Chapter 4. Serendipity
Edison Davis wasn't a legacy recruit like many of his classmates when he was accepted into the Boston Police Academy. His grandfather, father, brothers, or uncles did not have the opportunity or desire to serve on the police force. Edison vowed to change that history. He wanted more Black police officers in the department to serve and protect all the people of Boston. For twenty-plus years he slogged his way up the ranks of the white male hierarchy, passing every test while enduring countless indignities along the way. He persevered. Now he's the first and only Black superintendent in the department's history. He is in the orbit of the pinnacle. One gold star away from becoming the city's next police commissioner.
Standing immediately from behind the desk when he hears the knock on the door, Edison walks around the desk, plasters on his famous smile, and swings open the door. His eyes swiftly sweep over Olivia's face and down to her black Jimmy Choo pumps.
"Dr. Pope," he says in a booming baritone voice. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you," extending a handshake.
"It's good to meet you, too, Superintendent Davis," Olivia says, accepting his handshake.
"May I call you Olivia?"
"Of course," she says, thinking the man has the whitest teeth she has ever seen. She wonders if he has them professionally whitened.
"Let me lighten your load," Edison says," deftly slipping the tote bag from her hand. He sets the bag on one of the two chairs placed in front of the desk.
Olivia doesn't know where to look first. The office is crammed with so much self-adulation it's overwhelming. The walls are lined with commendations of all kinds and framed newspaper articles that highlight his professional accomplishments and personal connections. The bookshelves behind the desk are filled with memorabilia from his days as a college athlete. Photos of him scuba diving, kayaking, and whitewater rafting with various young beautiful women, some teetering south of would be an understatement to say that the office is a source of pride for him.
Edison stands next to Olivia as she studies one of the walls of honor. He puts his hands on his hips and juts out his chin.
"Look at everything, Olivia," he says with a twinkle in his eyes and a hint of affection in his voice.
"I don't think I have the time," she says earnestly. She wonders how long it took to amass the collection. "You know the President?" Olivia says, now staring at the framed photograph hanging on the wall of Edison grinning broadly and shaking hands with President Barack Obama.
"Barack and I go back a long way. I knew him while he was here at Harvard Law. He flew me out to Chicago a few times during the 2008 campaign — to advise — discuss policing policies. I couldn't advise him really. It's against department regulations."
"Impressive," Olivia says, pulling the messenger bag over her head. She sets the bag on the chair with the tote bag. She wonders why Edison doesn't have a position in the Obama administration.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Edison says, walking over to the bar cart which is stocked with an assortment of coffees, teas, flavored and unflavored water, and soda pop.
"No. Thank you," Olivia says, still trying to absorb all the museum's artifacts.
"Are you sure? I have everything you could possibly want," he says with a devilish grin.
"I'm good," she replies.
"Have a seat, Olivia," Edison says, motioning a large hand toward the empty chair in front of the desk. "I was beginning to feel a little left out — ignored actually. Like the proverbial stepchild. You interviewed Grant and Mike a couple of weeks ago."
"Superintendent Davis, I assure you, you were not being ignored."
"Glad to hear because I require a lot of attention. And call me Edison. Chocolate?"
"Excuse me?" Olivia says, confused for a moment by his word choice. Edison lifts the crystal candy jar from the desk and offers it to Olivia. "Oh. No thank you," she says with a wave of her hand.
"You don't want my drinks. You don't want my chocolate. What can I give you, Olivia?" he says with a licentious grin.
"One hour of your time, Edison."
"I hear you're going to be with us for nine months. That's a long, long time. Boston can get awfully cold and lonely in the winter, Olivia."
"Winter is almost over," she says, unfazed by Edison's flirting. Men like him can't seem to help themselves. They see every woman as a challenge. She sees them as insecure boors whose egos need constant stroking.
"I'm just having a little fun, Olivia," he says, sitting on the edge of the desk in front of her. He folds his arms across his chest.
"Play time is over. Do you mind if I record our sessions? It makes transcribing easier," she says.
"Not at all. I'm an open book," he says, spreading his arms wide like a hawk soaring to the heavens. "I have nothing to hide."
Everybody has something to hide she thinks, gently pushing aside the candy jarto make room on the desk for the recorder. Olivia asks her first question before the garrulous man could toss out another risqué remark.
"Why do you want to be police commissioner?"
"Because I deserve it!" Spittle flies from his lips. "I'm going to smash through that white glass ceiling. I'm going to show those good ol' boys what power looks like in the hands of a Black man."
Flummoxed by the swift change in his demeanor, Olivia's head snaps back. Not sure if she's safe with him, she glances over at the door.
"Don't look like that, Olivia. I'm just being honest," his voice now even and calm. The smile returns but his cheeks don't know it. Olivia sets her prepared list of questions on the desk, turns around in the chair, and listens rapt as Edison expresses his plans with unbridled honesty.
"In its almost 200-year history, the Boston Police Department has had thirty-nine police commissioners. All white. You've already interviewed two more white guys who want to maintain the status quo."
"So, this is about you making history?" Olivia asks cautiously.
"Of course, it is. I don't apologize for being ambitious."
Edison pushes off the desk and paces around the office, halting for a moment to straighten the portrait hanging on the wall of Horatio J. Homer, Boston's first Black police officer. Homer was hired in 1878 and served on the police force for forty years. The portrait is the only object in the office that isn't an homage to Edison Davis.
Edison continues.
"It's also about correcting the racist policing policies that had and continue to have a detrimental impact on the Black and brown people of this city. Our people are tired of being policed while others are served and protected. Policies like Stop and Frisk and no-knock warrants weren't designed for white folks, Olivia."
"Is it about a Black having their turn as police commissioner or is it about doing what's best for the citizens?"
Edison stops pacing around the room and stares at Olivia with what looks like incredulity and pity in his eyes.
"There you go, sounding like one of those people who want to hold the Black man to a higher standard. I bet you didn't ask Grant and Mike if the Black and brown citizens would be better off with another white guy calling the shots."
"You injected race into the conversation," Olivia says.
"You're in Boston, sista. Everything in this city is about race. Stop in the lobby on your way out. Look at the pictures of all the past police commissioners hanging on the walls down there. Then tell me who injected race."
"There are two other superintendents who are in contention. Only one of you can get the promotion."
"Mike is a non-entity. The minority communities hate Grant and his family. A bunch of sadists with a badge and gun."
"You sound bitter."
"Aren't you? Do you know Black police officers are punished much harsher for doing a fraction of what white cops do? They watch out for their own, Olivia. Matty Grant is a prime example. I intend to do the same."
"You might want to take the high road, Edison."
"Why is it when one of us gets in a position of power we can't do what others have done without consideration? Where were their scruples when they bashed in the heads of Black men and did unspeakable things to women who look like you? When I get that fourth gold star on my collar I'm gonna go as low as I can go. Deep down into the valley, Olivia."
"If Mayor Keegan selects Superintendent Grant or Shaughnessy, can you work with either man — for the sake of the city?"
"You wound me, Olivia," Edison says, bringing a fist to his chest like a dagger. "You don't have any confidence in me. The job is mine."
"Why are you so sure the mayor will appoint you?"
"Keegan can't get re-elected without the Black vote."
"And you bring the Black vote?"
"Let's just say I know people who know people."
"You mean the Black clergy?"
"Among others," he says, grinning broadly. "And when I'm mayor …"
Olivia eyes are as wide as wheels again. Edison keeps surprising her.
"That's right, Olivia, I'm going to be mayor of this city. It's my calling. Police commissioner is — "
"A smoke screen?" she says, realizing that Edison is playing for higher stakes.
"Let's call it a steppingstone," he says, throwing his head back and laughing mirthlessly.
"You've spent your entire career in law enforcement. Politics will be a new direction for you."
"I'm ready for it. I'll control the executive branch and the police department. I'll handpick my police commissioner. None of this competition crap. You can bet it won't be one of them. Grant better retire or start looking for a new job."
"You're not a fan of Superintendent Grant?"
"I despise that pious bastard. He's emblematic of white-male privilege. Of everything that's wrong with this department. He's no choir boy."
"But he was an altar boy," Olivia says with a light chuckle. She remembers reading that bit of information about Superintendent Grant while researching him.
"So were those sick priests who molested all of those innocent children," Edison snarls.
"Whoa! Are you suggesting Superintendent Grant has been inappropriate with children?"
"I'm saying very clearly that they're all a bunch of hypocrites. Grant's at the top of the heap. I have information that will bring him to his knees."
Edison has said a lot. Olivia doesn't know how much of what he has said is true or hyperbole. Either way, she needs fresh air to clear her head. She glances down at her watch.
"It looks like our time is up. Thank you for meeting with me, Edison," Olivia says, extending a handshake. Edison holds her hand a beat too long.
"How about dinner tonight, Olivia? I'll show you around Boston. It'll be fun," he says, flashing those white teeth again.
"Thank you. I have plans."
"Maybe another time?"
"Thank you for your time, Edison. Have a good day," she says.
XXX
Walking through the lobby of 1 Schroeder Place, Olivia passes the portraits hanging on the walls of the past police commissioners. All stern-faced and self-righteous lawmen. Generation after generation these keepers of the peace put their hands on the Bible and swore to protect and serve some citizens and ignore the rights of others. She steps out of the building and into the sun. She inhales deeply, filling her lungs with fresh air. It's an unseasonably warm day for early March in Boston. She slides on the oversized round sunglasses, places the earbuds in her ears, then starts walking. Google Maps guides her to the North End neighborhood, Boston's Little Italy.
Olivia strolls along the Boston Commons, America's oldest city park. Lots of people are taking advantage of the warm weather. Lovers share a picnic dinner on the verdant grass, friends line up for a ride on the swan boat, and children enjoy their favorite ice cream cones as they walk ahead of their parents. Continuing on her route, Olivia reflects on her meeting with Edison, thinking he is a strange man. His sudden outburst. His obsession with power and vindictiveness are concerning, but he is not her problem. As she turns right onto Hanover Street, she thinks maybe Edison deserves to be the police commissioner, if for no other reason all of the commissioners have been white.
The voice in her ears announces that she has reached her destination.
XXX
Like a thief who's on the run from the police, Olivia glances over her shoulder then quickly ducks into The Pleasure twenty-something salesperson whose hair is dyed the colors of the rainbow looks up from her phone when she hears the door chime. She rolls her eyes thinking here comes another one. The disguises people wear when they come to the store are ridiculous. The disguises attract more attention than the products they want to buy.
"May I help you?" the young woman calls out from behind the counter. Olivia's head whips around and she has a startled expression on her face. She wasn't expecting a salesperson to approach her so quickly.
"I — I thought I would just browse for a minute — if that's all right?" she stammers.
The young woman walks from around the counter and stands in front of Olivia. The pink, penis-shaped name tag says her name is Danielle.
"Have you ever used an adult toy?" Danielle asks, getting straight to the point.
"Maybe. I can't remember," Olivia stammers again. The expression on Danielle's face says she doesn't believe the woman.
"The Pleasure Chest is a judgement-free zone," Danielle says in a matter-of-fact tone. She's said that line hundreds of times. "We pride ourselves on helping those who want to help themselves. Are you looking for something special?"
Olivia opens her mouth, but Danielle is already talking again.
"We have some of the most cutting-edge toys in the city. Some use air-pulse technology, others are remote and app controlled and rechargeable. We also stock the classics, too, of course."
Olivia thinks her Buddy is so outdated.
"Do want big and thick, long and thin -?"
"Not too big," Olivia says quickly, shaking her head from side to side.
Danielle nods and zigzags her way through the aisles until she reaches the back of the store. Olivia skip-walks behind Danielle. Her eyes nearly pop from her head when she sees rows of glass cases filled with adult toys. She removes her sunglasses.
"In this case we have our rabbit vibrators. Over here are the clitoral vibrators. Here are our vibrating vaginal and anal beads. And, here are our dildos. Do you have a color preference?"
"Um … how … how does something like that work?" Olivia asks, pointing to the Ben Wa balls.
Danielle slides a set of keys from her smock pocket and unlocks the glass door. "Gotta keep these things locked up. People will steal anything these days," she mutters.
Olivia flashes Danielle an uncomfortable smile. They're on the move again, ending up in a small room that's past the glass cases. Danielle flicks on the light.
"Oh my, goodness," Olivia gasps when she sees a life-sized, female doll stretched across what looks like a massage table.
"We like to show newbies how to properly use our products — maximize their pleasure," Danielle says, already inserting the beads inside the doll's vagina. The doll actually begins to moan with pleasure.
"I get the idea," Olivia says, turning her head away in embarrassment. "I'll take a rabbit vibrator in purple and the regular kind in aqua," she says, hurrying out of the demonstration room.
"Will you need any lubes … lotions?" Danielle asks, stomping back toward the front of the store.
"I guess so. It's been a while."
"What flavor? We have —"
"You choose," Olivia says quickly. She cannot make another decision.
"This is one of my favorite flavors," Danielle says, taking a bottle of Tutti- Frutti-flavored lotion from the shelf behind her.
"I'll take it," Olivia says. "Uh … let me have a box of those, too," she says, pointing to the array of condoms displayed on the shelf behind Danielle.
"Do you want the ribbed, sheepskin, French tickler?"
"One box of sheepskin - and the French tickler," Olivia adds quickly.
"Will that be all?"
"Yes," Olivia says, looking over at the front door. She wants to get out of the store before another customer comes in.
"Cash or credit?" Danielle says as she carefully places the items into a plain brown paper bag with thin pays with cash. She doesn't want her credit card company to know that she shopped at The Pleasure Chest.
XXX
Jolted awake by the incessant blaring of a car horn and someone yelling in a foreign language, Fitz leans over in the backseat of the SUV cruiser and peers out of the side window. A couple of car lengths down the street from where Ferguson parked, a cab driver is pressing on his horn demanding that the driver of the illegally parked delivery truck move out of his way. Fitz sighs, wondering what the heck is taking Ferguson so long to return with dinner. He is starving. Just as he is about to lean back against the seat, he sees Dr. Pope walking up the street swinging a bag in her hand. The corners of her mouth are curled in a slight smile. He wonders what she's doing down in the North End. He climbs out of the SUV and jogs up the street trying to catch up to her.
"Miss Pope," he calls out. "Dr. Pope," he calls a little louder. She is halfway down the block when she hears someone calling her name. She turns around.
Oh, no. I hope he didn't see me come out of The Pleasure Chest.
"Superintendent Grant?" she says, trying to tame the quiver in her voice. He removes his sunglasses. She slides her oversized sunglasses from her face, too.
"I saw you walk by. I was sitting in the truck," he says, motioning his thumb over his left shoulder in the direction of the SUV. "I called your name. Twice. You seemed to be in deep thought. I thought I would say hello."
"Hello," she says. "Thank you again for the interview. I'm sure you hate doing that sort of thing."
"What are you doing down here?" he asks, glancing down at the brown paper bag that she's gripping by the handles.
"What?" she replies nervously."
"What brings you to the North End?"
"I — I needed to pick up a few things before going to dinner."
"Where are you having dinner?"
"At that Italian restaurant where I saw you and your family. Their food is amazing. I thought I would come back."
"DiMaggio's food is excellent — but you passed it. It's back there," he says, pointing his thumb over his left shoulder. She looks confused.
"Oh? I must've made a wrong turn when I came out of ... I guess I'm going back that way," she says, pointing her index finger in the direction of the restaurant. "Thank you, Superintendent Grant. Have a good evening."
"Do you have a reservation? You need a reservation this time of day," he says.
"Oh? I didn't realize. I guess I'll have to come back another day." He sees the disappointment on her face.
"I know the owner. I can get us a table. That is if you don't mind me joining you?"
"That's kind of you. I'll just — "
"I'm not being kind. I'm quite hungry, actually." His stomach growls on cue and Olivia laughs lightly.
"It sounds like we better hurry to DiMaggio's," she says.
XXX
Ferguson scuttles from the restaurant, his arms full of bags of Italian delights. He's sure the superintendent is wondering what's taking him so long. Nichole cornered him, complaining nonstop about having to serve double duty tonight. One of the servers called out sick so she has to work as the hostess and server. Rehearsing his excuse in his head, Ferguson stops mid-step when he sees the superintendent walking toward him.
"I'll be having dinner inside tonight, Ferguson," Fitz says before Ferguson could offer an explanation. "We'll be out in a couple of hours."
We?
Ferguson looks back and forth between the superintendent and the Black lady standing next to him. His confused eyes lock with the superintendent. Fitz turns and tells Olivia that he will meet her inside.
XXX
Leaning over the hostess station, Nichole watches the latest video that her favorite makeup influencer has posted on social media. Nichole is the niece of the owner of DiMaggio's, by marriage. She's been working at the restaurant as a hostess since she graduated high school — three years ago. She plans on enrolling in cosmetology school in the fall. Her head pops up from her phone screen when she hears the door open.
She must be a tourist or is lost.
"May I help you?" Nichole says with a ready smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Yes. I would like a table for two," Olivia says.
"Do you have a reservation?"
"I don't. But — "
"We don't have any tables available for tonight. I can schedule you for another night if you like?"
A genuine smile suddenly spread on Nichole's heavily painted red lips when Fitz enters the restaurant. She forgets about the woman who is standing in front of her.
"Fitz. I haven't seen you here in a while. Ferguson just left with your order."
"Hello, Nichole. I'm going to need a table for two," he says, standing next to Olivia.
No one would ever accuse Nichole of being the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she realizes that Fitz and the woman are together.
"Oh? Of course," Nichole stammers, casting a sideways glance at Olivia before escorting them to the owner's private table.
"Can I get you the usual, Fitz?" Nichole says, setting the menus on the table.
"Yes, thank you. What would you like to drink, Dr. Pope?" Fitz says.
"I'll have the house Merlot," Olivia says, smiling politely at the hostess.
"One scotch on the rocks and one red wine," Nichole says before scurrying away.
"Thank you for allowing me to join you for dinner," Fitz says, as Olivia discreetly stuffs the bag from The Pleasure Chest deep into the recesses of her tote bag.
"You must be a pretty important person. A table magically becomes available when you walk through the door," she says as she silences her phone.
"I know people," he says, sliding off his black bomber jacket.
"This is such a lovely restaurant. It's so warm and cozy," Olivia says, seemingly oblivious to the stares she and Fitz have garnered from the regular patrons sitting at the bar. "Do you bring your family here often?"
"Not often. Mostly takeout for me these days. It was a special night for my son when you saw us here," he says, ignoring the questioning looks.
"Jerry, right?"
"Fitz nods his head. "He had a baseball game that day. He hit the game-winning ball."
"You and Mrs. Grant have lovely children."
"Thank you. So, you're friends with Reverend Norcross?"
"He was friends with my parents."
"You're going to be in Boston for a while. I'm sure your family will miss you."
"I'll be fine," she says. She'd rather ask than answer questions about her personal life.
"How are your interviews going?"
"Slow. But that's to be expected."
"Why?" he says, and she chuckles lightly. "What's so funny?" Olivia hesitates a moment before responding. She doesn't want to offend him. "What?" he says, pressing her for an answer. She clears her throat then responds carefully.
"Superintendent Grant, you were none too happy to be interviewed." His face reddens from embarrassment.
"I didn't mean to be rude," he says sheepishly.
"No worries. I'm used to it. I'm an outsider. Law enforcement doesn't like it when someone comes into their house asking questions about policies and procedures. They think I have nefarious intentions."
"Do you?" he says, staring at her with piercing azure-colored eyes.
"Of course not. I'm simply here to explore what — if any — social progress has been made in terms of policing. Boston has a long history," she adds, letting the innuendo hang in the air.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean …"
"No need to apologize. I'll get another crack at you. But I'll need more than thirty minutes of your time. Or should I say twenty-five minutes. You and Mr. Beene chatted for the first five minutes."
"That wasn't intentional," he says in earnest.
"Mr. Beene will have to schedule our next interviews for an hour," she says as Nichole returns with their drinks.
"One scotch on the rocks and one Merlot," Nichole says as she sets the glasses on the table.
"Thank you, Nichole," Fitz says.
"I heard you were here with Mellie and the kids. Tell Mellie I said hello," Nichole says, giving Fitz a suspicious look. "I'll give you two a few more minutes to look over the menu," she says before walking back to the hostess station.
"Cheers. Here's to serendipity," Fitz says, lifting the rock glass in the air slightly.
"Cheers, Superintendent. This is exactly what I needed," Olivia says, bringing the glass to her lips.
"I'm glad I could accommodate. Call me Fitz. If we're going to share a meal together you can't call me by my title all night."
"Call me Olivia."
"What did you buy?" he asks innocently, and she almost spews the red wine across the table onto his white shirt.
"Excuse me?" she says, dabbing her lips with the white linen napkin.
"You said you were down here shopping. Did you buy anything interesting?"
"Oh — um — just a couple of candles," she says, waving her hand in the air dismissively.
"Be careful. Candles are a fire hazard," he says, reaching for his glass. "You might want to go to Newbury Street. There's lots of shopping to be had there."
Olivia smiles internally when his Boston accent slips out. He managed to keep it under control during the interview.
"Thanks. I might do that," she says, taking another sip of wine. "If you're selected as the next police commissioner, you'll have a lot of cleanup to do — inside and outside of the BPD. Many say the department is in need of a major overhaul."
He stares at her for a long moment before responding. "There are always improvements that can be made, Olivia."
"BPD is plagued by so many scandals: a police officer was convicted of manslaughter, another officer was charged with sexually abusing and assaulting teenage girls, still another officer was convicted of selling drugs across from a precinct — while in uniform."
"Are you interviewing me?" he asks with furrowed brow.
"I'm always seeking information, Superintendent — Fitz," she says, correcting herself.
"I read that poem," he says, not so elegantly changing the subject. Olivia stares at him with a confused expression on her face. "Harlem. A Dream Deferred?" he says, jogging her memory.
"Ah. It's an iconic poem," she says.
"It's a timeless question — what happens to a dream deferred. Mr. Hughes outlines consequences that might arise if a community's or individual's dreams and hopes don't come to fruition. He compares unfulfilled aspirations to a raisin drying up in the sun, and stinking rotten meat."
"Wow. You've really analyzed the poem," Olivia says, taking another sip of the red wine.
"Have you deferred any dreams, Olivia?" He watches her face immediately light up and her full lips spread into a huge smile. He thinks Karen is right. Olivia is attractive. More than attractive.
"Not at all," she answers immediately and with enthusiasm in her voice. "I'm doing exactly what I've always wanted to do."
"Really?" he says, intrigued by her passionate response. "Why did you become a historian?"
"I like studying the past to understand the present. Thinking of past events, the people who lived long ago, and observing the process of change over time, satisfies my deep interest in the past on its own terms. There is so much unfinished business of the past that haunts us to this day. I'm sorry. I've gone on too long. I'm sure you're bored."
"Not at all," he says.
"I can't imagine doing anything else. What about you, Fitz? Have you deferred any dreams?"
"I guess we all have - to a certain extent. Except you, of course," he says.
"Life is too short not to do what you love," Olivia concludes as Nichole returns to the table.
"Are you two ready to place your dinner orders, Fitz?"
"I'll let the lady go first," Fitz says.
"What can I get you?" Nichole asks, looking at Olivia with her pencil poised over the pad.
"I'll have the Orecchiette."
"And what can I get you, Fitz?"
"I'll have the Osso Buco," he says, not bothering to look at the menu.
"Not tonight," Nichole says. "Chef only makes that dish on Thursdays. Didn't Ferguson tell you?"
Olivia chuckles internally when his countenance drops like a child who didn't get the birthday gift he'd been waiting for all year.
He picks up the menu. "I guess I'll have the Veal Parmigiana," he says in a flat and unenthusiastic tone.
"Good choice," Nichole says, taking the menu from his hand. "I'll be back shortly."
Olivia lifts the glass to her lips and smiles.
"What's so funny?" he says.
"You really wanted that Osso Buco."
"Was it that obvious?"
"You should've seen your face when she said it wasn't on the menu tonight."
"I love it. I haven't had it in a while."
XXX
The unplanned dinner date stretches on for hours. They chat like old friends who haven't seen each other in years. Wine and spirits have a sneaky way of distorting one's sense of time and surroundings. The busser removed their empty dishes from the table an hour ago and has refilled their water glasses three times. The restaurant is empty and the wait-staff has cleaned the tables and refilled the salt and pepper shakers for the next day. Nichole has tallied the night's receipts and locked the cash in the safe in Frank's office. Her feet ache and she wants to go home.
"You're nothing like who I thought you were", Olivia says, slowly rubbing her thumb up and down the side of her glass.
"And who did you think I was?" he says, leaning back against the booth and crossing his leg.
"A mean, grumpy pants," she says in a childlike tone.
"Grumpy pants, huh? Is that how PhDs speak?"
"You scared me," Olivia continues.
"Really?" his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. With forearms on the table, Olivia leans forward.
"Yup. Scared the bejeebers out of me. I hoped you didn't hear my knees knocking together."
"So that was the noise I heard?" Now it's his turn to smile.
"You should do that more often," she says. He looks puzzled. "Smile - that is. I've studied many of your interviews. You never smile."
"You studied my lack of smiling?"
"I researched you. I needed to know what kind of man you are," she says, taking another sip.
"Did you find out what kind of man I am?"
"I'm still working on it." Realizing how that sounds, she glances down at the time displayed on her phone. "Oh my, it's almost nine o' clock. I need to order an Uber," she says, lifting the phone from the table. "It was such a nice day I walked here."
"You walked all the way from 1 Schroeder Place? That's at least four miles," he says with surprise in his voice.
"It was a nice day," she repeats, entering her drop-off information into the ride-share app. He's not ready for her to leave. He's enjoying her company, so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
"Tiramisu."
"Excuse me?" she says, looking up from her phone with crinkled brow.
"You cannot come to DiMaggio's and not try the tiramisu. It's tradition. In fact, it's bad luck." Her eyes narrow in playful suspicion. "I swear," he says, raising his left hand in earnest."
Her face softens and her full lips stretch into a smile. "Pick me up," she says. His eyebrows stretch high.
"What?"
"Tirami su. That's how it's pronounced in Italian. It means pick me up. The rich coffee, the cocoa flavors, and that creamy texture … There's nothing quite like it."
"Now you must have some with me. I'll make sure you get home safely."
"Well, I wouldn't want to break tradition. Or have bad luck." They both guffaw.
Nichole groans softly when Fitz beckons her over to the table. She wants to go home but she knows not to rush one of Frank's friends.
"We'll have two tiramisu or is it tiramisus? I don't know if there's a plural," he says, throwing his head back in laughter. Olivia can see his perfect white teeth and thinks the BPD must have a really good dental plan.
"Would you like coffee with that?" Nichole asks in a flat tone of voice.
"I'll have tea. Decaf," Olivia says.
"Anything for you, Fitz?"
"Coffee. Thanks."
XXX
As the teabag steep in the cup of hot water, Olivia watches him reach for the sugar. His long fingers skip over the alternative sugars in the pink, yellow, and blue packs. He grabs a handful of white sugar in the white packs. She cringes when he stirs a fifth pack of sugar into his coffee.
"Would you like coffee with your sugar?" she asks playfully. He looks befuddled, the way one looks when they don't get the joke. "Nothing. Nothing," she says, waving her hand in the air. She wonders if the man knows the dangers of consuming refined sugar.
She continues.
"That was really good tiramisu," she says with genuine joy in her voice.
"I told you," he says, beaming proudly. For some reason he wanted her to like the dessert.
"I really must be going," she says, pulling her wallet from the messenger bag.
"Put that away," he says, waving away the wallet. "I hijacked your dinner. The least you can do is allow me to pay."
"That's not necessary," she protests.
"I insist."
XXX
It's chilly out. The warmth of the afternoon sun has given way to the evening's falling temperature. Most of the stores on Hanover Street have closed, except for the pharmacy down on the corner and the smoke shop with the flickering neon sign, next to the bakery. Ferguson glances at the clock on the dashboard again and frowns. They've been in the restaurant for over three hours. After another thirty-five minutes, the superintendent walks out with the mystery woman. They've had a few drinks. The woman shivers and the superintendent drapes his jacket over her shoulders. She pulls the jacket tight, hugging herself against the cold.
Ferguson's bushy eyebrows furrow when his boss opens the back door, helps the woman climb into the backseat, then slides in next to her. They sit shoulder to shoulder. Ferguson conceals his disapproval.
"Where are you staying?" Fitz asks, staring at Olivia in the dark.
"300 Grant Avenue," Olivia replies, trying to stifle the laugh that's rolling around in her throat.
"You're kidding?" he says, staring at her in astonishment.
"I'm not. I swear," she says, raising her right hand in earnest. They both let out another peal of deep-throated laughter. They laugh so hard their cheeks hurt.
Ferguson glances in the rearview mirror at his giddy passengers. In the ten years that he's been driving for the superintendent he's never heard the man laugh out loud. Tonight, he can't seem to stop laughing.
"That'll be easy to remember," Fitz says as his laugh trails off. "Ferguson, 300 Grant Avenue."
Fifteen minutes later, Ferguson parks the SUV a few car lengths down the street from the duplex located at 300 Grant Avenue. He's never had a reason to come to this section of the city. He starts to climb out to open the woman's door.
"I got it, Ferguson," Fitz says, already sliding out from the backseat.
Fitz quickly surveils the area because that's what cops do when they're in an unfamiliar setting. He guesses the hunter green MINI Cooper with the New York state license plate parked in front of the house belongs to Olivia. He sees the curtain at the first-floor window sway a little. The light from the television cast a shadow of a figure peeping from behind the curtain. He extends his hand to Olivia, which she accepts as she slides across the seat. She reaches her other hand back and grabs her tote bag.
"Thank you for dinner," she says, standing on the sidewalk and looking up at him.
"Thank you for allowing me to join you. We have to do it again," he says.
"Your jacket," she says, using one hand to slide the oversized bomber jacket from around her shoulders. "It got really cold tonight. Good night, Fitz." She turns and walks up the steps to the house.
"Olivia," he calls out, jogging up to the house. "Call me directly for the next interviews," he says, placing his business card in her hand.
Ferguson studies the two through the rearview mirror thinking that woman is going to be trouble.
