by Randy Mason
Jaw clenching and unclenching, Baker stared out the window. “What if this doesn’t work out? What then?”
“You make it work out.”
Baker looked at Malone. “This sucks, y’know that?”
“You want to give me back your shield and your guns right now?”
There was a long pause. “No, sir.”
“Good.” Malone pushed himself up and handed Baker a manila folder. “Here’s a copy of her jacket. It includes some of her file from juvi.”
The tall cop—after noting the spelling of Micki’s name—opened it and glanced through her record: multiple counts of robbery and aggravated robbery, aggravated assault, burglary, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer … and a charge that had been given a final disposition of justifiable homicide.
“She killed someone?”
“In self-defense.”
“I’ll bet. No prostitution charges?”
“No.”
“Yeah, right.”
With a weary sigh, Malone ran his fingers through his thinning hair. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter. “Sit down a minute, Jim. I think we better go over some basic ground rules here.”
File tucked against his body, Baker folded his arms across his chest and parked himself on the edge of the windowsill.
“You’ve got a lot of latitude in dealing with her,” Malone said. “No one’s going to interfere unless things get way out of hand. She’s a tough street kid; nobody expects you to handle her with kid gloves. As far as we can tell, she’s got no family, no friends. No one’s going to be looking out for her except the social worker and Kelly. But once a kid gets placed, Kelly takes himself out of the picture. And with the way things are going at Social Services, the kid’ll be lucky if the caseworker sees her even once after today. On the other hand, if word ever gets back to me that she’s got serious injuries from you—a broken bone or anything even close to that—you’ve had it.” Malone looked meaningfully at Baker, who shook his head slightly and looked out over his shoulder. The sky was becoming overcast. Maybe it would rain. That would be a relief.
“Now, needless to say,” Malone continued, “there’s to be no sexual contact of any kind, and the burden for ensuring that is totally on you. I’m sure, at some point, she’ll try to manipulate you. There’ll be times when you’ll be alone with her in her apartment. Whatever. I don’t care if she’s standing there naked; you make sure you keep your dick in your pants. Is that clear?”
Baker snorted. “Not to worry, Captain.”
Malone appeared less than pleased.
“So what about making sure she’s clean?” Baker asked. Unfolding his arms, he stood up and said, “I’ll need to frisk her for weapons or drugs, and I’m not about to end up like that uniform, Rodriguez.”
Officer Jesús Rodriguez, out of the one-one-two in Queens, had been on the job eight years when he was called to arrest a rather well-endowed woman suspected of shoplifting in Alexander’s department store. Uneasy with searching the suspect anywhere near her “private parts,” he made the additional mistake of cuffing her hands in front. When he bent down to calm her six-year-old son, who was screaming at the top of his lungs, the suspect managed to produce a small gravity knife hidden in her cleavage. She’d stabbed the officer in the kidney.
“I understand that,” Malone said. “You do whatever you have to—whatever’s appropriate. ‘Appropriate’ is the key word here, Jim. Just don’t step over the line.”
“She’s seventeen years old, for chrissakes. It’s not like dealing with an eight-year-old little girl. She’s, well, y’know …”
“Are you saying you can’t control yourself?”
“No! Jesus, I’m not saying that at all, I—”
“Hey!”
Baker stopped.
“You’re thirty-six,” Malone said, “technically old enough to be her father, certainly old enough to act like one.”
“But what if she—without cause, mind you—says I touched her just to—”
“Cover your ass: have other people around as much as you can. They’re witnesses. Besides, no one believes you’re capable of that kind of thing. If they did, none of this would be possible.”
“Lucky me.”
“Damn right, ‘lucky you.’ This is your easy way out, and she was the only kid available.”
Baker shook his head. “I can’t help it. I’m not comfortable with this; I’m not comfortable at all.”
“Well you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
Pacing in front of the sofa, Baker tapped the file against his thigh. “Great … fine. Fine. You know what?” His voice was rising. “I’ll treat her the same as if she were a boy. Right down the line. No better, no worse, no different. That should make everything easy, right? It shouldn’t be too tough. She fucking looks like a boy; I’ll just pretend she’s a boy.”
“I’m warning you, Jim; this is not a game.”
“Really? Then why am I supposed to be playing ‘daddy’ to some dumb, punk girl?”
“Make no mistake, she’s not dumb. They gave her a battery of tests and she’s freakishly bright. It’s one of the reasons Kelly was so interested in her.”
Baker rubbed his forehead. She was sounding more and more like a little psychopath. “So what’s she doing with a name like Micki Reilly? She looks about as Irish as Al Pacino.”
“Reilly was the last name of the guy who was looking after her on the street—kind of like a big brother.”
“I thought you said she had no friends or family.”
“The guy was a small-time drug dealer. Tried to go straight and ended up shot—more like executed, from what I understand.”
“And what about this amnesia business? How do you know it isn’t bullshit?”
“Several top-notch shrinks all said it’s the real thing, though a case like this is pretty rare. Personally, I think it’s kind of fascinating.”
“Yeah, real fascinating. And no one’s ever identified her? In all this time, no missing-persons reports ever matched?”
Malone shrugged. “She looks good as a throwaway.”
“Still …” Baker’s voice trailed off.
“Now, I’m going to get the kid and let the two of you get acquainted. Then I want you to drive her over to her apartment. You can take the social worker with you. By the way, you’re all set at the high school?”
“You really want to know? ’Cause I can’t even begin to tell you just how thrilled I am to be there.”
“You expect me to listen to you bitch about this again? Because this is a gift: it puts you—at least on paper—back on full-duty status. With the way it’s set up, your jacket’ll simply say you volunteered for a special detail—assisted with a test project to help the city look into putting cops in the schools.” Malone looked at him fixedly. “Would it kill you to show a little gratitude?”
Baker tapped the file against his hand. “Listen, I really don’t want to have to take the kid to the apartment right now. I need some time to myself on this. Can’t the social worker take her without me?”
“Jesus! You’re a real piece of work, y’know that? But you’re going to meet with her now—and without me hearing any more crap about it. Is that understood?”
“Whatever you say.”
Malone gave him a sharp look, then stepped outside his office—only to find Micki gone. His face blanched. “Where the hell is the kid? Anybody—”
“I put her in Interview One,” said the cop with the mustache.
“Well, go get her!” Malone snapped.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER AND MICKI WERE alone, Malone having gone in search of the social worker, who was now almost twenty minutes late. Standing midway between Malone’s desk and the door, Micki wasn’t sure ex
actly what she was supposed to be doing. She felt like she was on display. Baker—arms folded over his chest, manila file still in hand—was casually leaning against the wall and studying her.
She had dark brown hair that fell just below her shoulders, the uneven bangs looking like she’d trimmed them herself. On the right side of her face were two scars, both radiating from her eye: one went from the outer corner diagonally down toward her ear; the other traveled from the midpoint of her lower lid diagonally down across her cheek, practically parallel to the first. Five feet six inches tall, she was very thin, faded jeans hugging narrow hips. And with arms as muscular as a boy’s, she wore a cut-off denim jacket as a vest over a sleeveless black T-shirt. Even her sneakers were boys’ sneakers: dirty black Pro-Keds. No make-up, no nail polish, and no earrings, rings, or bracelets. But around her neck—not that it really meant anything—was a plain silver cross.
His expression dark, Baker turned his head slightly and spit into a nearby garbage pail.
Her heart seized, though her face showed nothing. Instead, looking bored, she sat down on the mustard-colored sofa, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. She stared at the black and green linoleum tiles as if they might yield up some means of escape.
Baker resumed scanning her record. “Nice sheet,” he said.
She looked up sharply.
“How much were you shooting?” he asked. Though it was all in the file, he wanted to make her say it, wanted to see if it would make her squirm.
Her eyes narrowed.
He waited.
“Sixty dollars a day,” she said flatly.
He nodded. “And in only two months. Very impressive.”
Jaw clenched, she looked away.
He closed the folder with a smug little grin.
Nothing more was said, and the silence grew heavy. When Malone returned to the office, there was a tangible, if silent, sigh of relief. Micki stood up.
Glancing from one to the other, Malone asked, “Am I interrupting anything?”
Baker and Micki exchanged dirty looks. Baker, straightening up, said, “No.”
A petite woman with sharp black eyes was waiting by Malone’s side. Dressed in an inexpensive suit and sturdy leather pumps, she was lowering her overstuffed briefcase from her shoulder to the ground.
“Micki,” Malone said, “this is Miss Teresa Gutierrez, the social worker assigned to your case.”
The woman held out her hand and smiled. “Hi, Micki. It’s so nice to meet you.” A slight Hispanic accent colored the melodic voice, and her grip was pleasantly firm. Micki perked up.
“I believe,” Malone said to the caseworker, “you’ve already met Detective Sergeant Baker.”
Still smiling, Miss Gutierrez said, “Yes, of course. Hello.”
But Baker gave only a minimal nod of recognition to this coconspirator of Malone’s. In their brief meeting a couple of weeks ago, she, too, had clearly taken great pains to hide Micki’s gender.
“Well, why don’t we get going?” she said. “We can talk on the way. I want to apologize for being late, but the case I just came from had an emergency.”
Malone said, “No problem,” and returned to his desk.
Micki picked her bag up from the floor.
Eyes bright, Miss Gutierrez slung her briefcase over her shoulder and looked toward Baker. “Let’s go, then.”
But Baker didn’t budge. “You two go ahead. I’m sure you won’t need me.”
Miss Gutierrez’s face clouded over. “I think it’s important for you to come along. I—”
“I can’t right now.” Baker stared down at her. “There’s something I have to take care of.”
Baker’s manner was so intimidating that the social worker stepped back. “Well, I—I guess …” But she never finished the sentence. Instead, she tugged at her jacket and smoothed her hair, even though it was already pulled back severely and secured with a large gold barrette. “I’m sure I can get Micki settled in just fine, and perhaps we can all get together tomorrow or Thursday.” She turned as if to go, then looked back and added, “I really do think you should come with us now while …” Her voice faded under Baker’s gaze. With a considerable yank, she adjusted the shoulder strap of her briefcase. “Yes, well, let’s go, Micki. My car is double-parked, and I don’t want to get a ticket.” She ushered Micki out and smiled at Malone, who smiled back.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI’S NEW HOME WAS in a building on Forty-Fourth Drive in Long Island City, Queens. The two-story brick structure, like its attached twin, had a protruding section with an angular bay of windows. Originally a somewhat dignified pair of single-family rowhouses, the passing years had not been kind to them. After the area had declined, they’d been divided into utilitarian units emphasizing function over form. Their once-proud stature now forgotten, they seemed to be holding on as best they could—waiting for their moment to come around again.
But to Micki, the two together looked like a turreted castle fortress, flanked on one side by the parking lot for an industrial company, and on the other by a vacant store and a corner deli. While there were apartment buildings and other rowhouses to the south and east, the surrounding blocks to the north and west consisted almost exclusively of factories, warehouses, and auto body/repair shops. Off in the distance, Manhattan skyscrapers loomed in a majestic haze. It was like looking at another planet in a science-fiction movie.
They headed up the stoop, where Micki ignored the cracked cement and splintered wood, choosing instead to focus on the stained-glass transoms that accented the first-floor windows of what had once been the parlors. Inside the building, she bounded up the stairs and found the door to her apartment, only to have to wait for Miss Gutierrez to unlock it. Without pausing to first take it all in, she threw her duffle on the little table in the middle of the room and went directly to the kitchen area. It consisted of a mini-refrigerator and an ancient gas stove next to a large, but pitted, sink. The drawers and cabinets—made of cheap, dented metal—contained several lonely pieces of orphaned items prior tenants had apparently forgotten. She rifled through the odd collection as if looking for something in particular, but found nothing much of interest and moved on.
To her right, behind the door of what used to be part of the closet next to it, was a tiny bathroom with only a toilet, a mirror, and a small stall shower. No sink. No sink!
She heard some sort of commotion in the street, and crossed to the nearest window, which had been carelessly left open. Whoever had been yelling was already gone, but out on the fire escape was an empty soda can, bent and rusted, that someone had left behind. Sticking her head out further, she looked down through the painted metal slats and saw that the lowest step of the releasable fire escape ladder was hanging just above the building’s entrance. When she looked up, she saw the rungs reached as high as the roof. She pulled her head back in, closed the window, and immediately tested the lock, which didn’t seem to work very well.
Miss Gutierrez—still standing by the door—had yet to say anything.
Micki’s eyes began to dull. Overhead, the light fixture was simply two bare bulbs. And the walls and high ceiling were cracked and irregular from repeated water damage and replastering, a thin coat of fresh white paint concealing little of the underlying layers of dirt. Even the wooden floor was heavily marred and stained, especially in the kitchen area. And when she took a closer look at the small round table beneath her bag, she found the lime-green Formica was full of scratches and burns, the two accompanying metal chairs covered in dirty yellow vinyl that looked like it had never, ever been washed.
A pine dresser had four drawers—all empty—two of which neither opened nor closed all the way no matter how much she pushed, pulled, or wrenched them from side to side. And the bed she’d so looked forward to sleeping in was nothing more than a mattress a
nd box spring sitting directly on the floor, a flat little pillow on the end against the wall. There were no pretty fabrics, no detail or woodwork—nothing at all to try to make the place look nice. The only part of the apartment that held any sort of charm was the turret area. Light streamed in from its three bare windows and fell upon a beat-up wooden desk with a chair, a lamp, and a clock. But no phone. She’d seen a payphone, though, at the top of the stairs in the hall.
Not surprisingly, the rent—which included gas, heat, and electricity—was very low, low enough that her pay would be more than the half she was required to contribute. The remainder of her meager income would have to cover everything else, including food, laundry, and clothes. On the ride over, Miss Gutierrez had emphasized that she was being given a lot of responsibility, and it was up to her to prove she could handle living as an adult. But while the social worker had an optimistic way of talking—as if everything were an opportunity and a challenge—Micki had read the woman’s face when they’d first entered the apartment: she didn’t approve of its condition. What Micki had no way of knowing were all the other things Miss Gutierrez didn’t approve of.
For one thing, the location of the apartment was less than ideal: by subway and bus it was a good forty-five minutes or so from the high school where Micki would be a student. Located in Queens Village—a decent area with a much lower crime rate but higher rents than what the city was willing to pay—the school had been chosen solely for its academic excellence. As for Detective Sergeant Baker, he’d be working at the school so he could keep an eye on Micki. He lived on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, nowhere near Micki’s apartment—or the school, for that matter. Of course, his commute would most likely be easy since he’d always be driving against traffic. Well, how very, very nice, the social worker thought. For him.
The truth was, Detective Sergeant Baker himself was Miss Gutierrez’s main concern. During his exceptionally brief interview with her, he’d sat in her office doing little more than glowering and asking repeatedly how much longer their “talk” was going to take. Not once did he ask for any information pertaining to caring for a difficult child or the resources that might be available to assist him. It was obvious he wasn’t a willing participant, and, for the life of her, she couldn’t fathom why he was being given custody. Twice she tried to elicit the reasons behind his desire to look after a child at this particular time in his life, and each time, while drumming his fingers on the table, he asked, “You did speak to Captain Malone, right?” He was referring to her meeting the day before, when the captain had made it very clear that her interview with Baker was merely a formality: Baker would be given custody of Micki regardless of her opinion as to his suitability. And she found him highly unsuitable. A single male with absolutely no parenting skills, he was too young for a girl of Micki’s age. He also had a chip on his shoulder. Based on what Malone had said, he was a good cop. But Micki needed a parent more than a parole officer.