Justice(14)
The shower runs as I walk into the bathroom, setting the coffee cup on top of the toilet. “City’s gripped in panic again,” I tell Harry.
“It must be a Tuesday,” he responds behind my powder blue shower curtain.
“I’m gonna get going. Your coffee’s on the toilet. Lock up when you leave.”
His wet, warm hand shoots out from inside the shower and grabs my wrist. “Jo?”
“What?”
He doesn’t say anything and releases my wrist a moment later. “Nothing. I’ll see you at work.”
“Okay,” I say skeptically. He does that sometimes, and it drives me nuts.
I clip on my phone, gun, shield, grab my jacket, and head out the door.
Time to catch a bad guy.
***
Priority Homicide, along with most of the investigative divisions, works out of Police Plaza. It’s a six-storied, brown brick building as old as the city itself. Right next door is the courthouse, which is twice as tall as the Plaza. On its other side is City Hall, which is still under construction after Aura and Justice got into it a month ago. Every day since I’ve been greeted by catcalls and jackhammers when I walk into the building. My middle finger has been getting quite a work-out.
This morning a fresh hell awaits me. The press. All us civil servants park in the ten storied structure then trudge a quarter-mile to our respective buildings which share a courtyard with a fountain in the middle built to resemble The Falls. This is where the vultures lay in wait with their microphones, cameras, and tape recorders. Every reporter in the country must be here because uniformed officers man the barricades set up to create a path to the front doors of the three buildings. Their news vans are lined up three deep on the side of the road, the antenna coiled up like a field of stalks.
I smooth my frizzy hair and walk through the barricades. Dealing with the press is old hat for me. As the best friend and rumored paramour of the city’s Golden Boy, I’ve been exposed to them since I was seventeen. Justin threw this big eighteenth birthday bash and he hooked up with starlet Amanda Garfoyle. The next day, I got about ten calls looking for quotes, and a few painted me as the jealous ex-girlfriend and stalked me at work. It hasn’t gotten better since, especially after the engagement. I’ve gotten used to them, like someone who learns to live with chronic ringing in their ears.
They see me approach and all perk up, thrusting their instruments of torture at my face. An overwhelming cacophony of voices assaults my ears.
“How long until you catch him?”
“How did Alkaline escape?”
“Do you have any leads?”
“Which designer did Rebecca choose for the wedding dress?”
I do what we’re told to do. Ignore them.
The inside of the plaza isn’t any less of a zoo, just without cameras and annoying questions. The line to pass through the metal detectors for civilians is almost to the door, and the number of police employees is triple the norm. Uniforms, plainclothes, techs all take their turns showing their credentials to get to the elevators. The Galilee Falls seal of an eagle soaring over the falls is covered under dozens of feet.
The elevator doors open and we fill it to capacity. One or two people get off on the narcotics floor, only one on the fraud/computer crimes floor, but half pile out on the investigative support floor where the lab work is carried out. I’m sure they have their work cut out for them just as much as we do. The rest, me included, exit on the fifth floor: Violent Crimes.
Because we cover the entire fifteen miles that comprises Galilee, there are sixty detectives assigned to four different squads, each run by their own Lieutenant. Robbery is one, Special Victims is another, Homicide is the third, and Priority Homicide is the last. We distinguish regular homicide from priority by the number of victims, and off the record, which ones will get the most press attention. As a detective, we’re all trained for each squad in case one needs extra bodies, but we pretty much stick to our specializations.
Priority Homicide, where I work, is packed so tight people have spilled into Special Victims in the next room. I can’t even see my desk, let alone get to it. There is no order, only people milling around or looking bored. Wouldn’t the reporters love this? There’s an escaped maniac on the loose, and the people supposed to catch him are twiddling their thumbs and talking about the last Galilee Angel’s game. Cam waves as I worm my way in, but disappears into the file room.
Kowalski, who had the privilege of staying up all night and dealing with this mess, steps out of Harry’s office looking on the verge of collapse. I not so politely nudge my way through the dead weight. Kowalski’s face almost lights up when he spots me.