Her words the day before echoed in her mind. I won't be needing that
wire, she'd said. Wires are more trouble than they're worth, she'd said.
I've been in shark-infested waters before, she'd also said, which was without
question the most prophetic affirmation yet to escape these now-chapped
lips.
Veronica rolled to her back in the warm water
of the Gulf and allowed herself to float, giving her arms and legs a break
from the perpetual paddling she had been doing for the past hour or so.
She recalled the feeling of Victor's hands pushing her toward the rear
of the speed boat. She recalled the following sensation of falling, impacting,
and plunging in a sodden whirl of confused suffocation, the crazed effort
to find air by swimming down instead of up; these were still too fresh
in her mind. Fear had not developed fully in her once she could breathe
again-once she had control-but anger had. Rage. A rage which transcended
all moral codes and ethics and was steeped and stained by a cold, leaden
hunger for revenge. To hell with all that glorified public servant crap-this
had moved over the line from professional to personal. Victor Osborn would
pay.
She pushed herself upright in the water and studied
the shoreline. It appeared like the view of a photograph held in front
of one's face. Not exactly to scale. Who'd be fool enough to believe she
could swim that far? She lunged toward the shore-picture and began smooth
breast-strokes. Who, besides myself? Veronica kept her face down, pretending
she was in the swimming pool back at the YMCA and decided that she'd rather
drown pointed in the direction of land.
It had all started three months ago. Fresh from
the Academy, Rookie officer Veronica Polk emerged from the crowd of cadets
a changed woman. No more dependency on men to protect and care for her.
Instead, she'd be arresting them, and collecting what she viewed as a healthy
paycheck. She was not surprised when she was thrust behind a desk and burdened
with a Mount-Saint-Helenish pile of files to organize. Nor was she surprised
at the sexism which the male officers flaunted without shame. "Veronica?"
They'd say, "I'd like to Polk her!" She was surprised when the
Captain rapped a knuckle on her desk as he went by and said, "In my
office, Polk, pronto!" Veronica ignored the chorus of jeers, whistles,
and crude remarks and made her way through the menagerie of desks to Captain
Butterfield's glass-encased cubicle. She allowed herself one quick breath
before she stepped inside. "What's the matter, Cap'? Someone complain
about my coffee?"
Butterfield put flame to his pipe, the fire
pulsing in and out of the bowl with each suction, and filled the space
around his head with blue smoke. "You're familiar with the definition
of insubordination, aren't you, Polk?"
"Sorry, sir. The children are running me
ragged." She indicated the roomful of uniforms rubbernecking in their
direction.
Butterfield moved to the blinds and lowered
them over the front windows, as Veronica took in the plethora of silver
and white Rolaids wrappers strewn about his desk, casualties of his war
against stress. "What are your plans in this department, Polk?"
Veronica slid her hands in her front pockets.
"To uphold the laws of this state and protect its citizens,"
she offered blandly.
Butterfield dropped in his chair and fished
in his pants pocket for the butane lighter again. "That's Academy
bullshit. What are you willing to do?"
"Whatever it takes to become a detective."
"I've got an assignment for you."
"Let me guess: I'm to police the crosswalks
in front of the gradeschoo-"
"Lose the attitude, Polk. I don't need
it."
"Sorry." Veronica watched him relight
his pipe and reach for the coffee carafe of hot water. As he filled his
cup, he muttered something about the sissy-fras tea he was forced to drink
instead of coffee, and yo-yo'd the bag of herbs into his cup. "Sit
down, Polk." He took a sip of the tea and grimaced. "This stuff
tastes like my wife's perfume." Then to her: "I saw your file,
Polk. You don't do anything halfway."
"I've never seen the point in it, sir."
Veronica studied the two eyebrows grown into one that shelved his forehead,
and searched his mud-colored eyes for clues but found none.
"You're gonna be part of a sting."
Veronica pushed herself to the edge of the chair.
"Undercover, sir?"
"That's how it's done, yeah." He opened
a drawer and pulled out a manila envelope, which he slung over the desk
at her. It landed at the edge of the desk nearest Veronica and whooshed
a Rolaids package curlicue onto the floor. "Take that home and memorize
it. Then drop a match on it. Got it?"
Her eyes went from the envelope to him. "Perfectly."
Without another word, the Captain unfolded his
morning newspaper and buried his bulbous nose in it, still puffing on the
pipe. She turned the envelope over in her hands and then pulled her shirttails
out.
Butterfield bent the paper to peer at her. Veronica
pushed the envelope beneath the front of her shirt and tucked it back in.
He snapped the paper back up and continued to read, while she excused herself
quietly.
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Now, the Gulf of Mexico spewed Veronica onto
the chalk-white beach with some reluctance, and she lay there in exhaustion,
waiting for the leaden feeling to leave her arms and legs. Finally, she
rolled to her back and began to plod wearily up the beach, noting the puzzled
stares of various beachcombers and sunbathers who had watched her advance
to shore. She greeted a few of them on her way by, and headed toward the
nearest bus stop.
When the shuttle bus arrived, she slopped up
its steps and pulled a cold pair of pennies from her jeans' pocket, peering
up at the driver. "This is all I have."
"Gotta have a token, sorry."
Veronica sighed. "Look, I'm a police officer,
and I'm on official business."
Several passengers near the front joined the
driver in a chuckle. "Lady, it's a good try, but I'm sorry. The rules
are the ru-"
"You're obstructing justice!" Pamela's
anger flooded her face crimson.
Another group chuckle. "Right. Would you
happen to have your badge with you?"
Veronica closed her eyes.
The driver put the bus in gear. "Out."
She considered getting his name, but there wasn't
time. She had to get to the warehouse in Beaumont before that rat Victor
finished the deal and got away.
Veronica turned and stepped out of the bus,
cursing it as it pulled away. I'll be damned if some other rookie gets
to collar him after what I've invested in this case. She glanced at her
new water-resistant watch, and watched the tiny puddle trapped beneath
the crystal as it moved from side to side like a minute lava-lamp. Even
without the watch, she knew that time was running out.
A surfer wandered by with his board, and she
stopped him. "Excuse me, do you have the time?"
The blond man revealed his bare, tanned wrist.
"Don't wear a watch. Salt-water gets in 'em."
Her eyes followed his progress down the beach,
and she wrung out the hem of her t-shirt, wishing for five minutes alone
with Victor.
Moments later, Veronica was clinging to the
belt loops of a young man as she rode behind him on his Harley Davidson.
He let her off at the intersection near the warehouse and sped away.
Veronica's clothes were almost dry by the time
she crouched at the perimeter of the warehouse. Her sneakers squished with
every step, and she begrudgingly removed them and left them under the bush
by the board fence before she crept closer to the building. She spotted
Victor's van at the rear of the building, and carefully peeked in the windows
to be sure he was not there. She had to be very careful not to botch this,
now. Her career as a detective may depend on it.
Inside the back entrance, she crouched behind
shipping crates to study the huge, dimly-lit room. Even if I do spot him,
how in the world will I collar him without a gun? A piece of pipe answered
her question, and she held it tightly as she moved through the maze of
boxes and crates toward the offices at the other end of the structure.
As she neared the open area in front of the
offices, she heard the voices. Placing herself within earshot, she listened
to Victor's baritone asking another man to show him the goods. Veronica
raised her head above the level of the crate and saw the other man handing
Victor a Ziplock bag with white powder inside it. Victor opened the bag
and dipped his little finger into it, touching the powder on his fingertip
to his tongue, and nodding his approval. The two men whispered something
Veronica could not hear and moved toward a far crate and Victor opened
the top of it with a crowbar.
Veronica watched the other man turn and disappear
down a hallway, and sprang into action. She rushed up behind Victor and
brought the pipe down hard at the base of his neck. Victor grunted and
dropped to his knees, one hand going to his neck, and the other to the
crate in front of him to stop his fall. Veronica reached around him swiftly
and pulled his revolver from his shoulder holster, backing away and training
it on him.
Victor shook his head and turned around. "Veronica?"
"Don't move, Osborn."
Victor blinked his vision clear and frowned
at her. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'll give you three guesses, and the first
two don't count."
Victor settled back onto the concrete against
the crate. "Veronica, I'm sorry about the boat-thing, but-"
"Shut up."
He lifted a hand toward her. "If you'll
just simmer down and give me that gun, I'll split the money with you."
"No go, Osborn. You're under arrest."
His eyebrows went up, and then he grinned at
her. "Do tell!"
"I'm a police officer, and you've been
set up. You're under arrest."
Veronica savored the feel of the words from
her lips. A sense of power flooded through her and made her unplanned swim
in the Gulf seem worth the inconvenience. She watched the corner for the
other man, and kept her gun trained on Victor as he rested his arms atop
his upraised knees, and stared at the floor.
Victor looked up at her calmly, a slight smile
toying with the corners of his mouth. "Okay!" he shouted. "You
can come out, now!"
Veronica's eyes darted around them, and she
backed herself against a crate and crouched below the level of it. "I'm
not falling for that, you-"
The big man strolled around the crate next to
Victor, lighting his pipe.
Pamela's eyes went wide. "Captain Butterfield?"
Several other men emerged from behind crates
and joined the Captain and Victor. She recognized one as the bus driver
at the beach, one as the surfer who didn't wear a watch, and one as the
kid on the Harley who had given her a ride. A chill traversed her spine.
"What the hell is going on?" She gripped the revolver more tightly
and studied Butterfield's face.
"Not bad, Polk. Not bad, at all."
Butterfield put his lighter back in his pocket and pulled on the pipe,
the aroma of black cherry filling the space between them. "There were
a few mistakes in procedure, but all in all, I think you handled it pretty
well."
Veronica frowned more deeply, swallowing against
the sudden dryness of her throat. "Start talking, Captain, or I'll-"
Butterfield lifted a hand. "Just back off,
Polk. It was a test. All this stuff about a sting was a way for me to see
whether you were capable of being a member of our drug task force."
She lowered the revolver and gaped at him. "You
mean--"
Victor pulled himself up, rubbing his neck.
"I didn't expect to get clobbered, but I guess I would've done the
same thing."
The other men began to chuckle, and soon all
of the male officers were filling the warehouse with laughter.
"I don't believe this," Veronica grumbled,
releasing the hammer of the revolver with a careful thumb, and propping
a hand on her hip.
Captain Butterfield stepped forward. "Are
you interested?"
"In what?"
"In being a member of the task force."
She squinted at him. "Why me?"
"We're painfully short of female detectives."
Veronica ran a hand through her disheveled hair.
"So, I'm a quota, is that it?"
Butterfield sucked his pipe and released another
cloud of Borghum Riff. "An open door is an open door, Polk. Don't
look a gift door in the mouth."
"Do I get a promotion with it?"
Butterfield puffed on the pipe. "Detective,
first grade. Unless you screw it up. In which case you're back on the beat.
Yes or no, Polk."
For the first time in days, Veronica smiled.
"You know the answer to that, Cap'."
"Well, then. Meet your new partner."
Victor stepped over and extended his hand in
sarcastic introduction.
"Him?" Veronica snarled.
Butterfield began to pat his pockets for a package
of Rolaids. "Deal with it, Detective Polk."
Veronica studied Victor carefully, then grinned,
taking his hand firmly. In one swift movement Veronica pulled him forward
and twisted his arm in an arc so that the man found himself whirling over
in mid-air, his back impacting the concrete of the warehouse floor with
a painful thud. She leaned over him with a smile. "That's for pushing
me out of the boat, Partner."
Butterfield strolled across the concrete floor,
and leaned over Victor. Removing his pipe with a smirk, he said, "She
adapts well, don't she?"
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