by Cohen, Celia
“So this is Kotter,” Big Holly said.
“Yeah, this is Kotter,” I said. The handshake she gave me was gentle, not at all the bearlike squeeze he had given Randie, and I took the opportunity to get a good look at her. Big Holly’s face was wide and open, her hair was red and pulled back, and her eyes were trusting, even though there was something in them that said her trust had been misplaced more than once. She seemed like someone who could handle the disappointment. I liked her, although of course I liked any friend of Randie’s.
Big Holly put us at a favored table she had saved for the occasion—in a corner by one of the candle-lit windows. Randie and Jaws drank beer, and Julie had Evian. I got the eye from Randie and drank Coke, even though I had learned to drink beer with the softball team last summer and Jaws and I had been sharing a bottle or two during our steamy sessions in her Mustang. Jaws took a long swallow, then leaned over and kissed me, and I loved the forbidden taste of it on her fervent lips. I had never kissed anyone in public before—Randie walking in on Shamrock and me didn’t count—and I felt the stirrings deep inside. Jaws and I danced close and slow, but then Randie took Jaws aside and spoke earnestly to her, and it looked as though their talk would go on for a long time, so I danced affectionately with Julie. I did not know what Randie and Jaws discussed, and I never asked. It didn’t matter, because I was sure nothing would go wrong.
Later we went back into the kitchen to meet Little Holly, and then Randie and Julie danced together, as electric as new lovers. In the course of the evening, it became natural to call Randie by her name, and another threshold was crossed.
The Hollies became very important in my life. Jaws and I went there a lot to dance and make the most of its dark and secret corners. Big Holly, who was the generous one, invited us to go into an unused room now and then, without charging us for it, and Little Holly, who had the business sense, didn’t make a fuss.
That was the way things went into the spring, when I finally had the showdown with Wendell and Lynn about not going to college and fled the house. It was so irrevocably grave that Randie didn’t even try to talk me into going back. Instead, she got the Hollies to take me in, giving me work in exchange for room and board and tips. Randie lent me money to buy a car and arranged for me to enroll in the criminal justice curriculum at the community college, starting in the summer session after I finished high school. I was on my way to being a cop.
Jaws graduated from Hillsboro College and went off to try out for the Olympic softball team. I was too busy to be lonely, and anyway, there were a lot of pretty women who made their way to the Hollies.
The next summer, when I was at Randie’s and Julie’s house, we watched the Olympics on television and saw that Jaws had, indeed, made the team. So had Shamrock. In fact, they were the winning battery—Shamrock pitching, Jaws catching—in the gold-medal game, won by the USA in a taut thriller, 1-0.
Afterwards, Randie chuckled. “You know what, Kotter?” she said. “I bet there isn’t anyone on this earth who got laid by the Olympic team more than you.”
Chapter Six
Julie was pouring coffee. “I’ll say this for you, Kotter, you sure have a knack for romancing world-class athletes. First Shamrock, then Jaws and now Alie de Ville.”
“Who said anything about romancing Alie de Ville?” I protested.
Randie chuckled. “Come on, Kotter. Who do you think you’re trying to kid?”
“How do you figure it, Randie?” Julie said. “What is it about Kotter that has them dying to get her in the sack?”
“Well, it sure isn’t her good looks and personality,” Randie needled. She gave me a once-over so searching it could have taken X-rays. “It’s got to be that damn cocksure attitude. Those athletes have such an ego, they feel challenged, and they want to get her in bed and make her submit. You do submit, don’t you, Kotter?”
“For Christ’s sake, Randie!” I yelped.
The telephone rang. Randie glanced at the Caller ID. “Oh hell, it’s the desk sergeant. This can’t be good news.” She picked up the receiver. “Hello?…Yes, Mac, what’s up?...All right. Who’s on it?...Tell Rashad to put Potter on it, too. I know he’s supposed to have another day off, but the chief is going to have to show the mayor we’re doing everything we can...Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle it. Tell them I’m on my way.”
Randie hung up the phone. All the easiness of the evening had left her. She was a police captain again. “There was trouble at the tennis banquet tonight. A couple of goons jumped Papa de Ville in the parking lot while he was leaving. They got away. Now he’s demanding more security for Alie, but she wants no part of it. Kotter, do you have a change of clothes with you?”
“Sure,” I said. In this line of work, you always had to be prepared.
“Then come on. I need you. We’ve got to get to the College Inn.”
I stood up—slowly—because it was all the time I would have for the transition back to duty. I wasn’t Randie’s friend Kotter anymore. I was just another officer to be deployed. I gave her the smirk, the one that said this cop could take anything the brass dished out. “Whatever you say, Captain.”
She gripped my shoulder hard. “You sober?”
“Yeah.” You had to hand it to Randie. She never missed anything.
“Then let’s go. Follow me over to the station, and we’ll pick up a car.”
“I’ll leave the light on,” Julie said. She had grown too used to these abrupt departures to mind them very much.
At the station Randie slid into the passenger’s seat of the cruiser, and I got behind the wheel. Off duty, she always drove, taking care of me, but when we were working, those captain’s bars made it clear who would be doing what.
“The detectives don’t have much to go on,” Randie said. “No one got a good look at those guys who jumped Papa de Ville.”
“Not even Papa?”
Randie was grim. “He’s saying he didn’t, but I wonder about that. Let’s not forget, when Papa was growing up here, he was part of a pretty rough crowd. I’ll bet he was attacked by a couple of locals with an old score to settle, but he doesn’t want to admit it.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Who knows? Pride? Fear? A feeling he had it coming? It could be anything.”
“The chief will go nuts over this.”
“You bet he will. He’s going to want to keep it out of the press, too.” Randie shook her head. She was part of the new breed of cop, the kind that thought exposure helped to catch crooks and keep the public trust. Chief Billy Wade was old school, secretive and damn near paranoid about anything getting out, maybe over-the-line paranoid if I thought about it too much.
“What are you going to do?”
Randie chuckled in spite of herself. “Probably call Penn.”
Jonnie Penn was a reporter at the Hillsboro Courier. He joined the newspaper as a young police beat reporter almost to the day Randie was sworn in as a rookie cop. Outwardly he was a Clark Kent type—a mild-mannered reporter, painfully conscientious—but inside he was the man of steel, equipped with the laser instincts it took to get a story.
Randie met Penn in a chill, driving rainstorm at a particularly gory murder scene in the best part of town on a late October night. A teen-age kid had gotten himself drugged up and killed his father, who just happened to be the mayor’s best friend and campaign treasurer. Since it was only a couple weeks until the election and the mayor was up for another term, the police brass were being particularly uncommunicative.
The reporters who flocked to the scene were largely satisfied by the promise of a press conference the next day in a dry and warm location, departing gratefully, but not Jonnie Penn. He stood in that miserable rain and waited for developments.
Randie was one of the officers assigned to secure the area. She saw him shivering just beyond the yellow police tape and approached him, not knowing who he was.
“It’s a pretty awful night to be out,” Randie said conversationally.
“Isn’t there someplace you’d rather be?”
“It’s okay. I’m a police reporter with the Courier. Jonnie Penn.”
“Oh sure,” Randie said sarcastically, skeptical of the name, “and I’m Janie Badge.”
“No, really, it’s my name,” Penn said earnestly. He pulled out his wallet and displayed his press pass, identifying him as Jonathan Jefferson Penn.
Randie examined it, then smiled. “My mistake then. I’m Randie Wilkes. What are you still here for? There’s going to be a press conference tomorrow.”
Penn shrugged. “You never know what’ll happen if you hang around.”
Randie left him, the only figure at the crime scene who wasn’t a cop. She parked herself gratefully inside a police car with the motor on and the heater running. Penn stood wretchedly in the downpour.
Not too much more time passed before Mayor Ernest G. Serum arrived, shocked at his friend’s death and panicked by his need for his campaign records and contributors’ list. Penn was on him instantly, squeezing out a few pained quotes. The wait in the rain had been worth it. He had a hell of a story.
He also had Randie’s immediate respect. It continued to grow through the years, finally leading to a special trust between them after the time she went undercover as a prostitute to nab the serial killer. Penn, being thorough as usual, was prowling around the seedy strip of highway the killer was believed to frequent. As he drove around in an unremarkable white Ford, he spotted her and stopped.
“Change professions?” he asked.
“You know what I’m doing.”
“I sure do.”
“Penn, if you write this, it will ruin everything. We’re close to catching this guy. Real close. If you’ll hold off, I promise I’ll tip you when we make the arrest. You’ll have it first.”
Penn sighed. “My editor hates when we make deals. But throw in an interview about your part in it, and I’ll do it.”
Randie gestured with cherry-colored fingernails at her cheap clothes and gaudy jewelry. “An interview? No problem. I thought you were going to ask for a blow job.”
Penn turned very, very red. He fumbled for his business card and slipped it to Randie. “The newsroom phone number is on there, and so is my home phone. I don’t care when the arrest goes down, call me.”
A week later, just after nightfall during a sweltering August heat wave, Randie made contact with the killer. He turned vicious more quickly than her backup expected, and she very nearly became the sixth victim before help arrived. Randie wound up in the hospital emergency room, but before she let the doctors treat her, she demanded a telephone. Her first call was to Julie, to let her know she was all right, and her second was to Penn. He hustled down to the police station, the only reporter there, and he knew too much for the public information officer to put him off. Penn broke the story in the morning paper and followed it up the next day with a searing account of Randie’s role. She did the interview through stitches in her jaw, every syllable an aching challenge, but she did it. Penn had kept his word, and she would, too.
Randie got her arrest, and Penn got his blockbuster. They had counted on each other, and it made their reputations with their peers.
These days, however, Penn was long removed from the daily drudgery of the police beat. He covered more sweeping criminal justice stories and also did a lot of the Courier’s investigative reporting. Still, Randie could call him when she needed him, and Penn could do the same with her.
They kept their arrangement a secret—Randie because most other cops thought it was traitorous to consort with reporters, and Penn because that was what good reporters did for their sources. The only other cop besides me who knew about Penn was Sam Van Doren, the sergeant who was in charge of the security detail when I retrieved Alie de Ville from the airport. Like me, Sam was a special case. It was generally known that someday Randie would make chief, and when she did, Sam would be her second-in-command. There was no telling what I would do when Randie took over the department. I’d never been mistaken for leadership material.
Randie checked the time. “I’ll call Penn when I can. He’ll miss the early editions, but he ought to be able to get something in for the final.” She chuckled. “He’ll probably be asleep by the time I call. He never knows whether to love me or hate me when I do that. Anyway, he’ll get his story, and the chief won’t be able to hush it up.”
I pulled into the College Inn, parked and followed Randie into the lobby. It was furnished in the sort of stuffy, pretentious way favored by the academic set—perfect for impressing parents and aging alumni. My father, the vice president of finance, always entertained the biggest donors here. At least he used to. I hadn’t had much contact with Wendell or Lynn since I left home.
The tennis crowd had been rough on the old lobby. It was a shambles of discarded hors d’oeuvres and half-drunk cocktails, tables with stained white linens and leftover name tags. It had the air of a grand dame who couldn’t get her lipstick right anymore.
Then we heard the voice. It was coming from an alcove at the far end of the lobby, and it wasn’t happy. It rankled in my head like a dentist’s drill, but it also set my heart quivering and—well, never mind. It was Alie’s voice, but my job was to concentrate on security.
“Is that her?” Randie asked incredulously.
“Yeah.”
“She sounds like an alley cat.”
“She’s a tennis pro, not a TV anchor.”
Randie grinned wickedly. “Well, I guess you can always turn up the music when the time comes, Kotter.”
We entered the alcove. All was not well. Papa de Ville, his head and left hand in bandages, was looking at his daughter in exasperation. His tie was loosened, and there was blood on his white shirt, monogrammed on the cuff. Lieutenant Jim Ray Jones, the sort of musclehead cop that Alie hated, stood by forlornly with a couple of other officers from the ranks.
Alie glanced our way. When she saw me, she relaxed very slightly, like a race horse spotting its pony, but she tightened right up again. Despite her mood, she looked terrific. She was wearing a scoop-necked silk blouse, its dark color emphasizing her eyes and complementing her blond hair. The outline of her breasts showed teasingly through the soft fabric, which was tucked into very tight white dress slacks. Very tight. The blouse left matters to the imagination, but the slacks did not.
Randie double-clutched at the sight of her, I was happy to see, although it lasted too briefly for anyone else to notice. It wasn’t every day you could throw Randie Wilkes off her stride.
The entry of a couple more cops had no impact at all on the de Villes. Alie was put out and letting everyone know it. “You said we were going to a hick town where nothing ever happened, and I could have some privacy for a change—no coach, no trainer, no bodyguard, nothing. I’m not putting up with a squad of cops wherever I go, and I’m certainly not letting one into my hotel suite, do you hear me?”
“Alessandra, you have to be sensible,” Papa de Ville pleaded.
“You were the one who was attacked, not me. Anyway, you said you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unless those guys were after you—”
“No, no,” Papa stammered. Anyone with half a brain could tell he was lying.
“Then I don’t want any security. If you make me, I’ll just pull out of this dinky little tournament. I didn’t want to play in it, anyway.”
That got our attention. If Alie left, all the glamour would go with her. The mayor would take it out on us, for sure. It was time for Randie to take charge.
“Mr. de Ville, I’m Captain Wilkes. Let’s see what we can work out here.”
Sure enough, Randie got it settled. Alie agreed I could provide her protection, as long as I didn’t infringe on her privacy. Randie arranged for me to be lodged directly across the hall and got me a beeper for a quick summons.
That is how I came to be lying in a hotel room in my own town, naked and alone in a queen-sized bed. I stared at the blank expanse of white ceiling, distan
t and sterile, and pondered the cruel irony of life.
If anyone had told me I’d be spending the night in a hotel with the sexiest woman I’d ever met, I’d have said it was a dream come true.
Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes you need to be specific.
Chapter Seven
The telephone at my ear woke me early in the morning, leaving me startled and disoriented by the unfamiliar shapes in the hotel room. Daylight was just seeping around the curtains, and I wondered who the hell was calling so early.
I should have guessed. It was Alie, sounding damned pleased with herself. I wondered if I had grounds to arrest her for disturbing the peace.
“Get over here, Kotter! I’ve got practice at seven,” she said. She was so chipper, she could have been a Mary Kay cosmetics lady at the door.
“Okay. On my way,” I mumbled.
I glanced at the clock—it was quarter of six—then slipped into jeans and a T-shirt and padded barefoot across the hall. Alie answered my knock. The rising sun was framed in her window, making my eyes watery. It took me a moment to bring Alie into focus. As usual, I liked what I saw.
Alie was casual. She was wearing baggy sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, but even those saggy clothes couldn’t disguise the body underneath. Alie was one of those people who could look stylish in a pillow case with her hair dyed purple. I swear I was trying not to pay so much attention, but I just couldn’t help myself. This babe was built.
“Come on in,” she said. “Room service is bringing enough breakfast for two.”
“A pleasant surprise.”
“Oh, it has nothing to do with you. I just like a lot of variety to choose from. But you might as well have some.”
I hated her. I was sure of it.
Alie busied herself by packing her tennis bag for her practice session. She didn’t speak to me, and I didn’t care.
The room service cart was delivered within minutes. I had never seen it arrive so quickly in any hotel, anywhere. I guess that’s what it meant to be Alie de Ville.