Sorry about the delay in posting. I am not dead, although I might as well be after sleeping wrong in bed all night. Geez. Talk about getting old. Damnit.
wuemsel: yeah I don't know what came over me either. And it's only going to get worse. Must have had a real bad month when I wrote this one, and wanting to pass it on to the boys.
The midmorning press conference Conden held in hopes of appeasing the ever-aggressive press on their high-profile murder case didn't seem to have had the intended effect of calming down the general public; at least not judging by the switchboard downstairs getting close to overheating.
Although he was grateful to hear the Chief explain that additional security measures had been put into place to protect the officers of the Homicide department from unruly behavior from the side of the fans, he couldn't help but wonder if Conden's stern warning would further taunt some of the fanatics surfacing in the wake of the Sullenger murder case.
Quietly stewing about Steve's whereabouts and complete lack of communication, he didn't notice the person standing by his door until she knocked several times.
"Are you Lieutenant Stone?"
Even from a few feet away, the tall blonde exuded an aura of glamour and arrogant detachment, her blue eyes glancing over at him condescendingly. If the high-heels, skin-tight leopard print dress and expensive perfume were any indication, he was dealing with something in between Sullenger's girlfriend, ex-wife, or one of the ladies parading down Market Street after midnight.
"I sure am.", he answered hesitantly and pulled the black rimmed reading glasses off his face, unable to shake the tension of expecting another dysfunctional fan to intrude their workplace hoping to cause trouble.
"My name is Coreen Smith. I understand you've been looking for me. I apologize; I just got back into town."
Well, at least it wasn't a rogue, knife-wielding fan this time around.
"Miss Smith, I am glad you stopped by.", Mike countered cordially and waived her in, before getting up and shutting his office door, "I apologize about the slew of phone calls but we're in the middle of a murder inv-"
"I know why you called. And I know what you're thinking. That's why I am here."
The curt remark surprised him and Mike stopped at the water carafe by his tall file cabinet for a quick drink and to gather his thoughts, before facing the rude lady again.
"Okay then, Miss Smith…so we understand that you were dating Mister Sullenger, is that correct?"
"We were until Thanksgiving morning.", she replied in unmasked annoyance and crossed her legs, her outstretched foot weaving back and forth, "But then we had a fight. He went his way, I went mine…to my sister's place to be exact. We had a few drinks and on my way home, I was caught by one of your…your patrol cars and spent Thanksgiving in jail. Thanks a lot for that, by the way."
Unwilling to let her disparaging remark drive their conversation into a different direction altogether, Mike never acknowledged it, and instead laced his fingers on the surface of his desk.
"Miss Smith, would you mind telling me what your fight was all about?"
With an annoyed eye-roll, the woman ran her well-manicured fingers through her long blonde hair and sighed.
"His taste."
"His taste? I…I beg your pardon?"
"His taste in clothes. It was horrible."
When his frown didn't disappear after the second explanation, she huffed in agitation, then reached for a cigarette in her leather coat, lighting it without ever asking for permission.
"Lieutenant, Roy was a very lonely man. Had the devil for an ex-wife, couldn't go out in public without being bugged by a bunch of overzealous and overweight women wanting to bear his children. I was craving companionship without too many strings attached, and I didn't care about his social status and his TV show. We met in the elevator of the Atlantic Hotel one afternoon and realized that we both have something to offer to the other one, if you get my drift."
"You mean your companionship for his money?"
Growing increasingly tired by the attitude of the lady sitting across from him, Mike shoved the old ashtray in front of her, hoping she would avoid ruining the carpet with her careless gesturing.
"A rose by any other name, Lieutenant.", she growled back and seductively shook the ashes off her cigarette into the tray, "The point is that it worked out for a while but eventually, our lives just drifted apart."
"So, his horrible taste in clothes was the reason for your breakup?"
Acknowledging his mocking with another eyeroll, she blew some blue smoke in his general direction, then chuckled.
"It was the clothes he bought me. He knew from the beginning that I had certain…expectations, especially if we were to go out to dinner and be seen. He tried, but despite his celebrity status, his taste was a lot more blue-collar than I had expected. He just couldn't understand my need for pretty things, things that would accentuate our statuses. The rags he brought home for me to wear…well…I wasn't going to go out in public with them."
Clenching his jaws at the overbearing woman, Mike drew in a deep breath, hating the smell of cigarettes filling his office.
"Like that ehm…that black leather jacket we found by his body?"
"Obviously. Did you see that rag?", she countered, oblivious to the exasperation in her voice, "That's why I finally broke up with him. I don't know where he found it, but it just made it obvious that he and I weren't meant for each other. I threw it at him the morning of our breakup when I rushed out the door. You mean to tell me he still carried it around with him? Tsk. To think that he believed it was good enough for me…"
"You're not the least bit upset about his death, are you, Miss Smith?", Mike asked, his prying eyes piercing the woman who remained surprisingly quiet, "Did you ever think that maybe you had it all wrong, and that perhaps the jacket was too good for somebody like you?"