Chapter 4

The dayafter the clinic incident, I woke up with a mouth that tasted as if I'd licked the underside of the men's holding cell latrine. You know the dragon"s breath is bad when you nearly gag yourself, inhaling the fumes wafting from your mouth as you snore/snort yourself awake.

I peeked to the left. Thank God the space was empty. The guy I'd hooked up with after shots of Jager had chased beers at the Fuchsia Flamingo had left. Sitting up slowly, my head thumping, I could smell the scent of sex clinging to the stuffy air in my little bedroom.

I pulled the sheets away to stare down at my dick. Still in the condom. How lovely. Oh well, at least we'd practiced safe sex. Go us. Grimacing at the thought of the mess the saggy rubber was going to leave on my dick, I eased out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, and flipped on the light.

Big mistake.

The guy in the mirror coated with toothpaste speckles looked like hell. No, even worse than hell. The deepest slurry pits of hell. Yep, that was better. My hair was stiff, my eyes baggy, and my prick was glued into a used condom. I stared at my reflection. I appeared ten years older than twenty-eight. Christ. I poked at the bags under my eyes. Nothing like living the high life. Cheap booze, cheaper men, and pulling double shifts in a job that few respected. Courtney had always begged me to choose a different career—as a big sister, she endlessly worried about her baby brother. But no, I had to follow the family path of law enforcement that my father and his father and his father's father had chosen.

My bladder reminded me that I had yet to piss. Wincing as tugging the dried condom yanked a few pubes out, I chucked the messy thing into the trash. Then, because my cleaning lady would be coming today, I dug it out, wrapped it in toilet paper, and stuffed that into an empty toilet paper tube. Yep. Hashtag Glamorous Life. Pfft.

I brushed my teeth for ten minutes, showered for five, and somehow found my way to my kitchen for coffee. My apartment was one of about twenty in a renovated building supply warehouse, in a low rent area about two blocks from the Northeast Police Station I called home. I had spent more time there than I had here over the past two years. To be honest, the new building that the taxpayers bitched about steadily was homier than this one-bedroom shithole of a bachelor pad.

My sister would explode if she saw how I lived. The place was the same as it had been the day I'd moved in. Nothing on the walls, no curtains, just the battered blinds, and two pairs of sheets that Luisa changed monthly if I paid her more to do so. Smart woman. I'd not want to touch my sheets either, given some of the random men I'd fucked on them. Yanking open the fridge, I found milk, sniffed it, shrugged, and went to pour it over some cereal—when I realized that I didn't have any cereal. Right. That required shopping. Well, fuck. I'd run through a fast-food drive-in on the way and grab something greasy with zero nutritional value.

I lit a cigarette. That had to have some kind of nutrient, right?

Padding about with questionable milk and a smoke, I took a swig from the container, found my phone resting on the wireless charging dock, and picked it up. I scanned social media quickly and spent a few minutes reading about a wild party in the Hills that got busted for underage entertainment. I ground out my cigarette butt in an ashtray on the window ledge. This building had a no-smoking policy. Which always made me sarcastic-laugh. A smoke was a no-no, but selling drugs in the lobby was fine. The fact that I was a cop meant little. The little shits would scatter like cockroaches when the lights came on when I entered the lobby to check my mail. There were too many to chase. If you arrested one, the next day, some poor kid trying to survive would be taking the previous dealer's place. Hand to God, there were days we all felt like throwing in the towel. But then, we'd shake off the helpless feeling and go do our jobs.

I scoped out the names of the affluent individuals mentioned in the headlines. Ah, the rich and famous. Tossing the rest of the milk down, I got dressed, pulling on a pair of brown slacks, a tan shirt, and a tie with a bumblebee on it that Leo had gifted me last Christmas. I ran my fingers through my hair, pulled on some socks and my lone pair of brown dress shoes, and geared up. Gun, badge, phone, sunglasses, lingering shame of vapid sex, and a hangover. Perfect. I was ready to greet the public. Poor public.

* * *

I pulledup to the station with a jumbo cup of dark roast in my Minnie thermos and a bag filled with egg sandwiches with those delightful hash brown patties. Mack was waiting in the parking lot, talking on his phone, his red hair like a freaking scarlet beacon with the bright California sun shining on it. He glanced up when he saw my classic Riviera ease into a space far too narrow and short for my beauty of a car.

"No, hey, just run over my feet," he called as I exited the gold Buick. "Are those doughnuts?" He waved his cell at the bag in my hand.

"Why the need to play into stereotypes?" I shook the bag. "It's a totally unhealthy breakfast."

"Damn, I was hoping it was doughnuts. Elena is on this health food kick and has banned all sugary sweets from the house."

"And that is why I do not have a wife," I replied, entering the precinct with nods to the cops filing in and out, some plainclothes, some uniformed, all tired.

"I thought it was because you were gay," he fired back, typing and walking as we hit the elevator to ride to the second floor.

Two older cops—CHiPs—eyeballed me as we rode up, the gay comment taking the ride with us. I assumed the motorcycle patrolmen were here to partner on a case. The LAPD and California Highway Patrol did work together sometimes: DUI checkpoints, for example.

"That too," I said as we exited on the correct floor of the mirrored building. The two staties said nothing, but their glowers could be felt until the doors on the elevator closed. That was not a unique reaction among older cops finding out there was a queer in the ranks. They'd get over it, like they did when Blacks, Latinos, and women were mainstreamed into the ranks of those in blue. Not that I wore blue, but… whatever.

Organized Crime had a small section of desks facing south. Homicide had more room with more desks. That was fine. No matter where you went, police stations all had that Hill Street Blues vibe. Or maybe that was just in my head.

I nodded to a few cops at the water fountain as Mack and I made our way to our desks. I'd just placed my bag of deliciousness on my desk when I got a shout from the captain of detectives.

I glanced at Mason, sitting at his desk with a newspaper spread out over the top. "Touch that and die, old man," I said and got a middle finger from the Detective III sitting in the bright sun like a turtle on a sunning log. Mack and I were both Detective I rank. Wee babes, as Mack liked to say when he was feeling his Scots.

Mack sat at his desk, across from mine, and returned to his phone as I ambled into the captain's office, stopping halfway through the door with my thermos in hand. Captain Franks looked up from his desktop, waved me in, then sat back as I closed the door and parked my ass. His space was tidy as a fucking nunnery. Nothing out of place, which was exactly how Franks was as well. He always dresses neatly in a pressed suit, with a shaved head and a beard tightly trimmed to his square jaw. His dark eyes were sharp like a dagger.

"You look like something my wife scooped out of the cat's litter box," Cap said as soon as the door was closed.

"I've only had half a thermos of coffee and two smokes. Come see me when I'm fully rejuvenated around noon. I'll be a brand-new man."

"Thought you were quitting," he said, sitting back in his squeaky chair, then folding his hands over his expanding belly. His days of chasing criminals through the wild streets of Los Angeles were firmly behind him. As was evidenced by how large his behind was getting, too.

"So did I. Did you want something in particular or did you call me in here to admire my good looks? I will say that Isobel will not like you making passes at me."

"My wife makes more passes at you than I ever could."

I chuckled. That was true. Isobel Franks was a scandalous woman with a heart of pure gold. She had taken me under her wing the first time I'd met her, and she found out I was queer. She'd smashed my face into her substantial bosom at the captain's yearly Fourth of July cookout for the men under him and told the rest of the idiots I worked with that if they wanted to come at me, they would have to go through her.

Not that I needed her protection. I was used to taking care of myself, but that kind of motherly attention was nice. I didn't get it often.

"I got a call from a hockey player on the Storm." He shuffled some papers, found his reading glasses, then fastened them to his large ears. "Oliver Cowan. Dispatch sent the call to me, as you weren't in yet and weren't replying to calls."

Oh right, yeah, I'd turned my phone off when I had planned to get shitfaced then laid, in that order, last night. I'd not checked my text log when I had rolled out. Seemed more prudent to see what kind of new chicken videos were all the rage on TikTok after checking on the movie stars being arrested.

"My battery was dead. Did he say what he wanted?" I sat a little straighter. Oliver had been on my mind all day, and most of the night, until I'd gotten drunk enough to force him from my thoughts.

"Not precisely, only that he wanted to speak with you at your earliest convenience. Is he related to that clinic robbery yesterday? I don't have your paperwork." The flat look he shot me over the top of his glasses spoke fucking volumes. Guess I knew what I was doing this morning. Fucking reports. Maybe I could get Mack to do mine if I gave him a hash brown…

"Sorry, I got into something last night," I mumbled, then quickly filled my supervisor in on what I had so far about the clinic robbery/mugging. "Seems the offender was there to deliver a message to the clinic owner. Sounds like typical strong-arm stuff that Baladin is known to employ." I read over my notes on my phone. "The assailant exited the clinic at a fast pace, shouting to the patients in the waiting room about Baladin coming down hard on assholes." I glanced up at Cap, who was processing. "Why he was tossing his boss's name around, I don't know. I' bet he was tweaking and running his mouth to sound even tougher. Mack and I are going to the hospital today to talk to this Joe Baxter as soon as we get cleared by the doctors. They wouldn't let us in to see him after the incident, so we'll swing over there today."

"After you hand in your reports."

"Sure, yeah, after that. I'll call Cowan as soon as I return to my desk."

"Okay, make sure you do. And do not leave this building without turning in your paperwork tome. I mean it, Winwood."

"Yep, on it now. Here I go."

I rose, tapped my brow with my thermos, and returned to my desk. Mack was typing away when I sat down. My bag seemed untouched. I opened it, dug in, and pulled out a hash brown. Mack's gaze rose from his laptop to the tater goodness in my hand. His pupils widened in pure lust.

"Damn it, they gave me an extra hash brown." They didn't. I had ordered four to go with my three egg and muffin sandwiches, but desperate times called for desperate measures. "I'll toss this your way, and never tell your wife that you ate takeout if you do my field reports from yesterday."

He called me a dozen dirty names, insulted my clan even though I was not Scottish, and then took the hash brown from between my fingers like an eagle swooping on a beached salmon. Fare thee well deep-fried potato vivaciousness.

"I hate you," Mack said around a mouthful of spud. His lips were slick with grease. He looked incredibly happy.

"You love me, and you know it," I countered as I dialed the number Oliver had given me with his contact information yesterday. He picked up on the first ring. "Hello, Mr. Cowan; it's Detective Winwood returning your call."

"Thank you for calling back. Is there a way to talk to you privately? I'm at the barn right now."

I heard the din of many male voices on the other end.

"Sure, I'd be happy to come to your farm."

"No, not a farm. Barn. Sorry. Hockey-speak for a rink."

"Ah, right? I knew that."

"Morning skate will be over in about an hour. Can we meet for coffee somewhere?"

"Is this about the clinic case? Did you remember something important?"

"I think…well, I think it might tie in, but I'm not sure."

To be honest, I'd have driven to any farm the man might have been at. Fucking Robby Rando last night was supposed to cure the itch I felt when this man's voice entered my ear. Since I was half hard already, the sex last night must have been dismal. I didn't recall any of it, but obviously, it hadn't worked. I did a quick search of food places near the arena.

"That will work fine. Why don't we meet at noon at that steakhouse a block down from the arena?"

There was a moment's hesitation before he replied. "Yeah, sure, that'll work. Noon then. I'll reserve a table outside."

"Okay. See you then." I was tempted to say his name at the end, but he hung up before I could hit him with all my fierce game. Not that I should be using his first name in any kind of familiar way, obviously. That would be unprofessional. I chewed on a chilly egg and muffin sandwich that was dripping cheese onto the bumblebee on my tie, and my mind enjoyed the way his name sounded.

I made a mental note to change my tie before I went to meet him.