A/N: The current T rating is for language. Raydor has an affinity for profanity. It will become an M later, not for language (I do try to give the people, at least some of them, what they want), but I don't want to be tarred and feathered for false advertising. Also, this is my first proper foray into writing for this fandom. Feedback will be fawned over accordingly.
Chapter One: Days Like This
1.
Sharon Raydor was having a bad day – like, a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, I-wish-the-alarm-had-never-gone-off, I'd-rather-be-having-a-root-canal-without-benefit-of-anaesthetic, epically shitty day. And if she had to spend one more single solitary minute of it staring at Commander Russell Taylor's hideous tangerine shirt and listening to his oily tones ooze all over the crowd of rabid journalists assembled outside police headquarters, she was liable to find herself right smack in the middle of her very own, personal O.I.S. investigation.
"Obviously, in a situation such as this one the integrity of the entire Los Angeles Police Department is of paramount importance," Taylor drawled, and the captain's trigger finger itched. Raydor was a good shot. A really damn good shot. And while she didn't have her beanbag gun handy, she did have her trusty Glock.
"I've heard enough," she muttered under her breath to Sergeant Elliott. "We're wasting valuable time, and we only have –" she consulted her watch – "sixty-three hours. Take Havermeyer and see if you can get Kegan's partner to understand that he's not doing anyone any good by stonewalling us."
With that Raydor pivoted on one spiked heel and strode back into the building, leaving a modicum of the noise and chaos behind as she stepped into the air-conditioned lobby. Her own thoughts still whirled at lightning speed as she mentally made an itemized list of everything that had to happen before she could send her squad home tonight. Officer Kegan had lawyered up, the poor bastard, and Raydor knew she wouldn't be able to question him properly until the next day (but no way in hell would she be put off a moment longer than that); Sergeant Reyes was still at the crime scene, overseeing the last of the processing; and now that she'd sicced Elliott and Lieutenant Havermeyer on Scott Collins, Kegan's uncooperative partner, that left the captain herself to –
Answer the incoming call from Acting Chief Will Pope. Shit. For once she cursed the crystal clear cell reception in the elevator of the still-newish building. "Chief," she murmured with more than usual caution.
"Captain Raydor! Why the hell is Commander Taylor out there talking to the media?"
Sharon gaped at her phone, flabbergasted. Because you forced me to let him? she retorted internally, but bit her tongue. "The commander is well aware that he must say absolutely nothing that could be construed as an admission of culpability on the part of the department," she replied instead, her words as precise and measured as ever.
She could practically hear Pope roll his eyes. "He's not apologizing, but he still sounds like a jackass. Get out there and shut him up. Now, Captain."
Raydor counted to three. "With all due respect, chief, I think you're best equipped to deal with that… situation. And if a statement from the chief of police can't quiet that pack of bloggers and hacks –"
"Point taken, Captain," Pope cut in abruptly, and hung up without ceremony. Raydor allowed herself a small sigh.
"Rough day?"
To her mortification, Sharon was so startled by the voice – how the hell had she failed to notice another person on the elevator? – that she jumped. Recovering herself, she planted her hands on her hips and scowled. Andy Flynn just gazed back at her with that "Come on, show me whatcha got" expression that she normally found so infuriating, but Raydor was too exhausted to work up a good head of steam. Instead she replied, "Oh, you could say that, Lieutenant."
"It's hell when kids are involved." Sharon's eyes widened fractionally behind her glasses. What was this – sympathy from Andy Flynn? "And it's shapin' up to be a real shit storm, especially with Taylor out there. I gotta say, I'm just glad it's not –"
He stopped suddenly, perhaps realizing for once that he didn't "gotta say" the words on the tip of his tongue. Captain Raydor's lips twitched in a brief, humorless smile. "It's all right, Andy," she said as the elevator doors whooshed open and she stepped out. "I'm glad it's not a Major Crimes case too."
What it was was an unmitigated disaster, and it was Sharon Raydor's job to – well, to mitigate it. But nothing – no degree of transparency, no knowledge of the State of California's legal codes, no amount of hand-holding or carefully chosen words – was going to change the fact that a four-year-old girl had been shot dead this morning and the bullet had been fired by an officer of the LAPD. Some days Sharon just fucking hated her job. Unfortunately those were usually the days that drove home just how vital that job was.
She got all the way to the tenth floor before she remembered that she'd been on her way to get the M.E.'s report when she'd been distracted by Pope. Repressing a groan, she jabbed the door close button. She had a report to collect. And a body to view.
It would either be a miracle or a travesty if the girl's mother didn't sue the department and the city, never mind Jack Kegan as an individual; Raydor wasn't sure which yet. She was only sure that the sheet-covered form on the stainless-steel table was pathetically, pitifully small and still.
"Are you sure you want to see?" Dr. Morales asked. It was the first time Raydor had ever seen him looking pale and sickened by his duties.
"I'm sure I don't," she replied evenly, and turned the sheet back to reveal what was left of blue-veined china doll features and blonde curls matted with blood. No one wanted to see anything like this, ever. But Raydor had to. This was why she was here, doing what she did, day after day, year after year. Not for rank. Not because she was unusually fastidious or had a bureaucratic soul. No: for Helena Peterson. And for Officer Jack Kegan.
"Tell me," she said bleakly, "what I need to know. Does the autopsy help or hurt Officer Kegan?"
Morales shrugged. "The trajectory of the bullet shows that she was moving when she was hit… if that matters."
Raydor nodded. "That's something, at least," she murmured, because this confirmed Kegan's version of events, although it did little to assist in the painful task of assigning blame. "Thank you, doctor."
Sharon left the young man looking as if he was contemplating a career change and headed for the parking garage. She had a witness to interview. As she walked, her heels tapping steadily, her thoughts clicked in time, mentally pounding out the preliminary report she would type later.
At 7:22 a.m. on Wednesday, October 12th, officers were summoned to the 700-block of Westbourne Grove Road, where a Caucasian male armed with a pistol had abducted a four-year-old girl, Helena Peterson, from the Play and Learn Daycare Center. Officers Johnathan Kegan and Charles Kress were the first to respond, and found the suspect holding the girl at gunpoint in the parking lot. Kegan and Kress blocked the suspect's access to his vehicle, a 2007 Dodge Ram, with their squad car. At 7:31, Rachel Michaels, the mother of the girl, arrived on the scene, having been called by daycare staff. She ran toward the assailant, who threatened her with the pistol. Officer Kress restrained Ms. Michaels, who identified the gunman as her ex-husband, Isaiah Peterson. Officer Kegan repeatedly ordered Mr. Peterson to drop his weapon. At approximately 7:39, Mr. Peterson briefly released his grip on Helena to point his gun at Officer Kress. Officer Kegan saw the girl running, apparently toward her mother, at which point he discharged one round, aiming for Mr. Peterson's thigh. According to Officer Kegan's account, when he fired the shot he was unaware that Helena had run back toward her father. Instead of its intended target, the bullet struck Helena Peterson, shattering her skull and killing her instantly.
At least, Sharon thought as she slid behind the steering wheel of her department car, the child hadn't suffered. But somehow she didn't think her witness – Rachel Michaels – would agree.
Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed.
2.
Sharon immediately heard the tentative footsteps in the outer office, since at nearly 10:00 at night there was no steady drone of activity to muffle the sound, but couldn't be bothered to lift her head and investigate their source. She had just emailed a preliminary report to Pope, having sent her team home an hour ago, and she wasn't at all sure she'd care even if the building were on fire. She needed to go home. She wanted to go home. But so much less effort was required to sprawl here lethargically in her ergonomic chair with her head tipped back at an angle that would certainly have her neck aching tomorrow. Moving would require energy, and the captain didn't have any to spare at the moment.
The footsteps stopped at her open door. "Captain?"
Though the voice was unusually soft, it was still instantly recognizable. Sharon opened her eyes but didn't move another muscle. "Chief."
"Now, I didn't come to disturb you," Chief Johnson said hastily, stepping forward as she rummaged in the depths of that ubiquitous, hideous black tote. Oh, delightful – the other woman wanted to have a conversation, Sharon thought scathingly, and lifted her head. Something cracked in protest.
Brenda winced. "I just – I thought you might still be here, workin' late. Lieutenant Flynn said he saw you earlier and that you looked tired, so I brought you something," she finished rather lamely. Sharon stared at the foil-wrapped lump the blonde cradled in her palm, and suddenly she had the oddest, most unexpected, most ridiculous urge to cry. So she chuckled.
The blonde flushed. "I was just tryin' to be nice," she huffed defensively, sounding about as mature as a fifth-grader on the playground, and Raydor chuckled again, but stood quickly and reached for the proffered treat when the chief moved to withdraw it.
"You are being nice," Sharon answered with unwonted gentleness. "And I appreciate the effort, chief. I do. It's just that I don't think chocolate does for me what it does for you."
"Well, it can't hurt, can it?" Brenda reasoned, surveying the captain. She wasn't unkempt – not Sharon Raydor – but she was disheveled. Her feet were bare, her skirt wrinkled, her blazer tossed haphazardly over the back of her swivel chair, and her hair – that profusion of long, dark hair was tousled, as if she'd been running her fingers through it repeatedly. What remained of her eyeliner was slightly smudged, and without her glasses her eyes were surprisingly wide and slightly myopic, unfocused. It was a little disconcerting, like the time when Brenda Leigh was little and she and her mama had seen the anchor from the local news at the grocery store buying pimento cheese and a box of Kotex for his wife. Sharon Raydor got tired. Sharon Raydor's hair tangled and her makeup smudged. Sharon Raydor was human. Brenda had long moved past the phase of thinking the captain was a soulless robot with a handbook of rules and regs where her heart belonged, but she'd still never seen her looking less than perfectly polished.
"You're staring," the other woman pointed out bluntly. "I look awful."
It was so far from what the chief had been thinking that she felt herself blush as she quickly argued, "You don't! You just look, y'know, normal." Sharon laughed again and Brenda thought how ironic it was that she was hearing that sound for the first time today of all days. "If it's not chocolate, what does do it for you, Captain?"
Brenda belatedly realized the question could be a loaded one, but Sharon only rubbed her eyes before replacing her glasses. "My vices are a bit more adult, I suppose. I could do with a stiff drink. Or five."
"So let's go get one." Brenda didn't know what she was going to say before the words popped out of her mouth, so the captain wasn't the only one who looked surprised, slightly taken aback.
"Oh, ah – No. I'm done here for now, so I'm heading home. But thank you, Chief." Sharon looked down, straightening papers on her desk, and the deputy chief knew she should let it go, because although she no longer disliked Raydor, they weren't friends, not the kind of friends who went for drinks after a rough day, and if Sharon had accepted her invitation the evening would've been stilted at best, torturous at worst.
But Brenda was stubborn, and Raydor had said no, which was reason enough to convince her to say yes. Brenda planted her hands on her hips, arms akimbo, and watched Sharon toe on her shoes. "It's not that late. And what are you going to do when you get home anyway? One drink." She watched the other woman hesitate, and then Brenda Leigh played her trump card. "Come on, Sharon. What'll it hurt?"
The captain's dark eyebrows arched. She was insane. She was losing her mind if she was even contemplating spending time voluntarily with Brenda Leigh Johnson, much less considering following through. But then she probably couldn't be held accountable for any decisions she made after a day like today, and anyway, she was… curious. Mildly curious.
She shrugged and scooped up her small purse. "What could it hurt? I don't know. But I guess we'll find out – Brenda."
3.
Sharon had reluctantly agreed to let Brenda drive, reasoning that even the deputy chief couldn't get lost when she had Sharon in the passenger seat giving directions. They made it without incident to a strip of bars and clubs in what looked like the sort of neighborhood Brenda only visited to see crime scenes, but when she cast Raydor an apprehensive look, the other woman retaliated with that unbearable little smirk, so Brenda clinched her jaw and found a place to park in a narrow alleyway. "I swear, Captain, if this car gets stolen –"
"If this car gets stolen, you'll report it and Pope will get you a new one," Raydor interrupted easily. "You don't own it anyway."
Confronted with such irrefutable logic, Brenda swung out of the car onto the uneven pavement. Raydor mirrored her movements on the other side of the car.
And that's when Sharon suddenly, spectacularly had what Brenda privately referred to as her little come-apart.
One second the brunette was stretching to her full height plus the usual three inches; in the next she had disappeared completely from Brenda's view, with only her violent ejaculation of "Oh, God damn it!" to indicate her whereabouts. Cringing, Brenda ducked around the front of the car to see Sharon scrambling up from a heap.
"Oh, fuck," the older woman swore. "Oh, just – fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
With each expletive her volume rose, making the precision of her carefully articulated hard k's even more startling and obscene. Brenda grabbed her arm. "Captain – Sharon! What is it? Where are you hurt?" Although the captain was a bit older than the chief, Brenda doubted the woman was quite to the bone-breaking stage, but still, accidents happened.
Raydor shook her off, disgusted. "Shit. I'm not fucking hurt," she snapped, and the chief marveled at the mouth the buttoned-up, elegant captain had on her. "It's my goddamn shoe."
"I wish you wouldn't say that," Brenda muttered faintly, cringing again and thinking of her mama's most disapproving look (Thou shalt not, Brenda Leigh), as Sharon, incandescent with rage, wrenched off her left heel and thrust it in the chief's face.
"These are $800 shoes!" Raydor snarled, shaking the shoe for emphasis. "This has been the second worst fucking day of my entire fucking career; a child is dead; a young officer's career is ruined; Pope is apoplectic; Taylor's a smarmy jackass; two of my people are out with the fucking flu; everyone looks at me like I'm the motherfucking Grim Reaper; and now the fucking heel of one of my fucking favorite shoes is fucking broken!" For the big finish Sharon released her grip on the offending article, sending it hurtling into the darkness.
Brenda stared at her in horrified dismay, her generous mouth a perfectly round o.
Sharon stared back, equally appalled.
For an agonizing second Brenda thought her companion was on the verge of bursting into tears.
And then Raydor giggled.
That was the only word for the sound coming from the older woman's throat, and it was every bit as shocking as her violent outburst the moment before. Suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of the situation – standing here in a dark alley with Sharon Raydor, of all people, ranting and raving and wearing only one shoe – Brenda tried to choke back her own laughter, but it was a losing battle. The two women laughed, and Sharon shook off her remaining shoe and stood with her perfectly manicured toes bare on the filthy asphalt, and they laughed some more, until their sides hurt and tears pooled in their eyes, and Brenda's eyeliner was as smudged as Sharon's had been before.
Later Brenda Leigh would think that was probably when it had happened, when some little something had changed, clicked into focus like when she was sitting in the chair at the optometrist's office and the doctor adjusted the lens so that it was just right, correcting for what he called "typical over-forty vision loss," and suddenly everything became clear. She knew in that moment that Sharon Raydor was more than a convenient ally, more than a fearsome enemy, if not exactly a friend, not a friend like any Brenda had had before.
At any rate, once they'd regained their composure and Sharon had flopped back against the hood of the car like a bizarrely elegant version of a lurid magazine centerfold, Brenda's doubts had dissipated. She was glad she'd asked the other woman to go for a drink, and glad Sharon had agreed.
"Come on," the chief said, still grinning, her accent more pronounced than usual. "I've got a pair of flip-flops in the trunk. I think you deserve that drink."