Captain Obvious
I may be an old and grumpy bugger and I gladly admit to sometimes missing certain subtle signs of the ongoings around me but the blatantly obvious has never eluded me. Especially when the implications of it are as awe-inspiring as in this case. I don't really think I have to elaborate on the fact that I despise Captain Sharon Raydor with every fiber of my being and then some. We do not call her the Wicked Witch without reason. She is gloriously insufferable while she tries to beat her ideas into your skull with the help of her beloved rule-book. She is uptight, she is intimidating and, personally, I feel like she is a real ball-buster. She is smart, I give her that, at least work-wise, and the fact that she is pretty soft-spoken might lull some people into thinking that she means well, but I know better. She just enjoys being condescending.
My personal feelings aside, however, I have to admit that I have developed a whole new appreciation for the woman by what I have witnessed over the past few weeks. At first I didn't believe it, but when there were more and more incidents pointing towards only one possible conclusion, I had to accept the very truth: Sharon Raydor and Brenda Johnson are not the adversaries they pretend to be around the office. In fact, they seem to frequently meet outside work to do whatever it is that they are doing. In most cases – and I am speculating here – it involves the taking off of clothes. How do I know? Just wait!
Chief Johnson and Captain Raydor are not in the positions of power that they are in because they are stupid or disorganized. I have never seen them enter the building together or even in short succession. I have not ever seen them exchange looks or smiles that could be perceived as flirty or anywhere above basic politeness. They don't touch, they don't hug, they present the perfect facades of two women who grudgingly respect each other's expertise at work but deeply distrust each other on a personal level.
But I cannot be fooled. Not anymore, anyway.
It started out with Captain Raydor walking in one morning, wearing one of her usual dark suits along with a pale yellow scarf that looked familiar to me because I had given it to Chief Johnson a few years prior during an ill-fated round of Secret Santa. I have never seen her wear it and I cannot blame her, as the particular shade of yellow does not go well with her blond hair. (Flynn pointed that out to me after I had already given it to her. I was mad at him for a day because he knew that I had no idea what to get women. I didn't get divorced that often without a proper reason.) On Captain Raydor, as Wicked Witches go, it looked quite attractive as it complemented her complexion well. When I asked her where she got that nice scarf, she looked a little taken aback, then said something about having gotten it a while back in San Diego. Obviously, I couldn't prove her wrong, so I forgot about it again quickly.
A few days later, Sweatergate happened.
Chief Johnson walked in, wearing a black sweater that I had never seen on her. Mind you, that woman has so many clothes that I do not fancy to know them all. But I had seen a similar sweater on Raydor just a week ago. Not that I pay much attention to her clothes but that one had complimented her ample- whatever, let's just say I had noticed. My first deduction was that they now went shopping together and had the same taste in clothes. Then I laughed, because even I get that it is impossible. I almost dismissed the whole thing as humbug, when Captain Raydor walked in, looked at the garment and smirked. Smirked. She does not usually smirk at Chief Johnson. At least not in that way that strangely suggest familiarity.
"Nice sweater," she said and then stepped closer, taking the rim of it between her thumb and forefinger to feel it. "Cashmere?" That was the moment when Chief Johnson started fidgeting and then excused herself. I swear I could see a look of endearment cross Darth Raydor's face before she snorted something about the Chief's lack of basic courtesy.
Endearment.
Over a sweater.
Her sweater.
It didn't stop there, though. If it had, I might have been able to dismiss those incidents as coincidence. Crazy, misleading, strangely arousing coincidence, of course. I didn't even share my observations with Andy Flynn, my best buddy in the world, because I figured that if I told anyone about it, it might become real. Or maybe I was worried that he would laugh and talk me out of it, because I am not sure whether the idea of them doing things together creeps me out or makes me want to sneak in and watch. The latter is out of the question, though, for the most obvious reason that I would never be able to concentrate while working alongside – or against, in Raydor's case – any of them again.
And then, a week later, another late night for Chief Johnson. This one not related to an important case that had to be worked under pressure, but to good old paperwork. Chief Johnson hates paperwork with a vengeance. She gets that hard look in her eyes when she talks about it and I am sure she would stab it to death if that was possible. I don't know how many times Chief Pope had to come down personally to hand it back for her to correct all the irregularities and mistakes she always makes because she does not pay attention. Or reprint the whole report because of chocolate stains on it. I was late, too, because that goddamn crossword puzzle had taken so long and I didn't want to give Andy the satisfaction of proving him right after he said it was too hard for me to solve. (I have to admit google was involved in getting all the words right, but what can you do? A man has to protect his image.) So I was walking past Chief Johnson's office at nine o'clock at night, expecting to find her trying to stare her paperwork down or bang her fist against her desk in frustration. (It has happened before.) Instead she was sitting at her desk and was leaning back in her chair with a content smirk on her face. That expression could always be appointed to having actually finished her work, but this time the source of her merry state was pretty apparent.
Captain Raydor, dark presence lurking in the Murder Room, always ready to recite a rule or two to ruin your day, Dark Lord of the LAPD, effortlessly able to murder young officers with glares, evil force that shows up whenever you least expect it to growl into your ear and scare you half to death… Okay, I'll stop the list here although I have about ten more colorful descriptions of her that I have neatly filed inside my head for later use. She always seems to hang out in our division now. It is annoying.
Anyway, where was I? Ah. That Captain Raydor had taken off her suit jacket and was therefore in a very form-fitting red silk blouse and a pencil skirt. Despite the fact that I had rarely thought of her as a human being before, let alone a woman, her attire wasn't what startled me most. It was the fact that she was on Chief Johnson's desk, skirt riding up to reveal pretty nice thighs, steadying herself against the surface of the desk with one hand, pointing out something on the sheet of paper in front of Chief Johnson. Her smile matched the Chief's and when their eyes met, the left corner of her mouth twitched and she wet her lips.
I was mesmerized, horrified, insulted, fascinated, livid and completely blown away all at the same time. Honestly, I wasn't previously aware that I could experience such a wide range of emotions as it usually stops at grumpy. There was no denying now that they liked each other. And that they were eye-fucking at the office. Seriously so. It was incredibly distracting. Raydor helping with paperwork didn't come as a surprise in itself. If there was an award for meticulousness when it came to reports, she would have won it twenty years in a row. But previously to seeing the little display in that office, I would have never expected her to be willing to help anyone with it. Least of all, Chief Johnson.
There was a battle in my mind. One part of me wanted to witness what would happen next as Raydor began to lean in slightly but another, stronger part wanted to be able to sleep that night. The thing that made me bolt, however, was the fear of being discovered. I didn't want them to consider me an ally in their secret little- whatever it is.
The next day I couldn't look Raydor in the eye when she came in, waving an evidence bag at me and growling about "cross contamination" of the crime scene. Chief Johnson then walked and sneered at the Captain, accompanied by a string of barely disguised insults. It is only now that I have worked up an understanding of why Raydor never seems to be bothered by the Chief's open hostility. It is all one big act. I am not sure when they transformed from adversaries into something else but their need to hide it is pretty obvious. And they are masters at it. I saw Flynn and Tao roll their eyes at the impending cat fight and I am sure none of them got the queasy feeling that I got in my stomach when Chief Johnson sharply ordered Raydor into her office. When the blinds snapped down a moment later, I felt like drinking.
The slip-up came only a day later. The crime scene we were called to early in the morning was gruesome and the sheer amount of blood and brain matter spattering the walls made even Chief Johnson cringe. She looked tired and a little pale. This time, when Raydor waltzed in and wanted in on the investigation because of the involvement of a cop, she just shrugged and gestured for the other woman to walk in next to her. Flynn and I exchanged the obligatory scandalized looks at the lack of hostility and Sanchez murmured something under his breath that I couldn't quite understand. Inside, Raydor and the Chief stood over the mutilated body of a teenager, looking horrified. I'd never before seen Raydor display any kind of expression that could be called "soft" before, but there I was. Her face softened and her hand covered her mouth. She has children, I remembered, so maybe that was just a mother's reaction to a dead adolescence. What was more interesting, though, was Chief Johnson's reaction.
"It's alright, Sharon." The Southern drawl sounded tender and her hand found a spot on Raydor's back for a moment, rubbing it affectionately.
I have been married three times and to three completely different women, I might add. So I think it's safe to say that I know my share about relationships. (Flynn would disagree but what the hell. He isn't married anymore, either, and as opposed to my ex-wives, his refuses to even talk to him while mine at least call occasionally to inform me that I am a bastard.) And the way Chief Johnson's fingers caressed the Captain's back was loaded with familiarity. There is no way you would touch a casual acquaintance like that. Let alone a co-worker that you didn't particularly like. And Raydor's subsequent murmuring of the Chief's first name sent a shiver down my spine. It sounded like a verbal embrace. It was then that the Chief turned around slightly and spotted me over her shoulder. Her voice was sharp and angry when she ordered me to fulfill some completely stupid and redundant task just to get rid of me.
And then - yesterday - there was the annual Christmas Staff Party that has been the undoing of many a secret office affair in the past. Somehow, alcohol always seems to make people careless enough to indulge in a make-out session where it should not take place. Some even had sex in restrooms. (I never looked officers Jameson and Tile from Missing Persons the same way.) Raydor and Chief Johnson let their guards down enough to click champagne glasses and give each other rueful smiles. Then each went their separate ways. The LAPD Christmas Celebration is a big one and the hotel they rent each year is crawling with officers. The open bar is the only thing that gets me through the night without wanting to kill myself. I don't know how Andy does it, by the way. I lost track of Johnson and Raydor for a while because I was trying to chat up Jenkins from FID. She's just a secretary, so I suppose she is not the enemy and she has the nicest hips I've ever seen on someone who works for Raydor, so fair enough. Her rejection of me required several drinks and when I almost poked my eye out with a cocktail umbrella, I decided to go to the restroom and splash some cold water into my face. Pope was already glaring at me as if I was a particularly nasty piece of lint on his shiny new suit. I was pretty annoyed because, seriously, getting wasted is what Christmas staff parties are for. They have no other right to exist.
So I stumbled into the corridor, passing several equally drunk-looking people who I would have liked to high five but didn't and opened the door to the restroom. Boy, what a mistake. For one, my drunkenness had caused me to disregard the pretty self-explanatory signs and stumble into the ladies' room by accident. (Mind you, it is not so easy to catch the right door when about five liters of a sickening mixture of cocktails, wine and champagne are sloshing around inside of you.) The door didn't even open properly and instead bumped into something that – from the sound it made – was a human being. There was a crashing sound and a very familiar voice yelling "Sharon! Are you okay?".
I know. I should have run off in horror at that very moment, but somehow I didn't. Alcohol clouds the mind to the point where information is processed very very slowly. Slowly enough to actually disregard the fact that Chief Johnson and Captain Raydor were in a restroom together and the latter had obviously been leaning against the door. To keep it shut or for balance or whatever I did neither know nor care about. My intoxicated mind wanted me to fulfill my important mission to splash cold liquid into my face and I would do it, no matter what. Of course, looking back, it was one of the worst decisions I have ever made because it was the ladies' room and the ladies inside were obviously not very happy to see me.
The sight that greeted me inside was interesting, though.
Okay, it was stunning.
Raydor was there in her tight little cocktail dress, next to Chief Johnson in another tight little cocktail dress that was adorned with a little more lace, both trying to look calm and professional and failing spectacularly.
"This is the ladies room," Sharon Raydor, enforcer of rules, pointed out.
"The ladies room or the lesbian room?" I was drunk, you have to give me that.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Lieutenant." Chief Johnson had that pissed look on her face that makes her look an angry elf. Maybe I told her that, maybe I didn't. Events are a bit fuzzy. "Sharon- Captain Raydor was just leaning against the door to… to… umhhh…" Her gaze flitted towards the aforementioned Captain who gave me the most condescending stare I have ever seen in a human being. Only my second wife's cat could look any more snotty. The nerve of that woman! She was the one who had just been discovered fooling around with a married superior in a restroom!
"I was just fixing my shoe, Lieutenant." She had crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked positively evil.
"Right," I said, reveling in the beauty of what I was about to say. "Is that why Chief Johnson's lipstick is smeared all over your face and yours is currently located on the Chief's collarbone?"
Watching Raydor's face fall was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my whole life. Honestly, I wish I'd had a camcorder to film it so I could watch it over and over and over again.
"Wha- Um." She checked herself out in the mirror and gasped while Chief Johnson buried her face in both of her hands.
"If you ever tell anyone-" she began. "I will... I swear...!" Apparently she was incapable of coming up with a threat cruel enough to actually cause me to forget what I had just seen. And I would never. Ever. In my whole life. And after my death I will probably be a ghost that haunts the LAPD building while it is haunted itself by the memories of this night.
"This is the ladies' room," Raydor repeated stoically.
As usual she was right and also completely beside the point.
I left anyway, because you never know whether looks turn out to be lethal after all and I was sure that the gunfire coming from their eyes would have brought about my demise sooner or later.
It's the day after the party and I am still trying to calm my beating heart. I don't know whether I should like it or be scared. When I returned home last night, I was shaken, drunk out of my mind and – surprisingly – shoeless. I still don't know why. Unfortunately the images are still vivid in my mind. I did not manage to drink myself into oblivion. So, what to do? And what will they do to me if I tell anyone? What will they do to me because they fear that I will tell anyone? I do not want to imagine it but I am sure I will soon find out. It's a good thing Raydor is too concerned about the rules to shoot me but I am not so sure about Chief Johnson. She might fly off the handle.
I'm scared.
The doorbell rings.
I push myself up from where I have collapsed on the couch last night. My mouth feels as if a monkey slept inside. My head is throbbing, my stomach churning. I will never drink again. I stumble towards the door, fully expecting my beloved friend Flynn standing there with painkillers, burgers and other weapons to combat my raging hang-over. Former alcoholics know about that kind of thing. He does it every year, and at some point I might have proposed marriage to him. (I guess I was still drunk. It was the year when Pope whipped out a bottle of scotch and started a drinking game.)
Needless to say, I am shocked when I find Raydor in my doorway in the same dress from last night, hair disheveled and make-up worn off. It is not hard to guess what she's been doing last night.
She doesn't seem to think that greeting me is necessary but raises her hand instead. I focus my eyes to get rid of the blurriness the hangover causes and find a small bag from a pharmacy that she's holding out to me.
"Painkillers," she explains curtly. "Something against the nausea," she recites and then presents me with another bag, this one from a grocery store. The cracking sound of the plastic roars like thunder in my ears when she hands it to me. "Everything you need to make yourself a Bloody Mary to take the edge off. There are also saltines in there."
She leans in and I can smell the mingled scents of hers and Chief Johnson's perfumes. It is rather disconcerting.
"If you tell anyone, I will make your life hell," she growls into my ear. "And I don't mean the way you think I do now. I will eradicate you."
Hangovers have curious effects on me, I have found out over the years. Sometimes I get all mushy and nostalgic and then I call my ex-wives and tell them that they aren't that bad. (Usually, they tell me to go to hell.) And sometimes I find humor in every situation. I giggle hysterically like a little girl.
Today it's the latter.
A choking sound escapes my throat and the dark menace in front of me raises her eyebrows in surprise. Then a chuckle follows that soon turns into hysterical laughter that shakes me to the core. I almost drop the precious supplies she just handed to me and she steps back in surprise.
"Okay, Raydor." I am barely able to speak through my unstoppable laughter. "But I am not doing it for you. I am doing it for the Chief." Brenda Johnson's title sounds like a shriek as accidentally drag it out with another jolt of laughter. It sounds like the neighing of a mentally instable horse.
She shrugs, looking slightly relieved besides herself.
"But then again," I say and I am sure I do it because of a secret death wish that, so far, I wasn't even aware of myself. "I knew before that little incident last night."
My laughter finally subsides and I manage an evil grin that almost rivals hers. Almost. Right now, however, she looks almost frightened and I realize that I have Captain Sharon Raydor on toast. I could go and shoot someone and she would bail me out of it with all the power of FID because I know her dirty little secret and she doesn't want me to tell. It's as if Lord Voldemort had your back. You feel a little guilty but kind of safe.
It's glorious.
The best Christmas present I ever received.
"Your behavior around Chief Johnson is quite telling," I inform her. "Do you want my advice?" I don't stop to hear her answer and give it to her just before I close the door into her scandalized face:
"You know, you should really be a bit more careful, Captain Obvious."
The End
A/N: I know it's silly but I like silly. I hope you do, too. Be kind and leave a little review as an early Christmas present? ;-)