She grows up easy with two loving parents and a closet full of expensive shoes—a good girl used to having good things given to her. Hell, she even has a pony. His name is Zippy and she takes excellent care of him, rubbing him down after exercise, mucking his stall, because he is beautiful and she wants to remain worthy of him. After all, you get what you deserve.
She carries this noble idea with her out into the world, where she finds no satisfaction in the secretarial pool. She decides instead to become a cop, and her parents are horrified. If she really must go after criminals, they argue, can't she just become a lawyer instead? But Dee Dee's seen the slick and shiny lawyers up close through her father's business dealings. Some might be crusading for good, but others are morally crippled and they all wear the same dark suits so you can't tell which side any one is really on. Not until it's far too late.
Her first day on the job, she is bright-eyed and eager to help people. It hasn't been two hours before Benny took that call put them in East Compton on a day registering triple digits on the thermometer. Six floors up, no elevator, and Benny is huffing pretty good by the time they find the apartment with the woman, high as a kite with blood in her eyes and a knife in her hands. The man has broken knuckles from hitting her and a slice down the side of his arm from where she hit back. Each one swears the other one started it. Dee Dee radios for medics. She takes their statements for her reports, but there aren't enough lines on the page to get to the bottom of who did what to whom and when. The couple has scars going back ten years.
She entirely gives up on the guiding hand on fate when Steve is killed. There is nothing to convince her that this is a greater good, that the bullet had his name on it for a reason. She vows to find not only his killer but all the killers he would have caught. That one bullet to her husband's chest signs a hundred other death warrants; the men just don't know it yet.
After the funeral, her parents make her Earl Grey tea and set it alongside a slice of poppy seed cake. She watches the tea cooling and wonders why they can't ever remember she takes coffee now. She has for years. Her mother comforts the other mourners in a low, soothing voice while Dee Dee uses her fork to pick off the seeds from the top of the cake one-by-one.
She passes the detective's exam on the first try with a near-perfect score. The Chief is pleased, eager to make an example of her, but she just wants to do her job. The men around her mutter under their breath, words she tries not to hear. Someone shoves a G-string through the hole in her locker and she throws it away when no one is looking. She tells herself they will eventually get used to her presence. They will have no choice because she sure as hell isn't going anywhere.
Her partners grudgingly accept her when they see she knows her stuff, but she can't seem to keep one around for more than a couple of months. Bill Parker takes a bullet to the thigh during their pursuit of a gangbanger down at The Nickel. Joe Thorten injures his back in a high-speed car chase. (How is this possible, Dee Dee wonders, since he was sitting down the entire time?) Al Lowell had a heart attack—his second—and now they're going to make him retire at age forty-five. Dee Dee asks herself how many partners she has to go through before the Brass will accept the fact that she's better off alone.
She is not yet thirty but she lives among the widows and widowers of the Garden Crest apartments—men and women who are more than twice her age. She sleeps in a giant bed with a dozen stuffed animals but all the teddy bears in the world don't make up for one beating heart. Her refrigerator has coffee creamer in it, and milk for cereal. Her freezer is stocked with microwave meals for one.
Mrs. Rosencrantz about keels over in shock when she sees Dee Dee leave for work dressed in fishnet stockings, knee-high boots and a leather miniskirt that barely covers her ass. Dee Dee gives her a tight smile and a short wave. She will dress like a snake charmer if that's what it takes to bring down King Hayes. The men at the precinct look at her much the same way the men on the streets do—she can feel their eyeballs on her neck. It doesn't bother her to dress in skimpy clothes that reveal half her skin. They can all stare as much as they want to.
No one has really seen her in years.
XXX
He is eight years old when cousin Solly dies. The family dresses all in black and they stand around the grave while the priest says God's love always forgives. God might forgive, but Uncle Mike does not, and Rick is twelve when he realizes that it's Mike who put Solly in the ground. His father looked the other way and he urges Rick to do the same. Rick's dad is still looking the other way three years later when the bullet hits him from behind. Rick's eyes are too good to stay in this family. He can reliably shoot the C off a Coke can from twenty-five yards away.
His mother cries when he joins the Marines and ships off to Nam, but he feels the certainty of the solid metal in his hands and welcomes the jungle. Point him at the enemy. Bring it on. But the soldiers on the other side, some of them are children. Others are nameless, faceless cowards hiding in the dark. He watches helpless as his buddies die with their boots on, steeped in rice water. He weeps silently for them at night and wonders what the hell they're all doing here in the weeds, fighting someone else's war. He returns home after one year with a scar on his left leg and an appreciation for the taste of Saigon cinnamon, bird's eye chili and long coriander.
No one in the family can believe it when he joins the force, not even his mother. Your father would be rolling over in his grave, she tells him. Rick reminds her that it's family, not the cops, who put him there. Uncle Dom is initially hopeful that he can use Rick as a man on the inside, but Rick shuts him down hard. Someone, probably little Joey, slashes Rick's tires that night in retaliation. Rick takes to driving one of the junkyard beaters the precinct hands out, and the family leaves him alone. Very alone.
The cops are sure he's playing for the other side, even when his collars start piling up higher than the Head of D's. No one makes friendly talk. No one wants to get punked when the truth comes out. Cain sets the tone, and he's on full mutiny. He demands that Hunter see the department psychologist, thinks he needs to get shrunk. Rick marvels at the irony and how the Captain doesn't see it: Hunter's already on an island of one and he's convinced himself he likes it that way.
He can't possibly shrink any further.
XXX
They're not really partners, barely more than strangers even, but he's already seen more of her than any man in the past two years. She's got a short pink robe on now, with fuzzy slippers to match, and even this is an admission she'd sooner keep to herself: this is how I dress when I'm alone. She drains the bubble bath while he prowls around her kitchen. "Do you have anything to eat?" he calls back to her.
It's past eleven, but all she's had tonight is some peanuts at the bar, and adrenaline's chewed right through those. Her stomach rumbles at the prospect of more. "Um, I'm not sure," she hollers back.
She finds him staring into her freezer with its neat stack of frozen foods and feels her face go hot at what he's really seeing. Hunter doesn't seem to notice her embarrassment. "The fettuccini alfredo's not bad, but the veal piccata is the worst," he says as he shuts the door. "Why don't I run down the road to Sacco's? They're open for another hour and everything's half-price 'til closing. Their meatballs are the best."
"Yeah, that's what Vice tells me. I hear they eat there twice a week."
He tilts his head at her, narrows his eyes, and she realizes her mistake.
"I didn't mean…"
"I know the guys that run the place," he says, holding her gaze. "That doesn't mean I'm one of them."
She cinches her robe a bit tighter. "I know that. I don't believe the stories. I never did."
He looks amused, not offended. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. You don't even want a partner. I don't see you comfortable within the confines of La Familia."
He grins. "Dinner's on me."
"Damn right it is. The landlord is going to bill me for that lock you shot off my front door."
"I was saving your life," he protests as she walks him to the stairs.
"You were ruining my bath." She has a flash of this as her future—knows if she sticks with him, there will be other ruined baths. Hunter shoots off the locks first and asks questions later. Still, it was something to see him there with his gun out and ready to defend her life. She's felt like a ghost at times, haunting this place where she used to be happy as a different version of herself. But Hunter came through the door blazing, determined to keep her on this side of the angels, and now she feels more alive than she has for a long time. She shoves him gently at the door. "Hurry back with the food."
At the restaurant, Maria loads him up with meatballs and lasagna and antipasto, soft rolls with little packets of butter, and a thick slice of tiramisu. He takes it back to McCall's place and they eat until he is stuffed, pregnant with a food baby that he pats with satisfaction. McCall put away a plate to rival his own but she still looks about two sheets thick. She wipes her mouth as she considers him. "What's Bolin like?"
"I told you—he's a nut."
"No, I mean as a shrink. Did he lay any heavy insights on you?"
"Ha. You think I'd tell you if he did?"
She tosses the napkin at him, and he catches it one-handed. "It could be interesting, maybe, to have someone analyze you for real," she says. "Get an outside perspective on who you are."
"I know who I am."
She rolls her eyes. "Yes, as do we all. I'm just saying—it could be nice to talk to someone."
"I am talking to someone. I'm talking to you." The chair squeaks against the floor as he gets up to make the coffee. One cup, then he will leave. Don't want to get too comfortable. She clears away the dishes and he pokes around until he finds the mugs. On the top shelf at eye level he finds one in white porcelain with the Academy logo on it. It sits in shadow apart from the others, gathering dust. Dee Dee does her mourning where no one else can see.
He takes down two other mugs and pours the coffee. Just cream for him. Cream and sugar for her. She looks down at the cup as he hands it to her. "You know how I like it?"
He half shrugs. "I saw you fixing it the other day." He only has to see things once to remember them. It's a blessing and a curse.
She stares at the mug some more, and then looks at him with a hint of suspicion. "Just what do you want from me?"
He considers a moment. "As much as I can get." She'll only give up so much, he knows this. In fact, he's counting on it. When the case is over, they'll go back to their separate corners.
They drink the coffee and then he goes to leave as planned. The broken front door makes him frown. "Maybe you shouldn't stay here tonight," he says.
She pushes him toward the stairs with enough force to make him move. She is stronger than she looks. "I'll shove a chair under the knob."
"Bolin could be out there right now."
"Great, if he comes in, we'll have him dead to rights." She nudges him again and he gets the hint.
"Okay, I'm going."
She grabs his arm. "Wait, one thing." She fishes a slip of paper out from the pocket of her robe and hands it to him. "It's my home number," she explains. "I figure next time maybe you could call first before you shoot through my front door."
He studies the paper. Women give him phone numbers all the time, but this one has a weight to it. "Call first," he says as he stuffs it in his pocket. "Got it."
He goes home to a house full of shadows. The only sound is his own footsteps on the stairs. In bed, he watches as the red numbers on the clock radio tick over to twelve-thirty a.m.. He rubs his nose and reaches for the phone. He doesn't have to check the number—he's seen it once and that's enough. She answers after just one ring.
"This number was for emergencies only, Hunter."
He smiles at the sound of her exasperation in the dark. "I just wanted to make sure you got home all right."
"I was already home!"
"Oh, then I wanted to make sure you knew I got home all right."
There is a pause. Her answer, when it comes, is both hesitant and gentle. "All right. Yes. I'm glad you're home okay."
"Night then," he says.
"Night, Hunter." He hangs up the phone and rolls over. He tucks the pillow under his head and closes his eyes, dreaming already of Bolin's face when he realizes they've nailed him. He doesn't want to think too hard about the added sweetness, the satisfaction he has now of knowing that she's out there across town in a bed full of teddy bears, dreaming the same thing.
Xxx
I found another homeless fic. Here 'tis.