by Warren Adler
There was also no question in Fiona's mind that the woman knew her effect on others and had probably developed her own method of using it to her advantage. Fiona found herself resisting intimidation, attempts at which rarely made the slightest dent in her confidence. Who would be the junior in this relationship, Fiona wondered, already seeing her expected place usurped by Prentiss's sense of physical authority.
Prentiss had barely sat down when Sherry arrived with a coffee mug that she set in front of Prentiss and, without asking preference, poured strong, steaming, no-nonsense black coffee into it. Then she waddled away, dispensing coffee as she went down the line.
"Breakfast?" Fiona asked.
"I'm fine," Prentiss said, fixing her inspecting glance on Fiona.
"Seems like the Eggplant has put us in the soup together."
"Eggplant?"
"Our good Captain Luther Greene's moniker," Fiona explained pleasantly. "He knows we call him that. Probably hates it."
"We all have our cross to bear," Prentiss said, flashing her girlish smile. Fiona noted that her breasts formed a protruding ledge over the table's edge. Prentiss's sharply inspecting eyes seemed to take in the astonishment of Fiona's gaze. "I've lived with a lot worse appellations."
"I'll bet you have."
It occurred to Fiona that her very awesomeness might have suggested to the Eggplant his idea of female pairing to investigate female homicides. Perhaps, too, it was a private joke. Pair the white queen with the black queen and see how the cards fell. She rebuked herself for the racial reference, but then race was the dominating motif in this environment, with gender a close second, especially among the black men and especially in the Eggplant's gender-and-race-tortured mind.
As to what she believed was the Eggplant's truer motive, the elimination of the possibility of sexual harassment, this amazon carried immunity from such activities in her genes. No male would dare risk even the tiniest castrating look from this female, no less make an attempt to bed her.
"You like the idea of a woman partner?" Fiona asked, noting the uncommon humility displayed by her question.
"I like the idea of an intelligent partner," Prentiss said. "I can tell by their resentment that you must be one helluva detective."
"As you said, we all have our cross to bear," Fiona said, regretting the natural sarcasm that the remark implied. She'd have to stop that with this woman, she cautioned herself. It was the side of her that she showed most around the department, a kind of shield against revealing any soft edges. Soft edges had to be carefully disguised, even if it was only to ward off the pain of the vocation, that steady drumbeat of horror that permeated the life of a homicide cop.
"I don't see it as a cross," Prentiss said. "Our gender belongs in this business."
"So you think the captain has a point?"
"It's an interesting experiment," Prentiss said, noncommitally. Of course, Fiona reasoned, she was new. It would be self-defeating to be less than a diplomat at this stage. This woman, so startlingly noticeable, must have long ago devised a coping system to react to any new situation.
"Experiment?" Fiona said. "Yes. I guess that's what it is. Although the chances are, we'll be getting mostly domestics, where the perpetrator is hardly a mystery."
"Maybe he thinks we'll be more tenacious," Prentiss said. "More zealous in closing cases where the perp is a male."
"The castrating female syndrome. That's one way of looking at it," Fiona agreed. The woman had insight, which was a superb trait to have in a partner. Oddly, even the Eggplant had not expressed his goals in that way. His version was that women better understood women, who invariably were the victims, not the perpetrators. Prentiss had quickly seen the other side, the push to discovery and judgment, an idea that reflected the Eggplant's fear and, perhaps, ultimate belief in the idea that women hated men.
Fiona felt the power of Prentiss's probing glance as the woman studied her over the lip of the coffee mug as she sipped. Not to be outdone, Fiona picked up her mug and stared her down, neither woman giving way. A man, Fiona knew, would have flinched. Not this baby.
"So what do you see?" Prentiss asked pleasantly. This, Fiona speculated, was her most congenial side.
"Intelligence. Someone in full control of herself. A lady who knows where she's going."
Prentiss smiled again and shook her head from side to side.
"I'm glad you feel that way," Prentiss said. "However inaccurate."
"Not for one moment do I believe your self-effacement," Fiona laughed.
"Fair enough. I won't believe yours either. I've done my research. Fact is, we're both damned good."
"Not much humility at this table," Fiona said.
"Why should there be?" Prentiss chuckled.
"When you got it, flaunt it."
"There's truth in those words, woman," Prentiss said, with just a touch of black street intonation, as if to signal that she could be at home in whatever coloring her space consisted of.
"You must have been insufferable in LA," Fiona said without sarcasm or insult.
"I was. I was racing up the ladder until my daddy got sick. I had to be with him."
"Does he know that it took a career sacrifice?" Fiona asked.
Prentiss laughed.
"Is that funny?"
"You don't know my daddy. The whole underpinning of his life is that his daughter is infallible, a perfect specimen, without flaws. He informed me early on that I would never have trouble making it on my own, however or wherever. The fact is, he disapproves of my calling. He considers it beneath me."
"Well, we have something half in common then. I was my father's sun, moon and solar system. Mother thought my immortal soul had bought it."
"Of course, Dad would have preferred that I had become a doctor or a lawyer," Prentiss sighed. For the first time, she let her eyes look elsewhere than into Fiona's. Her eyelids fluttered as if she were about to break down in tears. But when her eyes lifted again, they were clear.
"Only you couldn't resist the lure of the cops. My current significant other believes that people who become cops control nothing in their lives and are therefore eager to practice enforcement on others."
"Maybe," Prentiss shrugged, and seemed to look inward for a long moment. "I guess we all have our special reasons." Fiona wondered what hers were. "I wanted to be a homicide detective." Her eyes glazed and she looked beyond Fiona, into some private void. "I suppose it satisfies some deep-seated thirst for vengeance." She sucked in a deep breath, then offered a smile. "I have self-actualized myself."
Vengeance? Fiona wondered.
It was obvious to Fiona that Gail Prentiss was taking little risk when it came to her private self. Except that, despite the heavy guard the woman had erected around herself, there was just enough passive revelation and hint of vulnerability to suggest an understanding between them.
Sensing this, Fiona realized that there was something remarkable about the Eggplant's plan. Had this happened when Fiona was paired with partners of the other gender? There had been a closeness, certainly a loyalty, but this struck her as different. She wondered if that meant deeper, more intimate. Was this a fact or merely a wish? She wasn't sure.
"One thing is certain," Fiona said. "It's the motivation of the bad guys that we have to be concerned with. Not ours."
"I'll buy that."
"I say we take the leap of faith on the Eggplant's idea ... Gail." She savored the used of the woman's first name, watching Prentiss's face for any sign that the first name appellation was unwelcome. Gail Prentiss smiled.
"I've leaped ... Fiona."
Fiona felt her throat constrict as the blood rushed to heat her face.
"My father was the first senator to protest the killing and horror of Vietnam. It flushed his career down the toilet."
It had suddenly seemed necessary for Fiona to offer her new partner the defining issue of her life.
"Yes," Gail nodded. She would, of course, have been extra thorough in checking Fion
a out, far more thorough than Fiona had been in researching Gail's past.
"Although very young at the time, the aftermath created in me a profound hatred of murderers," Fiona said, wondering, as always when she gave this explanation, if it made any sense at all. She had heard every argument to the contrary about her being "misplaced" or in an occupation "beneath her" in this blue-collar and often thankless occupation that brought her an income but could not begin to pay for her lifestyle. Thankfully, she had the subsidy of her inheritance.
"I suppose a number of your colleagues think of you as a hobbyist, slumming in the slime."
"It does require an extra effort on my part to overcome the bias," Fiona said, studying Gail for a reaction.
Gail performed her girlish laugh and put a bouquet of graceful, tapered fingers on Fiona's arm.
"I've got the advantage of skin pigment. But I know the drill, although in LA, few knew my real background."
"Which is?"
"My father is a second-generation surgeon who was the head of the National Chirulogical Society, which is an organization of economically comfortable black surgeons. Mother, who died a number of years ago, was a Ph.D. from Howard, very class conscious. She insisted I come out as a debutante in our annual ball that makes its white counterpart look like a bash at Sloppy Joe's. Contrary to accepted stereotypes, I am the daughter of privilege, a bookend image of yourself."
It was obvious to Fiona that Gail had an elitist view of herself, typical of Washington's Gold Coast blacks, who saw themselves as victors in their epic struggle to rise above their humble origins and, therefore, as inherently superior to their white counterparts. Fiona's insight told her that it was important for Gail to "equalize" the relationship before embarking on the commonality of sisterhood.
"Unfortunately, my daddy is dying, Fiona. He is and will always be the most important man in my life."
For the first time, Fiona caught the emotion in the brief, very brief crack in Gail's voice. But it explained why she had had to come home.
It seemed a big enough slice of bonding for a first occasion and Fiona, as the "old hand," diverted from the personal stuff to outline how the squad and department worked. She filled Prentiss in on the politics of the job, the various competing ambitions, including the Eggplant's desire to be the police chief someday, a job that was as prestigious as it was politically dangerous in the current climate.
Mostly, she offered as much insight as possible into the machinations of Captain Luther Greene, his frailties and strengths, his hot-dog tendencies, his fears and his professional brilliance and courage in the clutch. She also reiterated what she had learned about the various female harassments that he was currently enduring and her theory about the resultant reaction, which was this pairing process. Except for any mention of race and its implications, Fiona felt she had given Gail a balanced picture, which to any new staff person seemed necessary, perhaps crucial to their future in the homicide squad.
She also gave her a rundown of all her colleagues, cataloguing their foibles, eccentricities and, most of all, their hot buttons and vulnerabilities. There was no need to dwell again on matters of class distinction. They both knew what that meant and how those waters were navigated.
Even as Fiona spoke she felt that her information was overkill to a woman like Gail Prentiss, whose formidable intelligence easily accommodated facts and quickly absorbed understanding.
Gail had listened closely to her explanation while Sherry waddled by again to fill their coffee cups.
"Got it," Gail said, when Fiona had finished. She looked at her watch.
"Morning call," Fiona said. "He needs to berate us on Monday mornings. We all consider it his therapy. The weekend for him has been horrendous. The corpses have rolled in at their usual accelerated weekend pace. Mostly gang and drug-related killings with the usual innocents that got caught in the crossfire. There's not enough personnel to do the job. But his nerves are jangling from his home life as well, his bitch of a wife singing her song about the man's failure."
Gail shook her head in sympathy.
"Both of us come in fresh," Fiona muttered. "I was off duty this weekend and this is your first day. So be forewarned about the culture shock."
Gail slid out of the booth and stood up to her full height, her ramrod straight posture emphasizing her bosom. Standing, Fiona, who was a mere five-seven, was able to see the full extent of the woman's size. As they walked past the booths, all heads turned to inspect Gail, this magnificent phenomenon.
Fiona had, at first, expected to feel some sense of sympathetic embarrassment for the woman because she was so conspicuous, but as she followed in her wake and watched the shocked inspection of the gauntlet, she felt, instead, pride, pride in her gender.
Outside, as they moved in tandem toward the headquarters building, Fiona could not contain herself.
"You are something, Gail. I'm going to enjoy seeing the looks on the faces of our colleagues when I introduce you around."
Gail made no comment. Her thoughts seemed elsewhere. Certainly, she had learned years ago how to cope with other people's reactions to her, although, watching her peripherally as they walked, Fiona could sense that there was something else that went with this territory of lofty magnificence.
She wondered if that something else was loneliness.
3
As expected, the various members of the homicide division could not take their eyes off of her, men and women alike. Fiona knew, of course, that those that affected the personas of insatiable studs, the crotch grabbers, would fantasize challenges. Others might be contemptuous, perhaps even jealous of her commanding physicality.
The Eggplant managed to conceal his Monday morning irritation for a brief polite moment in which he made his general introduction of welcome to the new officer.
"We welcome you to the fold, Officer Prentiss, and wish you luck. You'll need it here in the murder capital of America. We are the hired hands of an indifferent society, modern civilization's human garbage collectors. We are the avengers of those who dare to violate the sixth commandment, 'Thou Shalt Not Kill.'"
He took a deep breath, impressed with this little homily to the newly arrived. His nostrils quivered and he patted the side pocket of his pants in a reflexive search for matches to light his once ever-present panatelas, now outlawed in the building. He chewed them unlit now.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have had ten murders this weekend, our usual fare." The statistic had already been posted in the squad room. It was no mystery to most of those present, some of whom had worked on them over the weekend. A number, the obvious ones, had already been closed, the killers apprehended. Others, they all knew, would never be closed.
The Eggplant droned on, cataloguing the most difficult cases, describing the circumstances. Two children had been killed by drive-bys and the leads had already evaporated in the melting fear of the eyewitnesses. After about a half-hour of this recital, his message became a harangue and he worked himself into a sweating stew of frustration and anger. He was obviously tired and overworked, overwrought and besieged.
One of the children was a nine-year-old female and it fell to them, under the Eggplant's new dictum, to take the case, following up the scene work done by colleagues during the weekend mop-up. The child had been playing in an alley beside her house in southeast Washington. Suddenly there was a spray of bullets from a semi-automatic and another innocent child was caught in the crossfire, a common by-product of the city's gang wars.
Both Fiona and Gail knew the drill. There would be no credible witnesses. The parent, usually a single mother, would be paralyzed with shock, the grandparent, invariably a single woman not quite out of her thirties, would be livid with uncontrolled rage and a great-grandmother, church-going, law-abiding, self-sacrificing, would view the spectacle with resignation and despair, a family of female victims.
Heading southeast, Fiona used the car phone to call Dr. Benson, the medical examiner, and her closest friend in the departme
nt. He always took her call, whether at the forensic lab or in his office.
In this case, the call had added significance. Dr. Benson always personally performed the autopsies on child homicides, hoping that the secrets he meticulously uncovered in the dead tissue would whip up enough anger in the squad to speed the apprehension of the killers. It invariably accomplished the former but rarely the latter.
Performing them always left him deeply depressed. At times, it fell to Fiona to nudge him back to, if not tranquility, at least normality. He knew that he could avoid the whole process by delegating the duty to others, but for his own inexplicable reasons, he insisted on doing them.
"Yes, Fiona," he said, his deep bass pervading the car. She had the phone on mike.
"I'm here with my new partner, Gail Prentiss, Dr. Benson."
"Please to meet you, Doctor," Gail said.
"I am very fond of your father, dear," he said. Dr. Benson was always well tuned in on what was happening in the homicide squad and invariably knew the buzz before Fiona.
"Thank you, Doctor," Gail said. "You know, of course, that Dad is not very well."
Dr. Benson sighed.
"Yes, I do."
"We're on this Thompson girl," Fiona said softly.
"Beyond belief. Her face was gone."
"Poor thing," Fiona said.
There was a long pause.
"Why the innocent children?" he sighed.
Fiona and Gail exchanged glances of understanding. It was a question that could never be answered.
"No leads?" Dr. Benson asked.
"Not so far," Fiona said. It was rare to find any in this type of crime, unless one of the witnesses eyeballed the perps. Most, unless they were very close relatives, were too frightened to come forward.
"Are you alright, Doctor?" Fiona asked gently.
"In despair, ladies. In despair."
His feelings were genuine.
Fiona wanted to tell Gail more about Dr. Benson, how his compassion and wisdom sustained her, how much she loved him and worried about him, but she was forestalled by another call.