dirty look.
“Stenopolis,” he said gruffly. A pause. “You’re kidding. What does she want?” Another longer pause, then, “Uh, no. I’ll come down.” He hung up the phone.
“Guess who’s here?” he asked her.
“Who?”
“Lydia Strong,” he said, walking out the door. Jesamyn followed him with her eyes and listened to the thunder of his big feet on the stairs.
“Oh, brother,” she said out loud to no one.
Five
Y ou really didn’t need to go out of your way like this, Ms. Strong,” Detective Stenopolis said, taking the CD from her. The precinct was busy for a Monday afternoon. Two uniformed officers were bringing in a couple of transvestite hookers, commonly known as she-males, dressed in platforms and micro-minis. They were making a point of being loud and belligerent, male voices coming out of smooth and heavily made-up faces. An older man was yelling at the young female officer at the desk about how his building on Avenue B, where he’d lived for nearly twenty years, was turning into a crack house. The phones never stopped ringing.
“Please, call me Lydia,” she said. “It was no trouble. Our email is down and I had to be in the area.”
Detective Stenopolis gave her a look that told Lydia he didn’t believe her. And she couldn’t really be offended by that because it was, of course, a bald-faced lie.
“Well, thanks. I appreciate your help,” he said, turning from her.
“Detective,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “I was hoping we could talk a second.”
He turned back to her and she saw something funny in his face. She could swear that underneath those severe, dark features, there was a smile hiding. She sized him up: six-foot-six maybe, 250 pounds at least. He wore a pair of khaki pants, a denim shirt under a leather jacket—calfskin by the feel of it. His shoes were dark brown Timberland hiking boots; they were the approximate size of Volkswagens. Most guys his size wouldn’t know how to dress, but he’d put himself together respectably enough.
“What do you want to talk about, Ms. Strong?” he said, sounding strained.
“Just wondering how much longer your supervisor is going to let you keep this case active,” she said softly, narrowing her eyes. “It has been two weeks. And it sounds to me like you have very little.”
Bull’s-eye, she thought when she saw his expression shift to surprise for a millisecond and then back to stern. But he didn’t say anything else, just stood there looking at her. She lifted her shoulders a little and held his eyes.
“I have the luxury of time and resources. And Lily is someone I care about,” she said. “I will be looking into what happened to her.”
“I can’t stop you,” he said. She saw it again, that smile in his eyes. Was he playing her?
“No, you can’t,” she said. “But you can use me.” He didn’t say anything so she pushed through for what she wanted. “Let me see your file.”
He laughed a little. “Due respect? I know all about you, Ms. Strong. This is a police matter. I’m not giving my file to a writer . If you’re interested in becoming a cop, there are some applications for the academy over by the door. You can pick one up on your way out.”
She smiled. He was playing her. “I don’t think so,” she said, moving a little closer to him. “Because then I’d be more worried about following rules and protecting my turf than finding out what happened to a missing young woman who needs all the help she can get.”
Though she didn’t see it on his face, she sensed that she’d hit him hard.
He held up the CD. “Thanks again for this,” he said, moving through the door, ducking just slightly to avoid hitting his head. Through the small glass window in the wood, he turned and looked at her with an expression she couldn’t read, and then disappeared.
She walked out of the precinct wondering how long it would be before he called her. She hoped it was soon; she’d decided that she liked
“Stenopolis,” he said gruffly. A pause. “You’re kidding. What does she want?” Another longer pause, then, “Uh, no. I’ll come down.” He hung up the phone.
“Guess who’s here?” he asked her.
“Who?”
“Lydia Strong,” he said, walking out the door. Jesamyn followed him with her eyes and listened to the thunder of his big feet on the stairs.
“Oh, brother,” she said out loud to no one.
Five
Y ou really didn’t need to go out of your way like this, Ms. Strong,” Detective Stenopolis said, taking the CD from her. The precinct was busy for a Monday afternoon. Two uniformed officers were bringing in a couple of transvestite hookers, commonly known as she-males, dressed in platforms and micro-minis. They were making a point of being loud and belligerent, male voices coming out of smooth and heavily made-up faces. An older man was yelling at the young female officer at the desk about how his building on Avenue B, where he’d lived for nearly twenty years, was turning into a crack house. The phones never stopped ringing.
“Please, call me Lydia,” she said. “It was no trouble. Our email is down and I had to be in the area.”
Detective Stenopolis gave her a look that told Lydia he didn’t believe her. And she couldn’t really be offended by that because it was, of course, a bald-faced lie.
“Well, thanks. I appreciate your help,” he said, turning from her.
“Detective,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “I was hoping we could talk a second.”
He turned back to her and she saw something funny in his face. She could swear that underneath those severe, dark features, there was a smile hiding. She sized him up: six-foot-six maybe, 250 pounds at least. He wore a pair of khaki pants, a denim shirt under a leather jacket—calfskin by the feel of it. His shoes were dark brown Timberland hiking boots; they were the approximate size of Volkswagens. Most guys his size wouldn’t know how to dress, but he’d put himself together respectably enough.
“What do you want to talk about, Ms. Strong?” he said, sounding strained.
“Just wondering how much longer your supervisor is going to let you keep this case active,” she said softly, narrowing her eyes. “It has been two weeks. And it sounds to me like you have very little.”
Bull’s-eye, she thought when she saw his expression shift to surprise for a millisecond and then back to stern. But he didn’t say anything else, just stood there looking at her. She lifted her shoulders a little and held his eyes.
“I have the luxury of time and resources. And Lily is someone I care about,” she said. “I will be looking into what happened to her.”
“I can’t stop you,” he said. She saw it again, that smile in his eyes. Was he playing her?
“No, you can’t,” she said. “But you can use me.” He didn’t say anything so she pushed through for what she wanted. “Let me see your file.”
He laughed a little. “Due respect? I know all about you, Ms. Strong. This is a police matter. I’m not giving my file to a writer . If you’re interested in becoming a cop, there are some applications for the academy over by the door. You can pick one up on your way out.”
She smiled. He was playing her. “I don’t think so,” she said, moving a little closer to him. “Because then I’d be more worried about following rules and protecting my turf than finding out what happened to a missing young woman who needs all the help she can get.”
Though she didn’t see it on his face, she sensed that she’d hit him hard.
He held up the CD. “Thanks again for this,” he said, moving through the door, ducking just slightly to avoid hitting his head. Through the small glass window in the wood, he turned and looked at her with an expression she couldn’t read, and then disappeared.
She walked out of the precinct wondering how long it would be before he called her. She hoped it was soon; she’d decided that she liked
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