I was writing my report on the suicide of John Doe, aka commando boy, when Thorwald and Greer, the Bureau's finest, came in to see McGuire. They both looked at me as they passed through the squad room en route to the boss's office, but neither one spoke. Greer glared at me, as I would've expected, but the look Thorwald gave me was… harder to read. Maybe she was letting her imagination create a Spanish Inquisition fantasy, with me as the star attraction. That would've surprised me a little, since no one expects the Spanish Inquisition. Or so I hear.
I'd reached the point in my report where I was trying to describe the way that commando boy had barricaded himself in the interrogation room when I heard footsteps approach from behind me – just one set, and by the sound, I figured them for Thorwald's. A couple of seconds later, I found that I was right.
She was wearing a navy-blue blazer over a pair of khaki pants that might've been a little tighter than regulation. Female law enforcement officers don't wear dresses or skirts on the job – not if they're street cops. Skirts make it hard to run, and even harder to fight.
Her black hair was cut in front into bangs that went about halfway down her broad forehead. Beneath them, the ice-blue eyes were looking at me without the glare I'd started to get used to.
"Long night," she said.
"For both of us, I guess."
"I thought your shift ended a half hour before sunrise," she said. If there was anything in her voice besides mild interest, I didn't catch it.
"It usually does," I said, "for the sake of my partner. But I'm putting in a little overtime."
"Did something new break in the case?"
"Nothing you don't already know about." If she thought I was holding out on her, she'd raise the roof. "There's a guy I need to call," I said, "and he won't be available until about 8am."
She nodded, as if this was actually interesting to her. Then she said, "It looks like Greer and I got off on the wrong foot with you and your partner. The two of us came into town very focused on nailing the people behind this butchery, but we may have pushed a little too hard. If we did, I apologize."
I didn't change my facial expression, but I fancied that I could hear the Hallelujah Chorus being sung by angels in the background. An apology from Thorwald, as far as I was concerned, was right up there with that old trick involving the loaves and fishes.
"It's not necessary," I said, "but thanks. Having to watch this stuff on video, over and over, would put anybody on edge."
"Yes, on edge," she said. "And with damn few ways of blowing off steam."
"Yeah, I know," I said, just to be saying something. What was I going to do – suggest she take up bowling?
She looked past me for a moment, I assume at McGuire's office, where her partner was still yakking with the boss. Then she glanced at the big clock on the wall. When she brought her gaze back to me, there was something in her face that hadn't been there before. I couldn't have said what it was, exactly, but she looked softer, somehow.
"It's almost 7.30am," she said. "After you talk to your guy at eight, are you going off duty?"
"Yeah, I was planning to," I said, "unless he gives me something I have to act on right away, and I don't think it's gonna be that kind of conversation."
She nodded again. "We're going off duty, too – as soon as Greer gets done whining to your lieutenant about interagency cooperation. We're staying at the Hilton, downtown. I'm in room six-oh-four."
I gave her a nod of my own. I kept my poker face but my mind was going Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?
"If you're not too tired, why don't you swing by after you get off – shift, I mean?"
"To discuss the case, you mean?"
The look she gave me said she thought I'd probably be able to tie my own shoelaces after a few more months of training.
"No, dummy – for a couple of hours of good hard fucking. It'll do us both good, and I'll spring for breakfast after. The Hilton's room service is pretty good. We can discuss the case then, if you want."
I won't claim that I was incapable of speech – it's just that I couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't going to get me in some kind of trouble with somebody.
So I decided to go pragmatic. It seemed safest, and would buy me a little time.
"What about your partner?" I managed to keep my voice level, I think.
"What about him?" She shrugged. "His room's down the hall. And if you were thinking of having him join us, don't bother. Greer's as gay as San Francisco – couldn't you tell?"
Before I could reply to that bit of news, she held up a hand, palm toward me like a traffic cop.
"Don't say anything more. You'll either show up, or you won't. If you do, fine. If you don't, it's your loss" – then her voice returned to the tone I was familiar with – "and this conversation never happened."
"What conversation?"
She nodded one last time and walked back to McGuire's office. As for me, I remained at my computer, but I can't claim that I got much more done on my paperwork.
I waited until 8.05am before I picked up the phone. I won't say the past half hour had gone by fast, exactly – but time passes quicker when your mind is occupied, and I hadn't exactly lacked for stuff to think about. And I only spent a small portion of that time imagining Thorwald naked.
I tapped in the number I'd looked up, and it was answered on the second ring.
"This is Father Garrett."
"Morning, Dave. It's Stan Markowski from Occult Crimes. Hope I'm not calling too early."
"Not at all, Stan – how've you been?"
"Can't complain, I guess. How about yourself?"
"Reasonably well, I like to think. I haven't seen you since that messy business over on Spruce Street last summer."
Garrett is a Jesuit who teaches theology at the U. He's also a volunteer member of the city's SWAT – Sacred Weapons and Tactics – unit. And not the prayer team auxiliary, either. When there's a SWAT call-up, Garrett straps on his body armor, grabs his weapon, and kicks supe ass with the best of them. The order not only says it's OK – they actually encourage him. Warriors for God, and all that.