Lassie's New Shoes
– Or, how to come out with your boss in a creative way-
Chief Vick was not a meddler. Not in the sloppy venomous way of some housewives, however: you need to be a bit of a nosey parker to become a real detective. But in her life, she was utterly respectful; polite to the point of cold. She absolutely believed in privacy, personal spaces, suspending judgment; and absolutely threw them all out of the window when it came to her people.
And the reason for this was, that they were her puppies. Big, gun-holding puppies, sure, but that was behind the point. She deeply respected them both as colleagues and as persons, but neverthless, when she was there in her bright-lighted office she found herself barking orders, preventing them from hurting themselves or the third party, safeguarding them from the world and the people who didn't give a damn about what her precinct stood for; exactly like a good trainer would do. Apart from the fact that sometimes the only way to string them along was smack their noses with a rolled newspaper. Both literally and not.
And if they were her puppies, she needed to check if they got lost or scary, if they came from their wild races all in a piece, if everyone could stay on his legs. So by now she knew that McNab was finally going to have a baby after those two terrible attempts, that Dobson should stop eating all those Chokie Tarts and that O'Hara and Guster were fully busy in the clumsiest courtiship ever seen this side of Jupiter. She knew the name of Henry's new flame, Woody's nickname on Kinky Hearts chatroom, the secret department party Rodriguez had organized in the morgue last week. And couldn't help feeling a pang of warm pride. Here they were, all her pups, healty and smug and passibly happy. Ready to jump in the world.
And then.
And then was Carlton, with his skinny-kid legs and the hideous sunglasses in Chips style. If she was the trainer, he was the weird pup; the one which barks to everyone and bite your ankles but comes sleeping on your feet when you read on the couch. The one you're always worry to find a home for, because not everyone was patient enough to scratch the surface. To take some bites and some scratches without jerking back, and wait for him to scrutinize you.
For all the time he needed.
She focused on him, back in her office. The silver grey jacket he was wearing fell almost nicely, entirely not like the polyester blots he chose before getting to know O'Hara.
Fashion advices were the apex of Lassiter's trust.
-We've already interrogated three quarters of the suspects, and I'm positive one of them is going to confess. Anyway I sent O'Hara to check again the swimming pool, and the forensic guys promised me the results for midday.-
-Very well, Detective, very well. Have you any need to contact Psych?-
He snorted, loudly. -Ah, thanks but no thanks, Chief. We're fine even without expendable shenanigans.-
She dropped her eyes, nodding carefully. -As you say, detective. As you say. You can go, I'm sure you're eager to go back to work.-
-Thank you, Chief.- he turned with a swirl, strolling toward the door. Pace lanky, squeaking.
-Ah, detective.-
-Yes?-
-Nice shoes. And say Spencer I'm very happy for you both.-
Lassiter froze, mumbled something in a rare Babylonian dialect, dashed for his desk; all in less than five seconds.
Karen sank in her chair, finally giving in to a wolfish grin.
It was about time someone bought Carlton a pair of All Stars.
Okay, yes, this is all an excuse to imagine Lassiter with a pair of All Stars. He would be stunning. At least in my mind.
