shifted in her chair away from him, telling herself the usual dodges: He’s married and flippant and skinny and cynical and too old. This last made her smile at her own hypocrisy. Dupree was twelve years older than she; she was twelve years older than Joel. She had dated only one other man significantly older than she was, fifteen years ago, in college. He was a graduate-level instructor in the English department, almost as thin as Dupree, and it made her smile to think how old he seemed at thirty, when she was now six years older than that. He had seduced her by the book, if such a book existed for that kind of man, the kind who quotes Neruda after sex on the mattress on his book-strewn floor, who pretends to listen to her every word, who has a boy’s fumbling zeal when making love. Since she was a criminal justice major, the Neruda poetry was a nice diversion— So I pass across your burning form —but it was a bottle of wine and a Wallace Stevens poem that first did her in, “The Emperor of Ice-Cream,” its refrain still rattling around amid the guilt and waterfalls and elegies of the job: Let be be finale of seem . The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream . The graduate instructor had begun to explain the poem, the existential insistence of letting “be be finale of seem,” the triumph of a moment over its potential, tangible over abstract, ice cream over death, but by then Caroline had already decided to sleep with the man and get a double major in poetry and criminal justice.
She thought about that attraction and about this one. Such an attraction said certain things about a girl whose father had left the family. An attraction to a man older and in a position of authority was inherently unhealthy, the blending of father figureand lover, and was fraught with disappointing glimpses of the future, at least the male version of it—love handles and graying hair, an increasing knack for self-delusion, and, in Dupree’s case, the shell he’d built over the years to protect himself.
Noise outside the interview room yanked them both from their thoughts, and Caroline stood. “Well, I suppose…”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’ve got a drug house to raid.”
They left the interview room and returned to the Major Crimes office, both looking around furtively, like people returning from a lunchtime affair. There was a general rush of movement in the Major Crimes office, Pollard putting on his jacket and grabbing a notebook and pen from his desk, beginning to move toward the door. Dupree stood at the long filing cabinet at the front of the room, Caroline at his side.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Pollard answered. “Guy robbed a pawnshop and shot the owner.”
“Jesus.” Dupree shook his head. “What’s that, four in twenty-four hours? That’s gotta be a record.”
“Not yet,” Pollard said. “The guy’s alive.”
“No shit?”
Pollard shook his head appreciatively. “Don’t ask me how. The guy gets popped in the face and sits there for an hour before anyone finds him.”
Caroline walked toward the door, and Dupree turned from Pollard to her. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Yeah,” she said. “See ya.”
He waited until she was gone before taking a deep breath and rubbing his face. The attraction and tension between them grew in periods of trouble like this; it was an undeniable fact. It was probably true of cops everywhere. No occupation promoted infidelity like police work, especially after women began joining police forces in the seventies and eighties. The worse things got, the longer the hours, the more adrenaline coursed through their bodies, the more they were likely to wind up on the floor somewhere, wrapped up in each other like they could provide some distraction, or cure. And he couldn’t remember a time when things were worse than they were now, couldn’t remember a streak that felt blacker than this one.
“You know,” Pollard said, “if the guy kicks, you win the
She thought about that attraction and about this one. Such an attraction said certain things about a girl whose father had left the family. An attraction to a man older and in a position of authority was inherently unhealthy, the blending of father figureand lover, and was fraught with disappointing glimpses of the future, at least the male version of it—love handles and graying hair, an increasing knack for self-delusion, and, in Dupree’s case, the shell he’d built over the years to protect himself.
Noise outside the interview room yanked them both from their thoughts, and Caroline stood. “Well, I suppose…”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’ve got a drug house to raid.”
They left the interview room and returned to the Major Crimes office, both looking around furtively, like people returning from a lunchtime affair. There was a general rush of movement in the Major Crimes office, Pollard putting on his jacket and grabbing a notebook and pen from his desk, beginning to move toward the door. Dupree stood at the long filing cabinet at the front of the room, Caroline at his side.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Pollard answered. “Guy robbed a pawnshop and shot the owner.”
“Jesus.” Dupree shook his head. “What’s that, four in twenty-four hours? That’s gotta be a record.”
“Not yet,” Pollard said. “The guy’s alive.”
“No shit?”
Pollard shook his head appreciatively. “Don’t ask me how. The guy gets popped in the face and sits there for an hour before anyone finds him.”
Caroline walked toward the door, and Dupree turned from Pollard to her. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Yeah,” she said. “See ya.”
He waited until she was gone before taking a deep breath and rubbing his face. The attraction and tension between them grew in periods of trouble like this; it was an undeniable fact. It was probably true of cops everywhere. No occupation promoted infidelity like police work, especially after women began joining police forces in the seventies and eighties. The worse things got, the longer the hours, the more adrenaline coursed through their bodies, the more they were likely to wind up on the floor somewhere, wrapped up in each other like they could provide some distraction, or cure. And he couldn’t remember a time when things were worse than they were now, couldn’t remember a streak that felt blacker than this one.
“You know,” Pollard said, “if the guy kicks, you win the
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