Rick sinks into his rather decent office chair with a groan after hanging his suit jacket up. Taking this job was intended to get him free of call ins at all hours, compared to being in charge of the tiny three person investigation department in King County. There was never enough crime to merit more than himself and two detectives or even dividing them up into types of crimes.
Here? He's got six detectives, all dedicated to property crimes. Another lieutenant has four detectives for crimes against persons, and a third handles drug specific crimes. The size of just criminal investigation here is still a bit overwhelming. At King County, he reported directly to the Sheriff, who had a Chief Deputy, but the man did double duty as their administrative department head, too, not independent of the three major divisions like here.
Now he has a Captain to report to, who reports to the Chief Deputy, who reports to the Sheriff. He's only even met the Sheriff once, as part of his orientation tour last Monday. Loosening his tie just a bit, he eyes the reports submitted by the detectives on duty and sighs before pulling them up on the computer screen to put an end to the chaotic day that caused him to miss out on the Braves game with his son.
"Definitely a hell of a way to end your first week." Shane's voice startles the hell out of Rick, and the glare he shoots his best friend isn't entirely pretend.
The other man chuckles and sinks into the chair opposite Rick's desk. Where Rick is wearing lead detective standard dress - cheap suit and tie - Shane is in full dress uniform, obviously coming from the Sheriff's press conference. It looks hot enough to melt in the weak air conditioning of the office. Rick doesn't want to imagine it outside. His own suit jacket had been torture.
"How bad was the riffraff at the conference?" he asks, pressing save for his final report.
"Press was on it like piranhas. Sheriff's gonna be singing your praises, though, because it got handled so quickly. Dog fighting is bad enough, but linking it to a public figure? Could've been a real shitstorm without that confession."
Rick sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I think he actually wanted to get caught. It went from easy money, not hurting any people, to him finally understanding the dogs aren't inanimate objects."
The hardest part was finding housing for all the non-injured dogs while an assessment was made about their rehabilitation possibilities. Thirty-two dogs used as fighters or bait is more than any facility could manage in their county. They have off duty officers helping transport dogs as far as three counties away.
"Maybe someone will reconsider that the county needs some sort of animal control services after this," he suggests. "Even if not a county department, maybe we need one, instead of randomly assigning patrol to complaints."
Shane sighs and shifts in his chair. "Great idea, if we could get funding. Hell, we still have to rely on donations for our K9 officers to have armor." But Rick can see the idea taking hold, and thinks the next round of budget meetings his friend hates will probably launch something while public opinion is hot on the subject.
"We'll need to follow up on the seven dogs still in veterinary care. They had to euthanize three total from today's fights." Rick just got the call on the last one not ten minutes prior, but at least the remaining dogs are stable.
"Jesus, that's gonna make the Sheriff ready to spit nails. He's got four rescue dogs, you know."
"As if it's not making your blood boil, between Athena and Bandit." Rick has never been much of a dog person himself, but Shane's Athena is his retired K9 partner from after he and Rick split. Bandit the Affenpinscher is a huge contrast to the fifty pound Dutch Shepherd, a rescue off a case for a puppy mill.
"Damn straight." Shane heaves a sigh. "Might as well kick off for the day. See if you can salvage the evening with Carl."
"Good luck with that." Rick knew the second the phone rang with the work summons that he was about to suffer a few days of cold shoulder from his son. "Although hopefully he liked hanging out with Daryl's sister at the game. Always seems fond of her."
"Can't believe in three years, you haven't met the woman yet. Hell, even I have."
"Didn't seem quite the thing to attend the wedding like you did, and she's never been there when I was picking up Carl. Didn't see much reason to worry about it when all we have in common is Carl and being cops."
"Probably for the best. She's a pretty gal. Might have gotten yourself neutered for flirting with Daryl's sister." Shane gets to his feet, stretching briefly. "How about you and Carl come to supper one night this week? I'll have Michonne text you her schedule."
"Sounds good. Carl's always up for a visit."
As Shane disappears down the hall, Rick goes to switch off his computer as the phone rings. Seeing the caller ID is one of the veterinary clinics, he groans and takes the call.
By the time he's pulling into the apartment building's parking garage, he's gotten a text from Carl that he and Amanda are eating supper before she drops him off. Rick isn't sure how much is having a good day with his aunt and how much is not trusting him to be home. Closing the garage door, he exits through the smaller access door to head for the elevator.
When he's stopped by a college girl he knows lives in the building from exchanging polite hellos in one of the coffee shops across the street, he barely holds back the sigh. He just wants to get upstairs, shower, and maybe forget that things like badly mauled bait dogs exist. But he's been a cop too long to brush someone off who looks as worried as the girl does.
"They're starting to throw things at each other, my roommate and her boyfriend," she says. He tries to remember her name, thinking it might be Keri. The shouting can be easily heard on the girl's cell phone, set on speaker, but obviously the other phone isn't right with the roommate based on the garbled sounds. "I didn't want to call the cops, but I saw you pulling in…"
As pitiful as her expression is, Rick decides not to defer it to a uniform cop. As a deputy, he's got authority here, even though they're officially inside city limits with a city police department. "Stay outside, alright?"
He still calls it in to the local dispatch, alerting them to the possible domestic and getting the news they'll send an officer. For once in a long bitch of a day, the arguing couple deflates at the sight of his badge. By the time the uniform arrives at the fourth floor apartment, the boyfriend is suitably chastised and lectured to the inadvisability of returning to an apartment building where a cop lives.
Rick remembers he left his damned case file in the car as he's leaving, so he bids the girls goodbye and heads back to the elevator and the parking garage. He's on his way back to the elevator when Keri intercepts him, carrying a delicious smelling container of food.
"I didn't know which apartment you lived in, but you said you had to go to your car, so...I'm a culinary student. I was practicing tonight, and I made enough for three." She blushes prettily when he takes the container. "It's tea brined duck, with sweet potato puree, greens, and a cherry barbecue sauce."
Duck isn't really something Rick's ever eaten enough to know if he'll like it, but he nods. "It sounds tasty. I'll bring you the container back tomorrow." Part of the reason for his real estate agent picking this particular building is that he lives on a restricted access floor, and the less he gives out which apartment he lives in, the better.
"Thanks." As she hesitates, he knows she's debating flirting with him. One thing he's learned in the last few years is the signs for that. But there's stomping coming up behind him, and Keri flinches as a steaming ball of teenage angst brushes by her rudely.
Apologizing to the young woman, he calls Carl's name. Carl ignores him, jabbing impatiently at the elevator button, so Rick asks Keri to wait there, and strides purposely after his son. Having an opinion on his father's dating life is one thing. Nearly knocking over a young lady? Another fucking thing entirely.
"Dammit, Carl, if you get in that elevator, I swear you'll be grounded until you have grandchildren!" When there's no response, he reaches the teenager and snags his elbow just as the doors open at last. "You will march your hormonal little backside over there and apologize to that girl for nearly knocking her over, or I will call your mother and tell her what you did."
As much as Rick hates to play the Lori card, he knows Carl's mother will be livid if she knows what he did, even more than Rick. Carl knows it, too, because he pales and does an immediate about face to head back to the young lady, who looks like she wants to run for the stairs and avoid this entirely.
Before he gets out of earshot, Rick calls out, "I just broke up a domestic with her roommate and the boyfriend. She didn't deserve some other testosterone ridden male showing his temper."
To Carl's credit, he flushes, ducking his head shamefully and nodding. Rick sighs, eyeing the nice food in his hand that will get cold, before following his son to make sure he apologizes nicely.
Amanda watches Carl's expression change from joyful from their day at the ballpark to grumpy in the blink of an eye. His farewell borders on rude as he slides out of the car and heads for the elevator that's almost out of sight. Trying to figure out what set the teenager off, she cranes her neck and sees the couple between where she's parked and the elevator.
Rick Grimes and his barely out of their teens girlfriends strikes again. When she looks down to check a text from Lori, she's startled by shouting in the distance, the sound muffled from her car windows being up. By the time she gets the window down, just in case Carl needs something since he's headed sort of back this way, no one's speaking yet.
Noticing Carl's leftover container from dinner on the backseat, she briefly considers just leaving anyway, not wanting to get tangled in family drama. She feels bad for the boy, who really was looking forward to the game with his dad. Unlike herself, who knows baseball enough not to be entirely lost at a game, apparently Rick really is a diehard baseball fan, following the Braves and the team from his old college both. He records all the Braves games he can't watch live.
But the idea of wasting food still chafes, even years later, too many of Mama McGinley's reminders about not all children getting full bellies echoing in her mind. So she reaches for the container, stepping out of her car just as Carl reaches the girl who doesn't look old enough to drink who seems to have set off this family squabble. Curious, she watches as her nephew stands dejectedly, hands shoved in his pockets.
The girl's expression sours as she turns to face Carl, and she immediately crosses her arms in a way that makes Amanda start to intervene. But Rick approaches, stopping not far behind the teen. "I believe you have something to say to the lady, son." His voice is so damn frigid that Amanda wants to shiver. Leaning against her car, still parked in the numbered spot Carl assured her was for their apartment and unused since his father also has a private, secure garage space in the parking garage, she listens intently.
"I'm sorry for being rude," Carl mumbles. "I shouldn't take my temper out on others."
The girl glances to Rick, then back to Carl. Nodding hesitantly, she sighs. "I guess we can say it was an accident this time. No one got hurt."
Released from his task, Carl nods and thumps back to the elevator. Rick runs a hand through his curly hair and smiles at the girl. "We were supposed to go to a ballgame today, but I got called to work. I guess he is still upset with me."
The girl shrugs, but she does return Rick's smile, shifting her position from standoffish to coyly flirting. "It's a teenager thing."
Amanda barely keeps from scoffing out loud, because this infant of a female probably can count the time away from being a teenager in weeks, not years. The man in front of her is old enough to be her father, and she's damn near flashing him boob like it's a Mardi Gras parade and he holds all the beads. Rattling the container, she clears her throat, drawing both their attention.
"Carl forgot his food," she says, not bothering to hide her scorn at the scene before her. Flicking her gaze at the girl, she's pleased when there's a babbled excuse and the girl dashing for the stairwell door, ignoring the elevator entirely. She hopes the little flirty brat lives at least five or six floors up. When Rick turns, arching a brow, she can't resist adding, "Did you at least check her ID to make sure she's not jailbait?"
The curiosity on the man's face disappears instantly, replaced by a coldly angry expression that would make someone who didn't grow up alongside a Dixon squirm. Amanda just keeps her disdainful expression firmly in place. Puh-lease… she's been a beat cop too long to quake because some man is pissy toward her. The fact that there's a strong tinge of inexplicable hurt in the expression is something she also ignores.
"I don't think it's any of your damned business," he says, but reaches for the container she's held out. "Thank you for taking Carl to the game. It's been an excruciatingly long day, and I'm not in the mood for judgmental bullshit from you or anyone else."
Rick turns and heads for the elevator, back so rigid she thinks it ought to hurt. The man's a special sort of asshole, she thinks, reminding herself to send her sister-in-law flowers or chocolates or something in commiseration for being married to that man for over a decade. Huffing out a breath, her eyes widen as she sees him pull out the sort of access card in the elevator that is needed to access the fucking penthouse level.
She's responded to a call in this very building before, and she knows those access cards well from having to follow the snooty, finicky manager up to the very expensive, very secure thirty-fifth floor penthouse level to talk to a man whose car was stolen and recovered. It combines with an actual thumbprint scan, too, for the sort of insane level of security she thinks belongs in a bank, not an apartment building. There are ten of the very exclusive units up there, she remembers, and she wonders which one the two Grimes males live in.
Just how much money does this man have? There have been indications over the years that Lori married into money, but Amanda figured after hearing secondhand about the fuss with the mortgage on the man's family home, it wasn't this kind of money. Hell, she already feels like she's invading between the obviously luxury surroundings and manned security gate for the parking garage. While logic says it makes sense to live somewhere with great security when the man is a cop with a son home alone at times, this just stinks of too much money. A goddamned penthouse?
Amanda's apartment complex isn't one of the fancy places with all the amenities and gated access like Rick's upscale one. She bets the ancient 1960s built apartment she lives in costs a third of what Rick's does per month, maybe even just a quarter. The contrast between her little building and the luxury tower makes her shudder as she drives up and parks. Climbing the stairs, she walks along the outside breezeway to her door, glad that her elderly neighbor isn't outside for once. She's lived here, in this same small apartment, ever since she moved to Atlanta. Lori and Daryl would both prefer she move, but she's a cop who lives alone. She doesn't need gates and security guards and fucking penthouses.
Inside, she does her usual walkthrough before taking the off duty weapon she carried today out of the vest pocket designed for the small handgun and her badge. The leather vest is hot in Atlanta's sweltering August heat, but she would rather be considered to be making questionable fashion choices than be caught out unarmed. Unlacing the leather vest, she hangs it up in the closet and puts the gun in her nightstand drawer that doubles as a gun safe.
Amanda's shirt underneath the vest is sticky with sweat, so she strips it off and heads for the kitchen. Her sports bra is enough of a top inside her apartment.
They offered to update the paint and put in carpet a few years ago, but she saw no reason to change anything. With no kids or furry pets, everything is perfectly serviceable even after nearly nine years here. Off white walls throughout the apartment suit her just fine, as do the hardwood floors.
Despite Lori's artistic twitches when she thinks colorful things should hang on the walls, there is color in the apartment. There's a bright red striped blanket thrown over the back of the brown leather sofa, and a near immortal devil's ivy on the small two seater dining table lending a splash of green to the kitchen. Plus the colorful dishes Lori made, although those are stored behind the closed doors of the brown cabinets. She sees no need to display her precious photos of her brothers and their families where anyone can see them. That's what her albums in the bedroom are for.
Not to mention that her bedroom has a bright red comforter spread out on the bed, but that's half depressing, because she remembers how long it's been since anyone shared that bed with her even for a couple of hours. That's probably half of her sort of bitchy reaction to Rick Grimes earlier, because she hates people who just fall into bed as carelessly as that man seems to do. Shrugging off the glum mood, she snags a bottle of water from the fridge and a quail egg from the counter, taking the water bottle to sit by her recliner.
The egg she takes to the snake enclosure that sits where most would have a desk or maybe an aquarium. Opening the vivarium, she drops the egg into the little false nest and deftly moves it to hang on a different branch for Tanith to find. The viv is much larger than the snake actually needs, but she likes the idea of her little friend always having plenty of room to roam in her little false forest. Checking the humidity and temperature, she peeks at the snake coiled up in her little false coconut cave.
"Bite any burglars while I was out?" Amanda asks, thinking it's hilarious how many people are afraid of being bitten when they meet Tanith. Never mind the impossibility since the African egg-eater is virtually toothless. Stroking a finger along the snake's head, she secures the enclosure and goes to wash her hands.
Settling in her chair, she turns on the television just in time to catch the news. Spotting the distinctive dress uniforms of one of the many counties around Atlanta, she turns up the volume. The tall man standing to the right of the sheriff looks familiar, and it takes her a minute to recognize the man from Daryl and Lori's wedding. It seems Rick's old partner has done well for himself, based on the rank insignia she sees.
Taking a swig of the water, the content of the sheriff's speech registers, and she grimaces. A goddamned dog fighting ring? Will those bastards never learn? Hoping they caught the culprits, she focuses on the footage from the secluded property and freezes. Suit jacket left somewhere safe, she's got a clear glimpse of Rick Grimes carrying a blanket wrapped dog to a waiting transport van. She doesn't think she's seen a grimmer expression short of a murder or rape on a cop's face before.
"Well, shit. Maybe he was entitled to a little cheerful college girl company tonight," she mutters. If she knew him better, she would offer an apology, but as it is, she thinks keeping out of Rick's business is her best bet. Glaring at the water bottle, which no longer seems sufficient after a story full of suffering animals, she goes to trade it for a beer and a night of Food Network to hopefully erase the images from her brain.
If the sight of those hurt, arctic blue eyes repeatedly creep up in the back of her mind, that's nothing Amanda has to admit to anyone.
A/N: As many readers know, I view Rick as coming from a very privileged background. For this story, it's enhanced a whole lot further, making him from comfortably very upper class to literal trust fund kid. He's never really faced the idea of that money, and let his family money just go to charity or be reinvested. Details will unfold over time, of course.
Yes, he really does live on the penthouse level of a very luxurious fictional highrise in Atlanta. Being extremely clueless about real estate, he let the attorney who manages his family money select an apartment and just signed the contract sight unseen. He just asked for high security for Carl being there alone at times, and well, the attorney had a blank check... and went a little apeshit on "security".
This is one of the things that makes him ideal to drop undercover with the dirty cops, as of course, a cop living like he does has to be dirty... especially with his family money tied up under his mother's surname and not his father's.
Conflict between the trust fund boy and the foster care girl will continue, of course.