoken since I got in the vehicle. 

“Okay, you two,” I say and I push myself up on the seat so I can make eye contact with the both of them.  “Can we just let this be you guys showing me San Francisco today?  Not some big, Gang Up on the Poor Cop/Psych Ops slash CIA Session?”

“Well,” Legaspi muses, frowning slightly.  “I don’t know.  I suppose that would depend on whether you go ahead and make another appointment.  A real one, at my office.  Which you actually show up for.”   Her head is to one side and she waits, patiently.

I groan and when I’ve stopped rolling my eyes I see I’m being pinned to the seat by the green ones in the rearview mirror.  I lift a hand in surrender. 

“Okay, okay.  I give up already.  You can dissect my brain.  I’ll serve it up on a silver platter.”

“Oooooh,” Legaspi says happily, snatching up a day planner and flipping it open.  “I’ve got you down for Tuesday at 10:00 a.m.” 

I blink.  10:00 a.m.? As in the morning hours?  And she’s already got me down?  I frown and am just about to begin arguing when I see red brows in the rearview lower ominously and I sigh and slide back down in the seat. 

“Fine.  10:00 a.m. Tuesday.”

Once that’s out of the way I almost begin to enjoy myself.  They’re not half bad when they aren’t aligned in some relentless Let’s Bust Coop’s Ass game. 

And San Francisco is beautiful, albeit I can’t get warm.  Legaspi tells me true San Franciscans rarely actually visit Fisherman’s Wharf it being “too touristy” but she seems extremely familiar with it nonetheless and I do the whole big-eyed Texas girl thing;  it’s like 6^th Street sort of, except right on the water with a maritime feel and with an extra sampling of freaks.  I have to turn around and stare after the broad departing back of a six foot seven black man wearing a red and white polka dotted dress, white apron, polka dotted head scarf beneath which emerge enormous dangling gold hoops.  He’s wearing full makeup, with Mammy style braided dreads and he’s on rollerblades.  And it’s not even Halloween.

I spin back around and catch them both giggling at my expression. 

“After this we’re taking her through the Castro,” Weaver announces and Legaspi hoots laughter and claps her hands.

Oh shit.  That’s all I need.  The Castro.  I decide I’ll just ignore them. 

At Ghirardelli Square we buy enormous chocolate sodas and stroll along the waterfront through little knots of mimes and street performers, musicians and artists displaying wares on tables and easels and benches.  I am so cold my teeth are chattering but the soda is so good I don’t care and keep giving myself brain freeze.  I can’t believe it is May and it’s this cold.  What is it like in December? 

“Slightly colder,” Weaver tells me and then joins Legaspi who’s called her over to look at some earrings a silver smith is crafting.  Legaspi towers over her and has to bend over to brush a kiss across Weaver’s lips. They both laugh uproariously over something and I see one of Weaver’s hands snuggle into the front pocket of Legaspi’s over sized fleece jacket.  They’re beaming at each other and swaying back and forth slightly, totally unconscious of anything but each other.  

Tears flood the back of my nose with prickles and I turn quickly and look out the length of a pier where an old man is fishing, watching what must be his grandchildren toss slices of bread up in the air for the gulls.  He’s grinning and the two little boys are shrieking with laughter that sounds just like the birds.  I fight to get the tears and whatever emotion generated them back to some safe place in my head before they stroll over here swinging joined hands and laughing and I have to let them see this because I have no shades to hide behind.   It’ll be just laid out for the picking. 

I’ve gone months wrapped in a shell of protective numbness where I was barely aware of anything outside my own head, outside my pain and that was somewhere I couldn’t reach it because I didn’t dare.  Even when I’d cry I’d barely know it was happening, it seemed divorced and unrelated to anything I might be thinking or feeling because I wasn’t feeling anything.  And now I’m standing here about to weep over what?  Weaver and Legaspi being so obviously in love and happy?  Some old fart enjoying his grandchildren? The delicious pain of a rich chocolate soda brain freeze?  Jesus.  I have got to get a grip. 

They insist we dine in the Castro area. 

I sit in the rear seat and gaze out at a world I knew existed because we do have television and I suppose there are areas similar to it in Houston and Austin but I’ve never really hung out there.  I can lean back and take it all in though because I’ve bought myself some new shades.  They are very black.  Legaspi lifts her brows and smiles but she refrains from mentioning that it is an extremely cloudy, overcast and foggy day even for San Francisco.  I’m grateful.

They’ve backed way off.  I keep my face turned looking out the window but I can see them exchanging glances with one another anyway.  Once I catch Weaver slightly shake her head when Legaspi turns towards the rear seat as if she’s going to ask me something.  I slide my eyes that direction without turning my face any and witness a silent exchange of communication between two people who know each other well enough to not need words. 

Legaspi, the Shrink, is coming unglued at not being allowed to leap in on my obvious mental distress signals.  Weaver, the CIA agent masquerading this life as a doctor of medicine, wordlessly reminds her she has agreed and she should keep the bargain.  Legaspi huffs down her nose and settles mutely back into the leather seat facing forward. 

I don’t even try to stop the little smile of wry amusement and don’t bother hiding it from Weaver’s sudden sharp look to me in the rearview either.  Why bother?  It’s like trying to dissemble in front of God or something. 

I see men in lots of black leather wearing collars being led by other men in leather holding the leashes.  I see women who look like men and men who look like women and some which have attained such androgyny that I have no idea which they might be.  There is every color hair imaginable on their heads and every combination of style and dress and nationality and culture represented.  Everyone seems so… comfortable in their skins. 

When they find I’ve never eaten Thai they’re both ecstatic. 

“You’re going to love this!” Legaspi assures me and I have to agree that it is delicious.  I hadn’t even known I was hungry but the moment the smells from the kitchen reach me I am starving.  The place is very cozy too with small intimate tables covered in dark red silk cloths and the lighting is dim so I feel relatively protected even without my sunglasses on.
 
I’m mostly silent listening to them talk as we eat.  It’s couple stuff; Legaspi reminds Weaver the plumber will be there early to deal with the leak in the kitchen.  Weaver nods and comments they should have him look at the faucet in the back also.  There’s some discussion about the week ahead and their different schedules.  I gather Weaver is employed at the hospital I barely missed touring; UCSF.  When they begin discussing people I don’t know I give myself permission to unfocus and drift off mentally, but veer back when I realize Weaver is gazing at me as if I’ve just been snapped into place under a microscope lens.  I have the terrible feeling I might have missed something important. 

We’re going.  They’re folding napkins and gathering up purses, Weaver slides her crutch out from where it has been resting in the fourth empty chair.  I’ve been sitting here staring off into space like one of the Undead for who knows how long.  I’m surprised there’s no drool hanging off my chin.  The check’s been paid even and I blush and dig out some of Massey’s money for the tip.  I tell them I have to make a quick trip to the restroom and duck in as they go to move the car around. 

I don’t have to pee.  I just want to look at the picture.  Maybe if I look at it here, in the sterile confines of a room reeking of air freshener with my boots on green floor tile instead of toes buried in carpet and removed from by satin and marble and sex toys, I’ll be unmoved.  I’m not even aware I’ve been thinking about it exactly, in fact, I think I’ve been very carefully not thinking about it but my hands are shaking when I pull it out and look down. 

Heat floods through me and the sensation is so exquisitely strong I shiver.  When I look in the mirror over the sink I see pink beating up in my cheeks and my throat looks flushed as well.  Glassy eyes stare back at me and something I haven’t felt in almost a year slides down my backbone so unexpectedly I shudder and actually gasp aloud and sway slightly.  An older woman emerging from one of the stalls behind me pauses, looking at me in the mirror and inclines her head towards me in a concerned gesture.

“Honey?  Are you okay?”

No.  I’m in deep shit.  And I can’t figure out how I got here. 


END OF NINE 

{~> Crossroads  Next Story, Please <~}