“How did I think this would be a good idea?” Becca asked.
“I can hear you in there,” Lawrence called out from the other room.
Becca threw up her hands in exasperation. She sighed. Then she turned and marched back into the living room. “Okay, well, then, guess we’ll just get this out in the open. Super awkward, but,” she offered up an exaggerated shrug as he way of saying: guess it doesn’t matter, does it?
“Why is it awkward?” Lawrence asked.
Throwing the man a look, she grunted. Becca began to pace. She planted her hands on her hips as she moved back and forth in a tight line, back and forth, back and forth. She felt her blood pressure rising in her temples. Sweat slickened her palms. Her jaw tightened. A thousand braying thoughts chased each other inside the dusty arena of her mind. Suddenly, she stopped. She directed her gaze toward Lawrence, making sure to meet his eyes. Resisting the urge to remember just how much she loved his enigmatic-yet-strong blue eyes and the feel of his coarse hands, Becca forced herself to maintain her composure.
“It’s awkward because we used to sleep together, Lawrence,” she said. It wasn’t the most eloquent speech, but it was the truth. And sometimes veracity had to suffice.
“Yeah, but why is that awkward?” Lawrence asked. “And what does it have to do with the price of turtles in Austin?”
“The price of what? In what?” Becca asked, raising one eyebrow. She needed a second to realize what the man had done. “You’re not really the creative type. What’s up with this whole adjusting maxims thing?”
“Oh, I’ve been reading this book on neuroplasticity. The SO gave us some wellness thing or whatever. Basically, they pay us to read. We get to choose,” Lawrence said.
“And you chose… neuroplasticity?” Becca asked, raising one eyebrow incredulously. She made a hand gesture. “And that choice, in turn, led you to say weird stuff?”
Unperturbed, Lawrence nodded. “Pretty much,” he said. He cleared his throat. “My mother had Alzheimer’s. I hated it. Scares me. So, I’ve been thinking about trying to stay sharp.” Lawrence tapped his temple with a beefy finger. “Plus, it helps me catch bad guys. They’re always evolving. Have to stay on top of things. Need to remain sharp,” he said.
“Speaking of bad guys,” Becca said.
“Nope,” Lawrence said, raising one hand. “I need a stiff drink and a cookie before we get to that. Plus, I still need to iron my uniform.” He reached over and patted the brown pants resting on the couch beside him.
Just then, Catterina decided to make an appearance. Running in from around the corner, she jumped up on the couch, made a little circle, then plopped down. Right on top of Lawrence’s uniform. The chubby gray-and-white feline placed its head delicately on its paws, one eye remaining open as she shared a sly smile with her owner. The creature started purring shortly thereafter, lashing her tail back and forth.
“You have one of those fur roller thingamabobs?” Lawrence asked, grinning. He leaned over and scratched the interloping kitty’s hindquarters.
“I warned you,” Becca said. She smiled fondly. “I’ll go get it. And check on your cookies. But I really do need some guidance before you head out,” she said. “I might even need a few favors.” With that, she scurried back into the kitchen to check on her daughter’s progress.
“How are things going?” she asked. “Smells good.”
“They’re about done. But I hope I added enough ginger. The recipe only calls for one teaspoon?” Denise asked, chewing her bottom lip nervously. She leaned against a granite countertop and folded her arms across her chest. Frowning, she stared vacantly down at the tile floor. The normally bombastic girl remained quiet for several seconds, as if contemplating the profundity of measurements.
“You okay?” Becca asked, her tone gentle but concerned.
“Yeah. I’m just a little overwhelmed. I know you’re having a bad day, so I wanted to make these exactly right. And now I’m not sure if I did. And I feel guilty about abandoning David. And I’m…”
Becca interrupted her daughter with a quick hug. “Shhhh,” she said. She patted Denise’s back. “It’s okay, love,” she said. One of the worst things in life was seeing one’s child in distress. Of course, right up there with that was probably discovering a corpse dumped in your bathroom. But Becca couldn’t change the past. She could, however, provide comfort to the sad girl in her arms in an effort to alleviate any harms in the future.
Pulling herself away, she held her daughter at arm’s distance. Becca inspected Denise’s face. Frowning thoughtfully, Becca wiped a stray tear from her little girl’s cheek. “You’re usually so stoic,” she said. “What brought this on? Are you on your period?” Immediately after the words had geysered out, Becca regretted them. She rushed to apologize. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Denise sniffled. She lowered her head. She smirked. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Yes, I am on my period, mom,” she said.
Blowing out a thick cloud of air, Becca shook her head. She leaned back against a counter, raising one hand to her forehead as she closed her eyes. She fought a rising tide of exasperation and frustrated anxiety. It seemed like everything in her world had been suddenly, violently upended. Even the act of cooking- something so natural to Becca that it was almost ingrained into the very fibers of her DNA- was becoming a chore. “Is this grief? What is going on?” she asked.
“Maybe you really should take a few days off. I mean, David and I hardly ever get to see you. We’re all messed-up and overwhelmed. Hey, you know, investigating this whole thing might actually do you some good. It’d be cathartic. Give you some closure,” Denise said.
Opening her eyes, Becca looked at her daughter. Biting her fingernails reflexively, she began tapping one foot on the floor. “What makes you say that?” she asked. The last thing she wanted to think about right then was HER BIG PROBLEM. But Becca also knew she needed to address the proverbial elephant in the room. It wasn’t going to just vanish. The memory alone had been indelibly seared into the walls of her subconscious. Not only that, but there were multiple people involved. And the hint of scandal, much less potential homicide, raised the stakes to their highest possible level.
“Well, mom, it’s not like this is something you can just forget. It’s not a dropped pan of scones. It’s not an angry customer or a bad review. This isn’t even you dropping scalding coffee on the Mayor’s young son’s hand on your opening day,” Denise said.
“Don’t remind me of that. Please,” Becca said, groaning.
“THAT was a bad day,” Denise said.
“I remember. I don’t want to. But I do,” Becca said. She briefly recalled how, on the Three Sassters grand opening, the Mayor had come waddling up with his ruddy, cherubic, clean-shaven face, eager to get photographed having a cup of joe at the shiny new downtown establishment. Having shown up with wife and child in tow, he’d been more than happy to shake hands and mingle with his constituents.
Of course, that was until Becca, nerves overwrought and fatigue causing her to shake violently, accidentally spilled scalding coffee on the man’s son.
“I could have sworn he was going to pull my permits and drive me out of town,” she said. Then a thought struck her. “You know, maybe I should think of the potential political implications here. I’m an outsider. Anyone who’s actually from here is wary of us. In fact, they all pretty much hate us. They don’t even take the time to get to know us. We’re just all Californians to the locals. The natives just view as hostile foreign invaders looking to rape the land and then leave them to clean up the ashes. With my already being on the not-so-friendly list, maybe I shouldn’t be poking my nose around,” Becca said.
Then she sniffed the air. Something was wrong. It took a second for her overwhelmed brain to register that it was the cookies. Flapping her arms, Becca thrust herself into action. She rushed over to the open, yanking it open. A hissing cloud of thick smoke assaulted her face. Almost as if on cue, a timer began buzzing behind her. The n
oise added to the stress of the moment. Unable to deal with the cacophonous clamoring, Becca waved one arm angrily, summoning her daughter to silence the offending device. Straightening up, she glanced around for some oven mitts. In the haste of the moment, she’d forgotten where everything was. Plucking the protective wear off of a nearby cupboard knob, Becca quickly removed the tray of cookies.
Placing them down on a counter, Becca quickly inspected them. Only a few seemed burned beyond repair. The others had gotten a little brown and crisp, but they would be edible. Checking the oven as she turned it off, Becca noticed that her daughter had set it 50 degrees too high. “Honey, the recipe said 350,” she said.
“Nuh-uh. Said 400,” Denise countered. She began searching for the recipe to prove her point.
“Forget it,” Becca said, sighing. She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “It’s 350, for future reference,” she said.
“Everything okay in here?” Lawrence asked, appearing in the doorway, a wry grin on his face.
Chapter 5
“That’s crazy,” Lawrence said.
“I know,” Becca said. She’d experienced the ordeal. Her retelling had been a first-hand account of the day’s events. She could hardly believe it, and she’d witnessed everything.
“Well, I can tell you that Esposito has been on the Sheriff’s radar,” Lawrence said. “I’m pretty sure,” he let the words trail off.
“What? You can’t do that. Now you have to tell me,” Becca said, leaning forward, eager to hear the big secret.
“I’ll deny it, if anyone ever asks. I mean it. You can NOT tell anyone I divulged this information,” Lawrence said. He frowned when he saw Becca nod in response. “Goes for everyone else in this house that can hear me,” he said, raising his voice. He turned his head and chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second. Then he sighed. “Okay, well, there is an inter-agency taskforce now. A new one. We’ve always had the drug one. But it’s for OC. Sorry, organized crime. County, city, some state guys, even a suit from the feds,” he said.
“Okay, I just make cakes and pies for a living. You’re going to have to spell this out for me. I mean, it all sounds thoroughly fascinating and riddled with intrigue. But I just have no clue what any of it means,” Becca said.
Lawrence cleared his throat. He shifted his position. Leaning forward, he grabbed his locally produced craft beer and took a swig. Then he nibbled thoughtfully on his last cookie. “Very good, by the way,” he said, raising the dessert to his interlocutor and smiling.
“You have to get to work soon. C’mon,” Becca said.
“Okay, impatient. Gah!” Lawrence said. “Look, a lot of the times, we law enforcement folks, we… we share some rivalries. We are often competing for resources. Plus, while we all have our own little defined niches, a lot of stuff interlaps. It’s like a crazy Venn diagram. So, there can be some real personal animosity. People look down on the SO. They see us as mostly overweight, overpaid, undertrained jail guards. However, we have jurisdiction throughout the entire county. So, not only do we process and house the folks the munis haul in, but we have to be called in any time someone sets foot outside the city limits,” he said.
“Guys sometimes come in on a drug bust. We’ve got them in jail. Maybe the DA lets them out. We still get some of the blame. Maybe the guy is still coordinating some of his drug deals through our phone system. Who knows? The point is, we don’t always work well together,” Lawrence said.
“But, I mean…” Becca said, troubled to hear this. She’d never devoted much thought to the idea of intergovernmental rivalries. She’d always just assumed everyone wearing a badge cared about protecting and serving more than bureaucratic pettiness.
“We SHOULD cooperate. We all know it. It’s in everyone’s best interests, ultimately. And, honestly, that’s the real way to make sure we make our communities safer. Criminals, they know the game. They’ve been around long enough. They get plenty of time to pour over their discovery and watch documentaries and such. They know we don’t always communicate effectively, and they use that to their advantage,” Lawrence said. “Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that if you just set up your little meth trailer right on the edge of federal land, we have to go through all sorts of hoops to bust them. So, even if we spot them, they can just move on to the next place. Sure, we’ll probably get them- they only need to mess up once. But it might take years, even decades. Meanwhile, all that bad dope is just flowing through town,” he said.
Becca nodded. She found the conversation fascinating. After having slept with the man on and off since moving to Bend, she wondered how she’d never heard any of this before. In a way, it made him more attractive. She waited silently for more. She hoped at some point, he’d reveal how all of the background data was relevant to the corpse in her pastry bar bathroom.
“Anyway, I’m rambling,” Lawrence said. He smiled in a self-deprecating fashion. “So, we have had a drug taskforce for a while. Having one central clearinghouse allows us more operational flexibility. We don’t have the same vulnerabilities. Not as much, anyway. The taskforce generally only takes on special cases. The ones where everyone is forced to admit their own agencies aren’t sufficient. And that takes some pride and delicate handling, to reach that point,” he said. He shook his head. “Get to the point, Lawrence,” he admonished himself.
“Yes, please,” Becca said.
“Pssh,” Lawrence said, shooting the confectioner a look. But he smiled. “The point I was trying to make was that we have a new interagency task force. For organized crime. Now, I’m not exactly sure what that means or entails. But I know it exists and I know it’s hush-hush because my Lieutenant came to me and asked if I’d like to join,” he said. “Mucho street cred and promotion points when you do this. Fast-track status. I mean, really,” he said.
“Okay, now I need to know about this,” Becca said, adopting a thoughtful pose.
“Sheesh,” Lawrence said, glancing at his gold watch. He frowned. “Yeah, so the PIO, uh, public information officer- PR person, essentially- is usually the way to position one’s self for a future Sheriff bid. However, the way to get promoted to one of the other top jobs, such as Captain, is to get on some high-profile gig. You know, homicide, undercover narcotics, something splashy. The desk jockeys love feeling like they’re around real tough guys. Let’s them live vicariously. They absorb some of that toughness. They strut around, infected by this tough-by-proxy vibe. But, anyway, it can really help with the lower ranks, too. Normal beat guys lap that stuff up. The last thing people at the bottom want is some nerd with four degrees running around telling them to get shot at for no reason,” he said.
Becca smiled. She liked seeing Lawrence talk. Normally, he was a reserved man. Not at all expressive. In fact, she couldn’t remember any other time when he’d used so many words. He’d never shown any desire to tell her about his job. When they’d first met in a bar, Lawrence had even lied about what he did for a living. It was only after they’d shared a few intimate moments that he’d divulged the real details about his profession. Though he’d never elucidated further.
“That was very enlightening,” she said. “However, how does it help me?” she asked. “Because, the way I see it, investigating this thing would be fun. I’ve always wanted to do something like this. So, it’d be exciting. And I really am afraid to go to sleep tonight. The memory of that poor boy on the floor,” Becca sighed. She closed her eyes as if trying to forget the image.
“You really think it would help? You want closure or something?” Lawrence asked.
“Yeah, Lawrence. I would like some closure,” she said. “Not everyone is a compartmentalized, barely functional alcoholic and emotional wreck like you.”
“Sheesh,” Lawrence said, paling. He jerked his head away. “Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you.”
“I’m sorry,” Becca said. And she was. She felt her pulse accelerate. Her shame and embarrassment mixed to form a volatile brew in her
mind. Recent events had conspired to wreak havoc on her nerves. Normally, she was a polite, tactful woman, ready with the right riposte at the right moment. However, something had changed. “I hope I won’t be like this forever,” she said, casting a sideways glance toward her friend.
“Wait until you get the glimpses into human nature that I’m privy to every day,” Lawrence said, winking. He cleared his throat. Placing a thoughtful finger on his chin, he cast a far-off, pensive gaze toward the far wall. He remained quiet for several long moments. When he spoke, his tone was soft. “Sometimes, there are things in life you don’t WANT to know. Sometimes you search for closure, only to open up Pandora’s box.”
“Great, so, you’re saying not to do this?” Becca asked. She snorted. “You do know that your telling me only makes me want to do it even more, right?” she asked, raising one eyebrow. She chuckled when the Sheriff’s Deputy stuck his tongue out at her. “Very mature.”
“Okay, let’s start with the pros. What good could come from you personally poking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” Lawrence asked, looking directly at Becca. His gaze was intense.
Becca flinched under the weight of his gaze. She glanced away, trying to think. She didn’t like how the man continued to have certain effects on her. Becca prided herself on her independence and strength. However, all of that seemed to evaporate every time she spent more than a few seconds alone in the same room with Lawrence. The man was her kryptonite. Chewing on her nails, Becca searched her mental inventory for anything that might satisfy the hard-charging expert. “Well, to be honest, I think it might be fun,” she said. She blushed.
“’It might be fun?’” Lawrence asked, raising one eyebrow. Everything about his expression communicated his incredulity.
“That’s a plus, isn’t it? I mean, shouldn’t my happiness be important to you?” Becca asked. She regretted the words as soon as they came out. Yet, a part of her watched the man intently, searching for any clues his reaction might provide. It felt like a low blow. And not particularly well-timed. Nonetheless, sometimes one needed an impulsive faux pas to get to the bottom of something.
Slice of the Pie Page 5