Angelina Hoffman
"How come I haven't met your new partner yet?" Angelina Hoffman rested her chin in her hand and glowered at her older brother, who was in the process of devouring the grilled steak she had prepared for him.
Mark Hoffman's skewered fork hovered above his plate, his eyebrow furrowed at the sudden question. He had been enjoying the food while he tuned out the small talk that Angie and her long-time boyfriend, Peter Acomb, had been sharing. He had to let his mind return to the present, wondering how the hell this subject had come up. "No reason to."
"It's been eight months, apparently, right, Peter?" Angie pulled Peter into the gang up.
"Uh," Peter shot a glance nervously at the man, cracking a peace-giving grin. It had taken a while, but Peter had finally won Hoffman over, after the second year together. He saw the man like a brother, his only shortcoming was wondering when the hell he would finally propose to Angie. "Well, if he doesn't think it's appropriate, that's his call, Angie."
"I want to meet your partner, Mark." Angie always had such skill at selective listening. She smiled at him, brown eyes sparkling. His kid sister was used to getting what she wanted. He couldn't stop her. "You know how I learned about your new partner?"
Hoffman didn't answer, though he narrowed his eyes and went down the list of choices mentally.
"I ran into Tracy Rigg. She's met your partner. Will? Is that it? How come I haven't yet?" She pouted playfully. "Invite him over, I'll cook everyone dinner Friday night. Please?"
Hoffman's brain sputtered. Shit. "Um. Angie." He took his sister's hand and mustered up all the concentration he could into putting on a genuine act. "I like keeping work at work. You know that."
She shook her head. "That's baloney. I've been to all of MPD's functions. Cookouts, award ceremonies, and, unfortunately, the funerals. Mark, you live at work. And you can't even pull that excuse when the last partner you had, I've cooked for. Invite Will over. Please. Peter," Angie shot a predatory gaze at her boyfriend, instructing him to come to her aid.
"Uh-geeze, Angie." Peter's face reddened. "Don't pull me into this."
She let out a sigh. "Mark," she drawled his name out, batting her lashes. "For me."
Hoffman inhaled sharply. He closed his eyes. "Fine. I'll invite Will over. But that doesn't mean… it's happening. I'm likely going to get turned down. You think I'm antisocial? Will goes home as soon as the day's up. Like clockwork." He would give up his firstborn to not have Will accept. He didn't want Angie to start getting the wrong ideas.
"Oh, well then tell him that I'm a great cook," she bragged. "And let me know what he likes."
"Uh," Mark didn't want to confirm or deny his partner's gender, knowing that was a highway he didn't want to cross unless he had to. Besides, Will wouldn't accept. She was good at keeping her distance from socializing outside of work.
"And if Will's married, invite his wife!"
Goddamn it. "Fine."
"Don't look so upset," Angie beamed at him. "I'm so excited! Ooh, I think I'll bake something special. How about a croquembouche?"
"What?!" Peter was pleased, a toothy smile in a large crescent moon. "Oh, I can't wait."
Hoffman paused at this. Angie had chosen to study culinary arts and worked as an aspiring gourmet chef. And she had spoiled his pallet with her weekend dinner parties since she graduated from cooking school. Her croquembouche was such a rare treat, he reconsidered his reservations on bringing Will into his personal life. Maybe the hell Angie would give him when she found out his partner was a woman would be worth it. Maybe. At least, this once. Fuck, he liked that dessert so much, he was torn over what to do.
"Will they be with chocolate cream?" Hoffman quietly asked, keeping his stare focused on his steak. He might as well haggle to swing the scales in his favor.
"If Will comes, yes," Angie enthused. She giggled. "And I'll make another one of your favorites. Ravioli. From Scratch."
"Damn," This almost convinced him. "What if - Will - doesn't want to go?"
"Well, then guess I'll just have to cancel. I can't make all that food for just us three."
"Now, hold on," Peter protested, "We can always freeze the leftovers."
"Do not say the f-word in this house," Angie teased. "Besides, why would Will say no? I can't wait to meet him! Oh, and his wife. He's married, right?"
"Will's married." To a scumbag no one here needs to meet.
"Great! I'll make sure there's enough for five."
Hoffman suddenly lost his appetite as he realized the hell he was in for if his partner, Will Maddox, did happen to decide to accept the invitation. But why would she? Especially since she was keeping her husband, Frank Griffin, far away from him and everyone else at the precinct. Hoffman was comforted by this idea. Disappointed that he'd be missing out on Angie's blatant bribes, but there would always be future opportunities for her to make croquembouche and ravioli. He was a patient guy.
With confidence that nothing would come of this, he returned to enjoying his meal and tuning out Peter talking about some story of a magic gig gone wrong, likely the cruise-ship story, and enjoying the rest of his Sunday night.
Wilhelmina Maddox
Will's alarm went off a Monday morning, jostling her dreamy state as she fumbled to silence the shrill disturbance.
The smell of pancakes and coffee beckoned her to get up.
She stretched, naked and cold, but eager to grab breakfast. When she crawled out of bed, she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. The reddish hickeys on her neck grabbed her attention. She let out a bemused, "Fuck," as she pulled her wild bedhead out of the way to study the damage.
It had been their anniversary the night before. It had been a magical night. Definitely one for the books. Frank had taken her out of the city where they had a picnic and watched the sunset over the cliffs of the national park. When they got home, they drank wine and at first, the love-making had been gentle and sweet, before growing into a rough passion that Frank tended to get as he had progressed through the bottle of red that night. It hadn't been bad, though. Really.
She honestly had enjoyed the wild night, not remembering the last time she really got off with Frank. Or even with herself. It was just a while since she woke up as satisfied as she did at that moment.
When she got changed, she wore a black turtleneck and black slacks, glad it was a cool autumn morning. She already dreaded the shit Hoffman was going to dish her, always with his hawk-like eyes and attention to detail. He had made a habit of passively pointing out when she had a bruise or some minor injury that she tried to play off as nonexistent. She'd try to be cool about it, but he always seemed to know the truth; demanded she admit what she normally pushed in the back of her mind.
She entered the kitchen, smiling at Frank, who wore an apron and winked at her with a domestic smile painted on his lips. "Hey, beautiful," He was flipping flapjacks, the batter hissing and steaming. She reached out and kissed him on his cheek, resting her head on his shoulder. "Are these for me?"
"Of course," He nodded at the table, where two plates were set. "Have a seat. I'll pour your coffee."
She sat down in the chair, a tender soreness reminding her of the crazy night they had. She blushed and looked out the window to the forest of skyscrapers and the lavender light of pre-dawn just barely glowing on the horizon. It was going to be a pink sunrise. Nice.
The sound of coffee pouring made her spin her head but she smiled pleasantly as coffee poured in the mug. "Tonight, when you get back, we can go out to a movie," Frank plopped pancakes on both plates and after returning the frying pan, took his seat across from her. "They're doing screenings on classics. Casablanca is showing over at the Promenade."
"Ooh," Will raised an eyebrow. "You hate Humphrey Bogart, though."
"Eh, he's all right. Besides, I want to make it up to you." He reached out and squeezed her hand resting on the table. "I know I've been… awful this past year. But I hope I'm proving that I can change."
She blinked through blurred vision. "Yeah. I see it. You're really trying." Besides the wine the night prior, he had not had a drink in a month. It was progress.
"And I've got an interview today," He twitched his eyebrows flirtatiously. "At a call center, which sucks, but it's something."
"That's great," She squeezed his hand back. "Good luck. You'll do great."
"Thanks." They ate their breakfast, Frank watching her carefully while she kept smiling back at him. A month ago, she had given him an ultimatum: marriage counseling, that he begin going to Alcoholics Anonymous, or she would file for divorce. She had braced for everything to go violent. She had a night bag packed, under her desk at the station, ready just in case. She had made this ultimatum in public, at a lunch bistro one Saturday. She had been ready for him to scream. To attack. She had been ready for anything, she had thought. But instead, he had broken down in tears. And she had grossly underprepared for that.
She had not expected the emotional vulnerability. It touched her and made her reconsider. So she compromised. If he could just get his act together, then she'd stay. And so far, he had. It gave her hope.
"Okay," she checked her watch. "I'll get home as soon as my shift's up. I'll call if something changes. I love you." She got up and kissed him. He had quickly put his hand to the back of her head and pushed her closer to him, deepening the kiss.
"Here's to you, kid," He quoted, gray eyes intense and stormy. "Get home safe."
She waved, grabbed her coat and bag, and was off, sighing in relief. The heavyweight on her shoulders lifted noticeably as she descended in the elevator, as though she was escaping a magnetic force that kept her compressed and tight. She could breathe, just a bit easier and deeper.
When she reached the station that morning, she had been humming to herself a light tune and tossed her purse onto the desk where Hoffman had his legs propped, the headline of the newspapers blocking his face read, "Four Walls Build A Home", with a picture of two older men smiling back at her.
Hoffman had slightly lowered the paper, his nose just poking up from the headline. "You're in a good mood."
She smiled back. "Had a good weekend."
"You're serious." He was watching her intensely. "That turtleneck disagrees."
She rolled her eyes, taking a seat. "Actually, the turtleneck can attest. Things are looking up," she volunteered the smidge of personal information, looking at the tray of her inbox. Folders needing her signature were already collecting and the week had only just started. She sighed and began going through the paperwork.
"All right, this is a first. You've got me. What happened?" Hoffman rested his elbows on his desk and leaned forward, lips pursed as he considered her. "You have this look about you that just… glows."
She cringed, trying not to laugh. "Uh, well, it was our wedding anniversary yesterday."
His face contorted in disgust. "Gross, Maddox. Sorry I asked."
"Oh, fuck off. You're the one who pried," She began scribbling her signature, confirming she had been the investigator to various legal documents.
"So good ol' Frank's staying? You told me weeks ago that it was over."
She kept her smile frozen. "Well, he's made some changes."
"You think he'll stick to them?"
"Well, it's none of your business, Hoffman. I don't want to talk about this!" She had raised her voice suddenly, instantly regretting the hostility. He rarely inquired about her marriage and surprised her with his level of respect towards her need for privacy over the course of their partnership. Throughout their many months together, she had been relieved with how little Hoffman intervened. He had picked up on her need for him to stay back and look the other way, and he complied, even though it clearly pissed him off.
Hoffman was silent, the pause a relief as she tried to focus on her paperwork. But that day, he was talkative for some reason. "You like ravioli?"
"What?" Her head shot up, confused. She must not have heard him correctly.
"Ravioli. My sister found out through the union wives that I have a new partner. And wants me to invite you to her house for dinner this Friday. And to mention that she is a damn good cook. And will go all out if you come." He sounded like he was forcing himself to say these words, droning them like a checklist in his head. Like they were rehearsed. His eyes seemed to plead for her to do the complete opposite of what his words were asking.
Will blinked slowly. "You have a sister?"
"Yeah. Oh, and she thinks you're a man. So… you don't have to go, of course. I told her you don't like doing these things."
Leaning back in her seat, she contemplated this. Her curiosity piqued. What sweet poetic justice that Hoffman's personal life was opening up for her to poke through and sniff around. "You know, I'd love to meet her, actually." She smiled maliciously, "Consider this payback for all the shit you give me. I'll ask Frank and get back to you on that."
He looked bewildered. "Seriously? He'd go? You'd want him to?"
"Yep. I think we'll go." She briefly considered what Frank would say. He knew she had a male partner. Maybe meeting him would help calm his nerves. Put to rest any insecurity he felt about it. "I think it'll be fun. Who else will be there?"
"Her boyfriend. And me." He folded his arms across his broad chest. "You don't have to feel obligated to do this."
"Oh, I'm going. Because I want to. I can't wait to meet your sister and tell her all the shit you pull at work." She wanted to let out an evil laugh to rub salt in his wounds, but before she could tease him any further, a stack of papers slammed onto her and Hoffman's desks, making both of them jump.
"Having fun, Maddox? Hoffman?" Grissom and two of his lackeys had appeared out of nowhere.
"Sir," Maddox looked up at the Captain. "Good morning."
"Good morning," He smiled at her before frowning at Hoffman. "Why aren't you reporting to the scene?"
"Sorry, sir, what case is this?" Will ruffled through her papers, trying to find any hint to what he was talking about.
"I briefed Hoffman before you arrived. There's been a few murders southside. Hookers in trunks and dumpsters, the bodies are piling up. It's getting to the point that I'm getting chewed out by topside about this. It's triggering a women's protest."
Maddox shot a hostile glare at Hoffman who passively looked up at Captain Grissom. "We're on it, sir. Hoffman, the file?" She held her hand out. Grissom nodded, pleased, and went to another desk where his assistants proceeded to drop more cases off while he castigated the other detectives for dragging their feet as well.
Hoffman opened a file cabinet, pulled the thick coffee-stained file, and tossed it towards her. She thumbed through the various forms and images, eyelids stretching open. "Hoffman, what the fuck? Why didn't you tell me this as soon as I got here?"
"Didn't think Grissom was going to be breathing down our necks," He calmly drank his coffee. "The man's up for promotion. Only reason he's riding us so hard."
"It's also his job," She reminded him as she got up and pulled hercoat back on. "Dibs on driving today," she rushed past him, power walking to the door.
"Maddox!" Hoffman called out to her, the sound of his pursuit had her picking up the pace. She practically ran out to the parking lot. It was the little things that made the job tolerable. Making Mark Hoffman nervous with her driving was one of those small pleasures she savored.
Mark Hoffman
Hoffman was too late in stopping Maddox from sliding into the driver's seat. He sulked while holding on for dear life as she careened and sped down the interstate, screaming down towards the worst side of town. The suspension on their assigned unmarked car was starting to go, his back ached for being jarred so often by her penchant for taking steep hills at top speed.
"Read the latest victim to me," Will kept her eyes on the road while taking a sharp right to dodge a cluster of cars and continued down an alley.
He felt like he was going to lose his breakfast but kept his stare on the most recent report. "Woman, dyed blonde hair, early 20's. Dressed like a sex worker. Found bloated in the back of an old sedan registered to a Nicki Malone. He's got a long rap sheet. He's also one of Toni Rosello's goons."
"Who?"
"Toni Rosello."
"Never heard of him."
"Seriously, Maddox? He's made. You know, classic mobster. Leads one of the biggest crime families in this city."
"I see."
"He's a real charmer. His family is suspected of drug trafficking, human trafficking, arms distribution… a real piece of shit."
"What else is new?" Maddox made it to the location, underneath a rusted bridge of the city's public transit train system. A squad car had its lights on while uniforms guarded the yellow taped perimeter. A run-down vehicle with its trunk popped wide open beckoned.
Will parked the car and they made their way to an already rank smelling crime scene. Hoffman was relieved it was Fall and early enough in the day that the sun hadn't baked the corpse further. But a few days in the trunk had probably already done all the damage required to ruin his lunch.
Maddox was eager to witness the scene, nodding at the uniforms who watched her intently, waiting for her to faint or throw up or gasp. She would disappoint them. She was pulling gloves on as she bent over the body, to study the mess.
Hoffman could barely recognize the lump of greenish-gray flesh and bone as human. Flies and maggots writhed on the rotting rib cage, its skin patchy with missing tissue. It was an ugly sight but he kept his gaze on it, burning the gore into his brain. The face was surprisingly intact. She was young, younger than Angie. Anger was hot from his chest up to the back of his throat.
"Victim ID'd?" Maddox reached into the trunk with her gloved hand. She pulled out a small bracelet with a flower dangling off it. One of the Crime Scene Investigators took it from her and put it in a clear evidence bag. "I'll hold onto that," she smiled at the woman as she took the plastic package out of her hands.
"Nope. No one around wants to talk, either," The uniformed officer was looking towards the cluster of young women, under-dressed for the cold morning and huddled together. Hoffman knew they wouldn't talk. At least not to him or the other officers. He looked at Maddox expectantly, who was staring at the young women, as though formulating a plan as she took them in.
They continued to scan the scene while the officer continued, "We can't get a hold of Malone. Apparently, when we knocked on his door, he'd already been incarcerated for three months. The family reported the car stolen last week."
"All right. You good, Maddox?"
She nodded, her body turned to the next block. "Let's have a talk with the kids," she suggested. "You just stay in the distance, Hoffman."
He nodded. "All right, get her out of here," Hoffman told the man as he nodded at the trunk. "We've got everything we need."
Hoffman stayed a healthy distance from Maddox as she waved and strode to the group of girls. He felt uncomfortable seeing their bare backs and the majority of their legs. They looked like they should be in high school. Or maybe he was just getting old. Likely, both.
He stood by a brick building across the street, keeping one hand just touching his gun while the other leaned against the brick to make him look as harmless and uninterested as possible. He knew it did little to ease the concerned faces, all eying him like gazelles realizing a lion was watching them.
He watched Maddox hold her hands up, the bracelet visible. She said something that resulted in some of the girls scattering, but one took a step up. The girl seemed emotional, pointing at the bag. His partner nodded and let the girl hold the evidence and look at the jewelry closely. He tensed at this, straightening. That was a reckless move. After a few seconds, the girl began to cry and handed back the bracelet, her sobs distinct over the passing sirens and sounds of traffic in the area. Maddox put her hand on the girl's thin shoulder, soothing her.
He admitted Maddox had made his investigations significantly easier with her methods. She was good at getting people to open up. It definitely helped save all the paperwork he was used to filling. They tended to find more open and willing witnesses to take them out of the dead ends these cases normally came with.
After a bit of more talking, Maddox waved goodbye and returned to Hoffman. "Her name was Effie. No known last name. She had been working the corner for a little over a year. She was a runaway from Georgia, apparently."
"That will narrow down finding family," Hoffman congratulated. "What else?"
"She had a pimp. A real mean one."
"Are there nice ones?"
"Nicer than this guy. He's our likely suspect, from what Regina told me." Maddox looked haggard. "Guy likes them young. He sounds like he's got a system where he collects from schools out of state and forces them to work for him here."
"Jesus." Hoffman had the sudden urge to spit. "What's the fucker's name?"
"T-Rod. Quaint, aint' it? He's got a VIP spot every night at the Velvet Rush."
He snorted. "Of course he does. Well, looks like we're staying up tonight."
"Yeah," she looked worried all of a sudden. "I need to make a phone call, real quick." She handed him the evidence bag and took her cell out, flipping it and going off. Her shoulders had tensed, her head bowed as she spoke quietly.
Asking Frank for permission to do your job? He shook his head, shoving the plastic into his pockets, keeping his hands fisted in them. He didn't get Maddox. She was far too forgiving in the worst kind of people. As though she could sense he was watching her, she turned to him briefly to give him a pregnant stare before showing him her back again. The look had said plenty. She knew he knew. And her eyes were practically growling at him to not even think about saying anything about it.
He had noticed she had seemed in higher spirits the past month. She was the happiest he had ever seen her, lately. Maybe the fucker got his shit together. Maddox was a big girl. Only she knew the whole story of her life. He had to trust her on that. Or really, it was none of his business. Like she always said. He kicked at some imaginary pebbles with his shoes, trying not to get so worked up. He instead let himself take in her silhouette. The sun was bright and strong, casting her shadow long across the concrete. Her reddish curls caught the sun and burned orange. He liked that color. It was like fire.
She got off the phone and returned to him, a relieved smile on her face. "Well, I've got good news."
"Yeah?"
"Frank is looking forward to dinner Friday."
He blinked. That was what she had been asking. "Really." He quickly recovered. "That's great."
"Yeah." She let out a nervous laugh. "He also got a job offer today. I'm going to head off. Meet you at the Velvet Rush tonight? We'll confront this T-Rod."
"Yeah."
"Oh. Dress like you're going clubbing. I think we should catch him off guard."
Hoffman smirked. "You can't be serious."
"You know, button-down. Wax your hair a little," she eyed him up and down. "Just… try not to look so blatantly cop-like. Like right now."
"Besides these clothes, I've got jeans."
She nodded but had little faith in her smile. "Just. Dress like you're ten years younger."
"And you? What are you going to wear?" He countered, looking back at the remaining streetwalkers shivering across the street. "Any inspiration from them?"
She let out a low laugh. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure I'll blend in. I'm good at that."
He couldn't argue with that.
Wilhelmina Maddox
Will sighed as she readjusted her clinging halter top, shivering while her bare shoulders were struck by a sharp icy wind blustering through to her bones. She stood in line for the club, hugging herself tightly while she impatiently shuffled back and forth, as though the movement would restore body heat into her numb hands. She should have brought a jacket. She should have just worn something more practical.
There was some comfort in the fact that every other lady around her shivered in their attractive but skin-exposing outfits. She envied how they huddled with their dates, some fortunate enough to get a blazer slung around their shoulders or a big arm draped around them to help ease the pain.
Her brain was egging at her to just follow suit as soon as her partner got there. Professional bearing, be damned. She was too fucking cold to care if it would be inappropriate. She just needed to stop feeling so cold.
"Hey," The familiar deep growl made her turn around. She smiled in relief. He stood there, tall and surprisingly fitting in, his brown hair combed and wetted back, emphasizing his cheekbones and jawline. She didn't stop to admire for too long, though. Her joints stung too smartly.
"Oh, thank God. Give me your jacket." She desperately gripped the cuff of his windbreaker, hands shaking.
"You cold?" He thankfully didn't argue, unzipping and shrugging out of his jacket and handed it to her. She pushed her stiff fists into each sleeve, sighing from the lingering warmth he had left it. It smelled like his deodorant, a rich woodsy musk filled her nose and gave her stomach butterflies.
"Freezing," her teeth chattered. "Wow, you smell good."
He gave her a look. "You all right?"
"Just been standing in this fucking line for an hour," she shamelessly leaned into him. "Sorry, but I'm literally dying of hypothermia here. Otherwise, I wouldn't be doing this. Just pretend this is part of keeping our cover." She took in slow and pleasurable breaths. The smell of him freshly showered caught in her lungs. He was so warm, like a fireplace.
He stood there awkwardly but thankfully without comment. She continued to tremble violently until he put an arm around her, pulling her under his arm and against his side. She felt herself surrounded by his heat, like a ring of fire that burned into her back. He continued to say nothing as they stood there but his distinct feeling of awkwardness was clearly pounded into her ears. His heart rate was accelerating as she pressed the side of her cheek into his lower chest. His arm was rigid as he patted her back shoulder heavily and mechanically. She giggled at this. She was picking up the vibe he was not finding as much comfort in this situation as she was, his form stiffening like a mannequin.
"How are you this warm?" She tried to stop the tension from growing, her voice soft and incredulous but not really complaining, pulling back to spare his embarrassment. She felt instantly reborn, the jacket letting her hold onto the newfound energy and shielded her from the cold wind. She took in the rest of him. He had worn white jeans and a deep cerulean silk collared shirt, unbuttoned to show just a bit of his broad chest and shoulders. He had some body hair, rough brown hair that poked where the shirt opened up.
He had even done his hair. Thick brown locks were slicked back, bringing attention to his strong cheekbones and jawline. She admitted he looked like a tasty snack, not quite the disgruntled detective she was used to seeing every day. She had never pictured him as handsome until then, often his personality made his face twist into a sour expression that would mar the impression. It was as though she was glimpsing into an alternative reality, seeing him out of place amongst the eager patrons who were out for a fun time.
She finally broke away from admiring his body, seeing his face was grimacing and his ears were a dark shade of crimson. He knew she was eye fucking him. Her cheeks began to share that color palette and she cleared her throat when she pretended she wasn't drooling. "Thank you. I needed that."
"Yeah. Don't mention it." He folded his arms, clearly cold, but kept a healthy step back from her as the line progressed further. Now she just felt silly. They were working and she was just being unprofessional. After a few moments of shuffling, his voice went back to the deep and perpetually antagonistic. "I'm surprised you left the house dressed in just that. Angie used to do that, too." He let out a smirk while adding, "You chicks sure love to not dress for the weather."
"Summer was like a month ago, this is a nightclub, and remember asshole, I didn't realize it gets so fucking cold here so fast." She felt her regular dose of annoyance flood into her, helping keep the heat that she had absorbed from Hoffman. The corners of her smile curled up, though, glad they could just move on from the moment like it never happened.
"Oh yeah. You're from San Diego, right?"
"Yeah, up in La Jolla. It's literally seventy and sunny all year round."
"Just wait until it starts snowing. You should buy some decent boots soon if you haven't already."
"Noted." The line continued and they were almost at the bouncer.
"I'm surprised Frank let you leave in that."
She looked up at him, seeing he kept his gaze focused on the large man checking ID's. "Well, he knows it's undercover work. I explained it."
"I never realized he was so understanding," there was sarcasm there, rough around the edges, but clear as day. "The makeup doesn't cover up your neck well."
Her hands darted up to her neck, touching her neck lightly, realizing her foundation was starting to run. "Shit. Sorry, I'll have the jacket cleaned."
"Don't worry about it. Not the first time." He looked away, frowning and furrowed. "So you're really giving him another chance?"
"When he's not drinking, he's actually pretty understanding," she defended. She quickly shifted gears. She scanned Hoffman's outfit, desperately looking for some feature or flaw to poke fun of and turn the hard time back to him. It was only fair. Thankfully, she had kept her true opinions of his appearance to herself. It made lying a lot easier. "I see you're going for the 'I'm totally not a cop, everyone, really' vibe."
He shrugged, his face passive. "This is the best you're going to get."
"At least it's not just a white shirt and suspenders," she teased, easing the pressure. "And good call on leaving the shoulder holster at home. Though… did you bring your Glock?"
He looked down at her, his face like an eclipse in the sky. She realized that they were up close and personal, the shortest distance in proximity they had ever been before. Her cheeks grew hot as she couldn't help but take in the way his full lips curled into a smile that looked as dangerous as it looked sweet. "Well, I have pockets."
"Yeah, must be nice." She was in a mini skirt and halter top, her only weapon held in place at her inner thigh holster. It was a tiny peashooter, still a fatal weapon, but not very intimidating. If she needed to get it, she was going to have to just reach in between her legs, but she wasn't planning on drawing tonight. Hopefully, she wasn't going to have to flash the entire club in the next few hours. "But remember, we're here just to get information."
"You're no fun."
They reached the bouncers who took their ID's and waved them in. The security was lax, just waving them in without a care in the world. Once they stepped into the warm building they were wrapped in darkness. The room smelled of smoke and thumped with bone-rattling bass beats. Electronic music and the yells of hundreds of voices hurt her ears.
Returning the windbreaker to Hoffman, she stood on her tiptoes, trying to scan the crowd. She grabbed Hoffman's sleeve and pulled at him to bend over so she could put her mouth to his ear. "Where are the VIP Tables?!" She shouted. He stood up straight and looked around, standing a good head taller than most of the crowd. They were getting bumped into and nudged, so Hoffman pushed his way through the throngs of people, his hand gently pushing her upper back to guide her.
She felt herself struck in the shoulder and they separated, with Will shouting, hand outstretched, "Mark!" and Hoffman turned quickly and grasped her hand. He pulled her back to him. It happened so suddenly that she face planted into his solid chest and pushed herself off of him in frustration. He looked uncertain, clearly out of his element. She mouthed, "Over there," towards the other side of the building where black tables and lounge cushioned seats draped in blacklight and strobing colors. She pointed out a single man with tattoos on his face and sunglasses covering his eyes.
She figured the only guy on a Monday night in VIP was their T-Rod. She took the lead, grabbing Hoffman's bear paw of a hand and pulled him through the masses of people grinding their bodies and teeth to the sound of the music.
There was a guard at the VIP section, a big bald man that looked like he would give Hoffman a run for his money, folding his arms at her approach. "You got a wristband?"
She shook her head. "I want to talk to T-Rod. Tell him it's Trish."
The man looked uncertain but turned to the lone lounger and shouted, "Hey T."
The man turned his head, black shades blocking his expression. The bouncer thumbed at Will, mouthing, "You know her?"
T-Rod got to his feet, a slimy smile crawling across his cheeks. He had glittering diamonds and gold wrapped around his neck, in his teeth. His hands had more letters and symbols than a keyboard. "Hey there, baby," He slurred, leaning into Will's ear. "You looking to ride the rod?"
She refrained from bursting out in laughter but instead gave a coy smile, putting her hand up to the man's cheek. She felt the stubble, thumb caressing his chin. "Maybe, sugar," she shouted into his ear. "But first, can we have a seat? Get to know each other better?" She pursed her lips. "I need a favor."
An eyebrow poked above the wayfarer shades and the man shrugged, waving her in. The bouncer stopped Hoffman and pointed at him.
T-Rod shook his head, flicking his wrist to shoo him away. Will cast a glance and mouthed, "Wait," while pointing at the floor as she made her way to T-Rod's table. She knew it was risky in the crowded space to break from Hoffman, but it was necessary. Besides, he was right there.
Once she sat, T-Rod beckoned for a buxom waitress in tight leather and a champagne bottle with lit sparklers and placed the bottle at the table with two champagne flutes.
T-Rod poured the drinks, scooting close and personal to Will. She could smell the sweet, dank smell of weed and his body spray as he draped an arm around her shoulder, his fingers tickling her skin. She resisted the urge to shiver, her neck hairs standing on end from discomfort. Ugh. She kept smiling sweetly back at him.
"I'm trying to find my sister," she yelled into his ear, making sure she sounded southern with a drawling accent. "I hear you may know where she is?"
"Baby, if I saw a hot redhead like you running around, I wouldn't be here," he let out a chuckle.
"Well, maybe you've heard of her? Her name's Effie."
The man flinched slightly, lowering his glasses to reveal pale eyes with pupils so dilated that they were mostly black holes boring into her. "Effie, you say?"
"Yeah. You know her?"
The man recovered but pulled his arm away. "Maybe. I heard she left town."
"Can you tell me where she went? I've been looking all over for her," she leaned forward and tried to get the pimp to give eye contact. She put her hand onto his lap. "I'll do anything to know what happened to her."
T-Rod seemed to forget himself, looking down at his lap. "Baby, you wanna know where your sister is that bad?"
"Yes," She nodded, playing the naïve, small-town girl. "I'm desperate."
T-Rod smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, maybe we can work something out. But we got to go somewhere more private."
Will gave a dazzling smile, while internally felt her anger build. This fucker is about to fuck the sister of the girl he killed. And then what will he plan to do? Kill me?
"Aight. Come with me." He took her wrist and pulled her up to her feet. The man led her out a back entrance from the VIP area, and suddenly she was in a hallway. The noise had muffled. She turned to see if Hoffman had followed to only see a flash of his alarmed expression, mouthing, 'wait', as the door was slammed shut.
She felt the blood drain from her face when T-Rod went to deadbolt the door. She spun around desperately, not seeing another door in the narrow hallway.
Mark Hoffman
Hoffman tried to push past the bouncer but was stopped from stepping over the line that separated VIP, despite yelling, "I need to talk to her."
"Sorry, back there's restricted. Only staff."
"And her?" Hoffman waved, holding in as much rage as he could. His heart was pounding, his instincts spinning in place. She just went off on her own with that creep. That's a whole new level of stupid, Maddox.
He reached into his pocket to pull out his badge, flashing it in the face of the man. "Metropolitan PD. Let me through."
The bouncer's eyes widened but shook his head. "You got a warrant?"
"I don't need one," He yelled into the man's face and pushed him out of the way. The bouncer backed but still looked uncertain. Hoffman reached into his pocket to pull his Glock out, keeping it pointed at the floor. He heard a woman scream and there was chaos behind him as the patrons of the club began to scatter and flee the scene. He moved across the restricted floor and pushed the door open, but it was locked. He pounded on it, his heart sinking. Fuck.
The door was made of old heavy oak, heavier than the typical bedroom-hollowed-plywood type. He kicked and shouldered into the door, anyway, feeling the resistance bow slightly against his body weight. After a few heavy kicks, the door finally cracked until it crumpled, a portion of the lock casing itself splintered. He pushed the hunk of wood forward and entered a hallway. He looked both ways, desperate to detect where Will had gone from.
"Will!" He shouted, then paused when he heard a man curse and a sudden slap echo off the brick. He sprinted towards the source of the noise, turning the corner to see Will pressed against the wall with T-Rod holding a blade against her neck.
"You fucking bitch," the man slurred, not noticing Hoffman pointed a gun at his back. His mouth was against her cheek and ear, oblivious to his surroundings. "I'll make you beg."
"Drop it!" Hoffman roared, "Or I'll shoot."
The man froze, then slowly turned to Hoffman. "Nah, pig. You drop the gun, or I'll slit her little throat right here."
"Don't, Hoff-meh," Maddox choked the last part as T-Rod slammed her head against the wall. Her hands that had gripped his arms flopped to her sides as her eyes rolled up under fluttered eyelids.
"Shut. Up." T-Rod whispered against her face.
Hoffman glared daggers at the pimp, looking at his stance. The pimp seemed experienced with scenarios such as this. The blade was already embedded partially into Will's skin. He could take a headshot but the pimp had pressed his face and head against Will's cheek, thus using most of her face as a partial shield to his. If he went for the head, he could miss and hit her, instead. He hadn't been going to the range as often as he'd like lately.
It was too risky.
"I'll fucking do it," T-Rod, without flinching, slid the blade across Will's throat and she let out a gasp as blood began to trail down her neck. "Put that piece down, slow."
Hoffman pointed the gun upwards, turned the safety on, and slowly lowered it to the ground. He didn't want to, but there was little choice.
"Good. Now kick it over here."
Hoffman kicked it over, hard but in a direction that was intentionally inconvenient for the pimp. T-Rod pulled back and looked at where it went, the blade lifting away from Will's throat as well. This gave Maddox the opportunity to knee him sharply in the groin while ducking out of the knife's bite. The knife struck brick, scraping the stone. Some of her hair had gotten caught in the crossfire, a small lock of red curls floated to the floor.
The criminal collapsed partially, screaming but slashing the blade. Will crab-shuffled backwards away from T-Rod, leaving him open to attack Hoffman. Hoffman moved fast and grabbed the man by the ponytail and slammed his forehead against the other brick wall. Once T-Rod crumpled onto his back, the fight was over, but Hoffman didn't care. He continued to throw punches square in the man's cheek and nose.
He saw red. Red blood. Red floor. Red brick. The very light had gone red.
He kept pounding the fucker's face, while hearing his name chanted in his ears.
He felt cool, soft hands on his neck, pulling him backward. He was caught off guard and froze, realizing the chanting was feminine and shrill. Her hands had fallen onto his shoulders and her arms were pulling him, a weak force that more tickled than caused him any dislocation.
"Mark! Mark! Stop it!" She screamed, trying to pull him off of the perp. He blinked and got to his feet, catching his breath. His heart was blaring in his ears. His pulse pushed in a fast rhythm up his neck, his temples twitching. His chest heaved in and out rapidly.
"It's okay," She appeared in the red sea, eyes wide and afraid. "It's okay. We're fine."
He turned to T-Rod, who had gone very still. His face was a bloody mess. It looked like he had knocked out some teeth. As the adrenaline ran its course, his knuckles began to throb and sting. He saw the skin had been torn off most of them. His fists were vibrating. Shaking.
"Mark. Let me handcuff him," she held out her hand, avoiding eye contact as she stared at the bloody mess at their feet. He didn't understand until he realized she was asking for his handcuffs. He pulled them out of his pocket and handed them over. He fought the urge to squeeze his fingers through the hard metal rings and slam them onto the fucker's neck.
"T-Rod, or whatever your name is," she grunted as she rolled him over and reached for his wrists. "You are under arrest for the murder of Effie Rhyne. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
Her words, reading the Miranda rights, helped calm him. Restored him to normal. It was her voice. She was speaking. She was fine. She was alive. He eased the grip of his fists, remembering to relax them. Lost control.
"Mark. Check on if back up's been called. Maybe a 131's been called already.`` She was calm and giving out orders clearly, nodding at him to snap out of it.
He pulled out his cell phone and made the call. The pimp wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.
She stood up and shivered, her shoulders returning to the same trembling vibrato earlier in line. "You okay?" She put her hand on his upper arm, face wrought with worry.
"Are you?" He gently thumbed the stain of bright red blood on her neck, a fresh addition to the welts on her skin. It looked wrong seeing her so damaged. "This may scar." She felt cold to the touch and it reminded him to take his jacket off and put it around her. He had the urge to put an arm around her like before, but remembered himself. "That was stupid, Will. You can't just go off on your own like that. Stupid."
"It just happened so fast," she pulled the oversized parka around her, shaking her head. "Sorry, I didn't realize that door was the only one here. It won't happen again." She was fascinated with her heels, kicking her feet as she kept her head low.
"It better not," Hoffman muttered. "He could have-,"
"Let's not dwell too long on the possibilities," she snapped, then softened her tune as she quickly surmised. "Well, I don't know about you, but as soon as he's booked I could go for a drink. Or two."
He smirked. "Yeah. You owe me." He, too, didn't like to dwell on things that could have or could not have happened. What happened happened. She was alive. "Larry's?"
"Ugh. It's so gross there."
"Fries are good."
"No, the cheap liquor is what's good to you," she shook her head. "Your cheap ass better not worry about buying. You saved my ass tonight. Drinks on me."
"Oh goodie," he snickered. "Top shelf brands." She punched him playfully on the arm. Relief washed over him, cool and soothing, as he reveled in Will goofing and smiling up at him.
His heart was still taking a while to slow down and he frowned as he replayed the last few minutes in his head. This was exactly the kind of situation that made him question whether she should be working in the field or not. It was just too dangerous and they had gotten to the point of their working relationship where he cared what happened to her. Cared too much. And that was bad. A liability.
If anything bad happened to her, would he respond properly? Follow protocol? He had seen what happened to partners that were close - so close that when the inevitable injury or death happened, it wasn't just the desire to save people. It wasn't the need to do the right thing that had them obsessing and incensed. What spun them out of control, lost them their badge and gun, didn't emerge from a sense of duty. It was a deep and terrifying rage that just wanted to inflict pain;to hurt as much as possible.
It was a familiar feeling. It was something he had thought he had locked down and under control. He had almost let the beast out. That scared him.
"Ugh. Great. This will take forever to grow back," Will studied the uneven part of her hair where a cluster of curls were clearly missing. She pouted at him, making his insides twist in ways he didn't want them to.
He forced a smile back. "Just shave it all off, Maddox."
"Fuck off," her eyes flashed and nostrils flared, making his throat dry. He liked making her angry. Fuck. This is not good. His head hurt. He tried not to think about it.
When the cops arrived, they had pulled the unconscious suspect up roughly and dragged him to the exit. Maddox followed. Hoffman hovered around where bits of her hair still sat discarded on the floor. He didn't think things through when he knelt down and quickly shoved them into his pocket.
Wilhelmina Maddox
"I'm telling you, I don't know," T-Rod's nose was bandaged up, his eyes swollen and purple. He didn't look so intimidating, what with the shit kicked out of him the night before.
Will Maddox leaned forward from her stance, pressing her palms into the backrest of the chair she had been resting in just earlier. Freshly showered and dressed in her suit, she felt more in control than she had just the day before. She smiled gently, playing her role with ease.
At her side, her partner muttered, "You're full of shit." Hoffman was playing the bad cop, arms folded and throwing in threats and insults every few minutes while she played the good cop.
"Now, Terrance, we can't just let you go. I'd like to, really, but after assaulting a police officer, it looks like you're getting at least five years. Now, I know you're a good person and can do the right thing-,"
Hoffman let out an extra loud snort, the show meant to be disruptive and anachronistic. "This piece of shit should just rot."
"-and the right thing is to do good with Effie's family. They want to know what happened to their little girl. They can't sleep, not knowing what happened to her."
"Bitch died. End of story," Terrance "T-Rod" Rodders had a congested voice from both his nasal passageways being clogged up with bandages and dried blood. His eyes were bloodshot and shadowed, not having slept since the assault took place Tuesday morning. His face had gone stoic and expressionless as the hours dragged on. It was now Wednesday afternoon. Will and Hoffman had gotten their six hours of sleep and were fresh enough to begin interrogation procedures. Rodders, according to the jail security, had been kept up with loud rock music and regular police baton strikes against the bars. This was to their advantage.
They wanted Rodders to confess to the murders, especially after his guilty behavior of trying to kill her Tuesday. He held out, though, the interview having gone on three hours already. It was going to be a long night.
"All right, T-Rod," Will went back to her seat, opened up a bottle of water, and took leisurely sips. She had herself stretch and let out a yawn, giving the pimp a lazy smile that looked completely at ease.
This was Hoffman's cue. He slammed his fist hard onto the table, making the wannabe badass flinch, wild eyes flashing up at him. The criminal was scared of him, which was fair, considering he would need a nose job to get his sniffer looking like it used to. "I'm going to make sure we throw the book at you," Mark growled, hate flaring out of him. "You're lucky Detective Maddox is here and she's such a stickler for the rules. I don't give a fuck about this murder. If I had it my way, you'd be shoved in the same trunk you stuffed those girls into. Getting locked up would be a mercy, after what you did to my partner. If I had my hands on you, it'd be a lot worse. She's the only reason you're sitting here in one piece."
She couldn't help but glance over him, his intensity making her uneasy.
Easy, Mark. We need him respondent.
"I didn't know she was police," he softly whined, lips trembling. He was starting to break. Good.
"Terrance," she tried to sound maternal and warm. "Look at me. I'm here for you."
He began to cry. She slowly slid a box of tissues towards him. "You can tell me what happened," she whispered back. "I just need to know."
He looked up, blinking tears. "Ya know, I liked Effie. But - she saw something she wasn't supposed to."
"What did she see?"
He shook his head profusely. "They'll kill me if I tell."
"If you tell me, Terrance, nothing bad is going to happen to you. I promise." She lied. She didn't know exactly what would happen to Terrance, good or bad. But she just needed him to spill the beans. Until he provided enough information, she wasn't sure exactly what hypothetical danger he would need protection from. She was just glad he never asked for a lawyer. That was the last thing they needed.
"I didn't want to kill her. It's bad for business. You understand." He looked at her imploringly, as though killing young girls he forced into prostitution was just standard capitalist practice.
"Of course," she sympathized. "That's why I know you didn't make the call. Why screw yourself like that?"
"Exactly." He cleared his throat. "Okay. I got the order from the top, Toni Rosello himself. Apparently, some of his trustees hired my girls for a party. But something went down. I don't know what, and then I was given the order to keep 'em silent. Real silent."
She nodded, her heart beginning to flutter. "And the other girls?"
"All collateral. The ones you've shown me were most of them. We can always get more." He looked up, the disconnect to the fuckery he was saying not registering as bad or ill-conceived. Just business. She looked forward to locking him up.
"Where can I find Toni?" She had Mark in the corner of her eye. His arms were flexing, his entire body rigid as he restrained himself in his seat. He had his hands folded in prayer and resting on the table in front of him, mean-mugging the pimp with as much venom as his scowl could throw.
"He likes hanging in Tagliatelle, his first business. The one in Little Italy."
"You've been very helpful, Terrance. Thank you." She kept the good cop bridge open, in case they needed to cross-examine him later.
"You'll keep me safe, right?" He reached out to grab her arm and her fingers twitched at his touch.
Hoffman grabbed the guy's wrist and threw it back. "Yeah. You'll be safe. Safe in prison."
The man paled. "But Rosello's got guys inside. I'll be chum for the sharks."
"Not our problem," Hoffman got to his feet and made his way to the door. He looked at Will expectantly but she shook her head.
"Let me figure that out, Terrance. For now, you'll be just across the street. You'll have your own cell. We'll keep any Rosello-connected inmates away from you." When she left and they closed the door, she turned on Hoffman. "We need him cooperative, Mark. You can't just burn everything to the ground after one lead."
"He's not going to have much more to give," Hoffman griped. "If Rosello's involved, this is about to be a shitshow." He rubbed his temple as though a headache was forming.
"Who's Rosello?"
"You know. Toni Rosello." He shook his head. "I wouldn't waste time on Rodders anymore. He's not going to be able to help much. I'd put money on it. And after the shit he pulled, it's going to feel real nice leaving him alone at Blackwell Corrections."
"What's the likelihood he's going to die prematurely in there?" She folded her arms and looked at the shut door.
"Guaranteed. Before the week is up."
"Shit."
"No shit, Maddox. The fucking guy's a pimp. He's an animal that needs to be put down."
"Rehabilitated," she countered as she made her way out of the interrogation wing. "We shouldn't be putting people in prison to just die."
"People like that can't be rehabilitated," he argued, his voice getting huskier with frustration. "Don't go bleeding heart on me, Maddox."
"Whatever happened to second chances?" She looked at him, then, frowning as she looked up to find him stubbornly glaring back. "What's the point in paying to have incarcerations?"
"Yeah, second chances on a fender bender, drug offense, I get that. But he's a repeat offender. Lost cause. A fucking murderer, Maddox. He's taking kids, Will. Leave him to rot."
"Obviously, I think he should go to prison. But unless he's sentenced to death by a court of law, we are obligated to keep him alive. It's up to the judge."
"The judge would agree with me. Let the fucker die."
"You know we've moved beyond Hammurabi's day. Justice is not vengeance, Mark."
Hoffman laughed, rough and loud, trying to shake off his disbelief. "How cute. You're so naïve, Maddox."
"Maybe we need more of that here," she muttered, storming off. "Otherwise, what's stopping us from just eating each other in this godforsaken city?"
Mark Hoffman
She was mad at him again. He drove the car with the radio blasting sports numbers, hoping she'd comment on the poor performance their baseball team was doing that day, but she merely kept her arms folded and stared out the side window as she sulked in the passenger seat.
He didn't get why she was so angry with him. Well, he figured why, but it was a dumb thing to be mad about. Maybe it's that time of the month, he passively smirked, before shaking his head. Better not even suggest that. Her punches are starting to sting.
He drove them through the many historical Italian businesses that neatly lined up the district. He loved taking Angie out to these restaurants. This was where she first got inspired to cook. He parked on the curb, to Tagliatelle.
He had rued the day they would have to have this talk. But he knew it was time.
"Maddox," He spoke to her softly, waiting for her to speak up. She shot him a look, honey-glowing eyes heated in the late afternoon sun. "Follow my lead when we talk to Rosello. He's not... known for handling the female cops well."
She shot him an incredulous look. "What, so keep my mouth shut and look pretty?"
"That'll get him to open up more, likely. I know him. I think we can work to an understanding."
"We're arresting him, Hoffman. I'm not sure how much understanding we can provide."
He held back a scoff. "Will, we're not going to arrest him."
"What do you mean?" She turned on him, confused and alarmed. "Why are we here?"
"To cover our bases. But if this is leading to where I think it is, we're going to have to close the case with Rodders taking the fall." He went to open his door, hoping this was enough information to satisfy her.
Of course, it wasn't.
"Why?" She gripped his arm before he could open the door, her grip tight like a pressure point on his bicep. "We need to at least take him in on suspicion for conspiracy to commit murder."
"We can't, though." He leaned back and stared straight ahead, thinking of the right way to break this to her. He gently pried her hand off his arm. "He's… untouchable."
"Mark. I swear to God you better not be going 'big city cop' on me now." She shook her head, like a kid who was told Santa Clause didn't exist.
"You can try, Maddox. Bring him in. I won't stop you if you decide to do that right now. But you're going to hit more roadblocks trying to process him than it's worth. He's got a team of lawyers ready to tear apart any charge we throw at him.. We're underfunded as it is, Maddox, you know that. And he's only going to be held for 24 hours before we have to release him. All evidence we had on him will vanish. And just to spite us, everything related to this case will simply get lost."
"You're fucking kidding." She sat back and shared his numb expression as she looked off to the restaurant's front windows. "How many of us are dirty?"
"All of us, if you look at things black and white. But it's more complicated than that. Plenty of guys take bribes to afford their kid's leukemia treatment, not for a downpayment on a supercar."
"Who? Or at least give me a number."
"Griggs. Fenton. They're the most obvious. Griggs' daughter is the one with leukemia. Fenton has a gambling problem."
"How many of us?"
"At least half the department is culpable. The other half just turns a blind eye."
"And you?" She looked at him warily, as though seeing him for the first time.
"I haven't taken money from Rosello," he defended but clenched his jaw. His chest tightened. "But I've gone with some coverups. I'm not going to lie to you, Maddox. I'm just being a realist. This is a force out of your jurisdiction."
Her eyes brimmed and flashed, her voice wavered. Fuck. He really pissed her off this time. "Have you ever tried to stop it?"
He gave her a piteous smile, his stomach flipping slightly. "Maybe when I was a rookie. Knowing you, I have an idea on what you'll go for. If anyone would try, it'd be you. But if you go down that road, I can't protect you. You'll get shit from all sides. And your job will get real hard."
"I don't need your protection," she snapped. "Damn it, Mark, what have you done?"
He shook his head. "Doesn't matter, Maddox."
"It does, though." She punched the side of the car in frustration. "Damn it! It does! What is this job to you? Just a paycheck?" She sounded tired. Frustrated. "What's the point?"
He laughed to push down the familiar feeling he knew she was experiencing. "You asking if I started off wanting to be a hero? Yeah. We all do. We think we're going to change this city for the better. Just like you. But then reality hits you, that the problem goes beyond the city. That your morales mean shit. You'll get knocked down a peg, sooner than you know it. Maybe it'll be watching the scum here go too far and you lose it. Maybe it'll be one of your friends who had some of Rosello's goons come and knock on his front door and shake hands with his wife - hold his goddamn two-year-old in his arms - and ask for this favor. So he goes to shred a document here or lose some paperwork there, just out of preservation for his fucking family. The next day, all his debts - just like that - have been paid off. And he doesn't report it. Why would he? He's more than culpable now, he's knee-deep in Rosello's shit. Shit happens."
"Jesus, Mark." She hugged herself. "If this is the norm, then why are you even here? Why am I here?"
"Because the people here are good people deep down. Flawed, but good people. And we look out for our own. And we're trying. We aren't Jesus Christ, Maddox, not even you. But we're not just blatantly siding with the mob. We try to clean up his messes and try to make some changes in spite of him. It's an uphill battle, but we've been waiting. As soon as he's vulnerable, we're going to get him. But that's not today, Will. You understand me? If you try to take on the bull today, when his horns are nice and sharp, it's going to just screw all of us."
"You want me to just standby," she muttered, disgusted.
He leaned toward her. "You're going to have to make choices like this, working here. It's time you get the brutal truth. Hard choices that aren't so black and white. So, it's up to you, Will. We'll get one of his goons locked away. He may throw us another, out of his fucked up sense of respect. We can either take it and continue on with our lives without much pushback or he's going to make shit real hard for us."
"I can't just go with this."
He ran his hand through his hair. He had said the same thing back when he first started off. "The best thing people like us can do is focus on getting promoted. That way, we can start getting the power to make some changes. Clean house. But it gets political, Maddox. I hate politics. Grissom tries his best. So does the Commissioner. But that's above your paygrade for now. "
"Who can we trust? Are you saying Grissom just lets this happen?"
"Don't go holier-than-thou on me, Maddox. Grissom does the best he can. You'll find he's promoted only the people who show some restraint and aren't at risk of being targeted by Rosello. Kerry is one of them. Tapp. Sing. Matthews. So clean, they'd squeak if you stand too close to them. A fine bunch of detectives."
She let out a laugh. "Get off it, Hoffman."
"You're another one. He hired you and brought you here for a reason. He could have brought on any other beatnik who submitted a transfer application. Try to see the big picture, Maddox. All right?"
They stared at each other until she nodded gravely. He could have hugged her at that moment. She was handling it just fine. "All right," she whispered, composed but unhappy. "Fine. I trust you. I don't like it, but I'll follow your lead. Just don't make me regret this, Hoffman."
"Good. It's for the best, I promise." Hoffman went to open the door. "You'll do just fine here, Maddox."
"Don't pretend that's a compliment," she grumbled as she made her way out of the car. He followed suit and led the way to the restaurant to confront Rosello.
