by Diane Kelly
2) Other than barking short orders or rattling off Miranda rights, working as a police officer wouldn’t require me to talk much.
3) I had an excess of pent-up anger. Might as well put it to good use, right?
Of course I didn’t plan to be a street cop forever. Just long enough to work my way up to detective. A lofty goal, but I knew I could do it--even if nobody else did.
I’d enjoyed my studies in criminal justice at Sam Houston State University in Hunstville, Texas, especially the courses in criminal psychology. No, I’m not some sick, twisted creep who gets off on hearing about criminals who steal, rape, and murder. I just thought that if we could figure out why criminals do bad things, maybe we could stop them, you know?
To supplement my student loans, I’d worked part-time at the gift shop in the nearby state prison museum, selling tourists such quality souvenirs as ceramic ash trays made by the prisoners or decks of cards containing prison trivia. The unit had once been home to Clyde Barrow of Bonnie and Clyde fame and was also the site of an eleven-day siege in 1974 spearheaded by heroin kingpin Fredrick Gomez Carrasco, jailed for killing a police officer. Our top-selling item was a child’s time-out chair fashioned after Old Sparky, the last remaining electric chair used in Texas. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.
To the corner, little Billy.
No, Mommy, no! Anything but the chair!
I’d looked forward to becoming a cop, keeping the streets safe for citizens, maintaining law and order, promoting civility and justice. Such noble ideals, right?
What I hadn’t counted on was that I’d be working with a force full of macho shitheads. With my uncanny luck, I’d been assigned to partner with the most macho, most shit-headed cop of all, Derek the “Big Dick” Mackey. As implied in the aforementioned reference to twitching testicles, our partnership had not ended well.
That’s why I was sitting here outside the chief’s office in a cheap plastic chair, chewing my thumbnail down to a painful nub, waiting to find out whether I still had a job. Evidently, Tasering your partner in the cojones is considered not only an overreaction, but also a blatant violation of department policy, one which carried the potential penalty of dismissal from the force, not to mention a criminal assault charge.
So much for those noble ideals, huh?
EXCERPT FROM FIVE GOLD SMUGGLING RINGS
CHAPTER ONE
A CASE FOR CHRISTMAS
I arrived at the Dallas Immigration and Customs Enforcement office promptly at 9:03 a.m. Monday morning. Problem was, the weekly office-wide powwow began at nine. Guess I shouldn’t have stayed up late watching that Walking Dead marathon.
After ditching my purse in my office and grabbing the flyers for the holiday party I’d coordinated, I sneaked in the door of the crowded conference room. My boss, Vince Beldaccio, narrowed his eyes at me in censure but continued speaking.
“Remember, folks,” Beldaccio barked, “Christmas Eve is not a federal holiday. If you want the day off, you have to put in for vacation.”
Uncle Sam could be such a party pooper.
As our boss updated the group on pending cases, I took a place along the back wall next to Agent Javier Carrasco. My coworker turned his gaze on me and damned if I didn’t feel like a willing strawberry being dipped in the fondue of his molten-chocolate eyes. Yummm . . .
Agent Carrasco, or “Rasco,” as he was known about the office, was a tough agent, with five years under his belt. He was as tall as me, his frame trimmed with lean muscle. His dark hair was slicked back with gel. He wore faded jeans, black biker boots, and a black leather jacket with more studs than the all-male revue at Chippendales. Rasco’s specialty was intercepting narcotics making their way up from Mexico. Thus, the badass outfit. He’d transferred to the Dallas office from Tucson two months ago.
When Beldaccio had first introduced Javier at a staff meeting, every female in the room exploded in a simultaneous orgasm. As I’d since learned, though, while Rasco had sex appeal out the wazoo, his personality could use an upgrade. He was gruff, stingy with his words, impenetrable. A loner obsessed with his job.
The polar opposite of Rasco would be me. I was the office sweetheart, the beloved coworker who brought donuts on Fridays, remembered everyone’s birthday with a card and balloons, and was always willing to help others with grunt work. While I’d never seen Rasco crack a smile, I wore a perpetual grin. You might think that odd for a federal agent, but once I’d hit six one and 160 pounds at the age of fourteen, I realized if I didn’t smile I scared people, like some type of big-boned, blond-haired she-monster. Needless to say, my adolescence left something to be desired.
After a few more minutes of yammering about agents filing late reports (guilty), running personal errands while on duty (guilty, but it was an emergency stop for a half-price purse sale), and misusing our government computers to watch silly cat videos on YouTube (guilty times ten—those cats are a riot!), our boss asked if there were any questions. My hand shot into the air like an eager schoolgirl with the right answer to a history question. The War of 1812!
Beldaccio lifted his chin to indicate me. “Agent Dietrich?”
I scurried to the front of the room and waved the flyers like a cheerleader shaking her pom-poms. “Don’t forget the holiday party a week from Friday!”
I handed stacks of flyers to the people on the front row so they could pass them back to the others. The flyers read:
Whether it’s dreidels, candles, or mistletoe,
Hanukah, Kwanzaa, or Christmas,
Don’t miss the ICE holiday party!!!
5:30 Friday, December 21, at the Ginger Man!!!
Bring your holiday spirit and a white elephant gift!!!
I’d gone overboard with the exclamation points, but who could blame me? This was the most wonderful time of the year. Presents, sugar cookies, more presents, pumpkin pie, more presents . . . What’s not to like?
When my flyers had made their way around the room, with Rasco passing them along but not taking one himself (Grinch!), Beldaccio wrapped things up with a clap of his hands. “Back to work, folks. Criminals don’t arrest themselves.”
Such wisdom and eloquence. Easy to see why he was in charge, huh?
My coworkers and I filed out of the room, turning right or left depending on the location of our digs. My office was at the end of the hall to the left, just before the supply closet and across from the restrooms. I spent my days listening to toilets flush and people rustling around for sticky notes or paper clips. Such is the life of a rookie.
I’d been with ICE six months. Before joining the feds, I’d spent five years as a civil investigator for the Texas Attorney General’s Consumer Protection Department. My experience at the state level taught me how to dig for clues, conduct interviews, and peck away at a suspect’s defense until it crumbled into dust. But I’d eventually learned all I could, and I wanted to take my career a step farther. Also, I wanted a shiny badge and a gun. What girl doesn’t yearn for a little bling? Especially bling that goes bang!
I was still in training at ICE, assisting other agents with their caseloads. With any luck, someday soon Beldaccio would deem me ready for a case of my own. It didn’t have to be a big one. A little one against an elderly Chinese grandmother who smuggled Louis Vuitton knockoffs in from Shanghai would suffice. Just something I could call my own, call the shots on, and take credit for. Nothing wrong with a little ambition, right?
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