A Shot in the Dark
The next morning I awoke and was surprised to see her still there. Not just there, but draped over me, cuddled up close with her head on my chest, her tousled blonde hair spread over the pillow. With my free hand, I grabbed my glasses to make sure she really was as beautiful as I had thought - which she was - and then waited, amazed, for her to wake up. What the hell happened last night? I wondered, and tried to remember the particular details. As if she hadn't been intoxicating enough, I had drank quite a bit to strengthen my resolve and the precise memories didn't come as quickly as I would have hoped.
But they did come, and I remembered making love to a woman a third my age for hours. Though I knew Fin would cover for me (he of all people knew how rarely this happened for me), I had to get to work. She woke only a few minutes after I did.
Cara - that was her name, I remembered now - smiled at me and sat up, the sheets falling off her body as she got out of the bed and found her clothes. I wondered if she had been as nervous as I had last night, and decided that she must not have been. I was a sure thing.
She was beautiful: no man could have turned her down. I felt bad, and still do, about her age, about how hard I had made her work to convince me, and mostly about me. I was old enough to be her father twice over, but I couldn't have helped myself when such a perfect creature threw herself at me.
Enough defensiveness, I told myself as I have dozens of times since. When was the last time something like this happened? Can you even remember? How many months? Years?
"Do you mind if I take a shower?" she asked, snapping me instantly from my reverie. I shook my head and only once she had disappeared pulled the blankets off my own body and found some pajamas in a drawer. I was about to make breakfast, avoiding a glance at the clock, when she came back into the room. She was dressing now, unselfconsciously arranging her breasts - the breasts I had worshipped only hours before - in her bra, pulling her dress up and over, smoothing her hair down. I couldn't take my eyes off her lest she disappear. "Thanks for last night, John." She kissed me, one of those smoldering kisses the thought of which would inspire an erection for days, and then she left. I heard the door close behind her before I could move from that spot to stop her.
I got to work late, and found that Fin had indeed covered for me. He shot a nasty look when he saw me walk into the room, but handed me a cup of coffee all the same. "Come on, man, we got places to be."
"Another day in ghetto?" I asked, thankful not to have to take my dark glasses off. Stabler was cocking an eyebrow at me like he knew where I had been, but I ignored him and left with my partner. We were back in the station house for lunch and one of the secretaries approached me.
"This came for you while you were out," she said. It was, I quickly found, a single rose with a note attached, simply addressed to one Det. Munch, SVU.
"What the hell, man? You give her a good tip?" Fin commented, as if I needed to hear his voice in that instant. I glared at him and opened it. Thanks again, it read simply, and then there were ten digits. "She must want to see you again."
Though part of me was shocked that he had just read the note over my shoulder, I wasn't surprised, and another part of me was even pleased. There were no secrets between partners, after all. I slipped the note in my breast pocket and wondered what to do with the flower.
I considered calling the number for days, carrying the note card with her phone number around in the pocket of my shirt. Every morning when I got up and dressed for work I looked at it told myself not to even consider calling her, that that night had been perfect and I didn't want to risk ruining it. After all, I don't form attachments. But she gave me her number unsolicited, I would reply, and slip it into my pocket just in case something came up.
I loved her handwriting, the deep descender and feminine loops. I liked the way it looked, the way those numbers made no promises and no encouragements, just an offer. Three days later, giving myself over to a whim, I finally called it.
The first time I rang, over lunch, I got her answering machine. I didn't leave a message. The second time, Fin and I were out on the job, heading down to the three-one for a bit of investigation. He was driving, so I pulled out my cell phone before I really knew what I was doing. My fingers dialed unbidden, and a girl answered.
"This is ." I paused, stopping myself from saying that I was NYPD. "Is Cara there?"
"Nope," she said. I could feel Fin listening in on every word she was saying. "She's in class. Can I help you?"
"When should she be back?"
"I don't know, three? But she goes into her room and paints till dinner most days, so you'll have to keep trying."
"Um, thanks," I mumbled, and hung up.
Fin glanced over at me. "Well," he said, nonchalantly. "We better get done by three then."
***
That Friday night, I arrived at an apartment clearly nicer than my own. Cara lived on the fifth floor, and I took the elevator so I wouldn't be out of breath when I knocked on the door. A pretty girl opened the door, this one looking younger than Cara. For a moment, I thought I was at the wrong door: I was further concerned when she seemed to recognize me.
"You," she said. That is a scary greeting.
"John Munch," I said, utterly unsure of myself.
"I know who you are, Detective."
A voice called from the other room, a voice I recognized. "Who is it, Shawn?"
"Your detective." Cara came around the corner, and relief washed over me, both to see her and just to know that I wasn't insane. "He's the same one who investigated when my freshman roommate was raped."
Cara was smiling at me. I couldn't help the sudden flush to my face, and I'm not afraid to admit how good she made me feel. I looked back at her roommate. "I remember you now. She was a freshman at Hanford, raped and beaten -"
"On Fifth Avenue."
"We never found the guy. How is she?"
"I don't know. We don't keep in touch." I nodded, trying to be respectful, but honestly more concerned with the girl I was here to see. She was beautiful, even more so than I remembered, her long hair partly pulled up out of her eyes. In a black corset-style top and black jazz pants, she looked dressed for anything, classy enough for an expensive dinner and sexy enough for the bar, neither of which we were headed for. But I did appreciate the effort.
"Is that the only outfit you own?" she asked, laughing, her eyes sparkling like the Hudson in the sun. Once again, I was tempted to leave, say it was all a mistake. "Ready?"
"I think so," I said. To the roommate: "Nice to see you again."
"Where are we headed?" Cara asked me when the door had shut behind us.
"Anywhere you want."
The next morning I awoke and was surprised to see her still there. Not just there, but draped over me, cuddled up close with her head on my chest, her tousled blonde hair spread over the pillow. With my free hand, I grabbed my glasses to make sure she really was as beautiful as I had thought - which she was - and then waited, amazed, for her to wake up. What the hell happened last night? I wondered, and tried to remember the particular details. As if she hadn't been intoxicating enough, I had drank quite a bit to strengthen my resolve and the precise memories didn't come as quickly as I would have hoped.
But they did come, and I remembered making love to a woman a third my age for hours. Though I knew Fin would cover for me (he of all people knew how rarely this happened for me), I had to get to work. She woke only a few minutes after I did.
Cara - that was her name, I remembered now - smiled at me and sat up, the sheets falling off her body as she got out of the bed and found her clothes. I wondered if she had been as nervous as I had last night, and decided that she must not have been. I was a sure thing.
She was beautiful: no man could have turned her down. I felt bad, and still do, about her age, about how hard I had made her work to convince me, and mostly about me. I was old enough to be her father twice over, but I couldn't have helped myself when such a perfect creature threw herself at me.
Enough defensiveness, I told myself as I have dozens of times since. When was the last time something like this happened? Can you even remember? How many months? Years?
"Do you mind if I take a shower?" she asked, snapping me instantly from my reverie. I shook my head and only once she had disappeared pulled the blankets off my own body and found some pajamas in a drawer. I was about to make breakfast, avoiding a glance at the clock, when she came back into the room. She was dressing now, unselfconsciously arranging her breasts - the breasts I had worshipped only hours before - in her bra, pulling her dress up and over, smoothing her hair down. I couldn't take my eyes off her lest she disappear. "Thanks for last night, John." She kissed me, one of those smoldering kisses the thought of which would inspire an erection for days, and then she left. I heard the door close behind her before I could move from that spot to stop her.
I got to work late, and found that Fin had indeed covered for me. He shot a nasty look when he saw me walk into the room, but handed me a cup of coffee all the same. "Come on, man, we got places to be."
"Another day in ghetto?" I asked, thankful not to have to take my dark glasses off. Stabler was cocking an eyebrow at me like he knew where I had been, but I ignored him and left with my partner. We were back in the station house for lunch and one of the secretaries approached me.
"This came for you while you were out," she said. It was, I quickly found, a single rose with a note attached, simply addressed to one Det. Munch, SVU.
"What the hell, man? You give her a good tip?" Fin commented, as if I needed to hear his voice in that instant. I glared at him and opened it. Thanks again, it read simply, and then there were ten digits. "She must want to see you again."
Though part of me was shocked that he had just read the note over my shoulder, I wasn't surprised, and another part of me was even pleased. There were no secrets between partners, after all. I slipped the note in my breast pocket and wondered what to do with the flower.
I considered calling the number for days, carrying the note card with her phone number around in the pocket of my shirt. Every morning when I got up and dressed for work I looked at it told myself not to even consider calling her, that that night had been perfect and I didn't want to risk ruining it. After all, I don't form attachments. But she gave me her number unsolicited, I would reply, and slip it into my pocket just in case something came up.
I loved her handwriting, the deep descender and feminine loops. I liked the way it looked, the way those numbers made no promises and no encouragements, just an offer. Three days later, giving myself over to a whim, I finally called it.
The first time I rang, over lunch, I got her answering machine. I didn't leave a message. The second time, Fin and I were out on the job, heading down to the three-one for a bit of investigation. He was driving, so I pulled out my cell phone before I really knew what I was doing. My fingers dialed unbidden, and a girl answered.
"This is ." I paused, stopping myself from saying that I was NYPD. "Is Cara there?"
"Nope," she said. I could feel Fin listening in on every word she was saying. "She's in class. Can I help you?"
"When should she be back?"
"I don't know, three? But she goes into her room and paints till dinner most days, so you'll have to keep trying."
"Um, thanks," I mumbled, and hung up.
Fin glanced over at me. "Well," he said, nonchalantly. "We better get done by three then."
***
That Friday night, I arrived at an apartment clearly nicer than my own. Cara lived on the fifth floor, and I took the elevator so I wouldn't be out of breath when I knocked on the door. A pretty girl opened the door, this one looking younger than Cara. For a moment, I thought I was at the wrong door: I was further concerned when she seemed to recognize me.
"You," she said. That is a scary greeting.
"John Munch," I said, utterly unsure of myself.
"I know who you are, Detective."
A voice called from the other room, a voice I recognized. "Who is it, Shawn?"
"Your detective." Cara came around the corner, and relief washed over me, both to see her and just to know that I wasn't insane. "He's the same one who investigated when my freshman roommate was raped."
Cara was smiling at me. I couldn't help the sudden flush to my face, and I'm not afraid to admit how good she made me feel. I looked back at her roommate. "I remember you now. She was a freshman at Hanford, raped and beaten -"
"On Fifth Avenue."
"We never found the guy. How is she?"
"I don't know. We don't keep in touch." I nodded, trying to be respectful, but honestly more concerned with the girl I was here to see. She was beautiful, even more so than I remembered, her long hair partly pulled up out of her eyes. In a black corset-style top and black jazz pants, she looked dressed for anything, classy enough for an expensive dinner and sexy enough for the bar, neither of which we were headed for. But I did appreciate the effort.
"Is that the only outfit you own?" she asked, laughing, her eyes sparkling like the Hudson in the sun. Once again, I was tempted to leave, say it was all a mistake. "Ready?"
"I think so," I said. To the roommate: "Nice to see you again."
"Where are we headed?" Cara asked me when the door had shut behind us.
"Anywhere you want."