Chapter 2 – Detective Dori Doreau
Detective Dori Doreau knew exactly what hell felt like. She was experiencing it this morning.
I look like hell, too, she thought, examining her reflection in the window as the shuttle bus pulled into the BART station. It's not likely, she mused to herself as stepped off the shuttle, that the morning commute will improve my appearance.
At that moment, appearances were the least of her concerns. She sighed. Fingers brushed a few loose hairs from her face and hurried to catch her train.
She couldn't remember how much sleep she had gotten last night, but she doubted it was much. Her mind still swirled with unbidden thoughts, all whirling with no pattern; all demanding her attention. All unwelcome. The dryness she felt in her eyes was a result of her sleeplessness and the tears of frustration and hurt that had finally run out in the twilight before sunrise. The train arrived and she stepped on board, the doors shutting firmly behind her. It was still early, so she was able to find seat easily. She closed her eyes and tried not to think.
All that mattered was arriving at the precinct ahead of her partner, Inspector Sledge Hammer.
She had stalked into her apartment sometime after midnight, slamming the door behind her, not caring how many neighbours she woke. She threw her purse on the table. It didn't stop. It kept sliding, to the edge and further, She heard it hit the floor, but she didn't stop. She was beyond caring. She stomped her way into the bedroom, anger unassuaged. She ripped her shoes off one at a time, hurling each of them in turn into the closet. Briefly, she considered removing her dress and climbing into her bed. Instead, she sat down heavily, holding her head in her hands.
How could he? How could I? What was the point?
As she sat on her bed, the questions swirled in her mind. In her current state sleep would be impossible, she knew. She stood again, reversed her path, heading toward the door that opened onto the terrace outside her apartment. On the way she paused just long enough to grab a glass and pour herself a drink. Of what, she neither noticed nor cared. Then she opened the door, and stepped outside. The cool, damp air wrapped around her. It chilled her skin but did nothing to cool the fiery fury within. She stood, rigid, staring out at the lights across the bay, at the reflection of the moon in the rippling water, and saw only the darkness.
The clear night was unusual, she noted as she drained the glass in a single gulp.
At first she welcomed the burning sensation as the undiluted liquor blazed a path down her throat and into her stomach. Like a controlled burn starves a forest fire by consuming the fuel in its path, the alcohol seemed burn away the emotional fuel that fed her anger.
As long as the burn stays controlled.
Tequila, she choked. Why do I even have this stuff around?
Her throat burned. Her eyes started to water.
It's just the tequila, she told herself. I am not going to cry.
It was, of course, too late. Once started, the tears refused to be stopped.
Why, why, WHY? A tiny, frightened voice in her mind wailed at her.
Dori Doreau was an optimist. Her apartment faced eastward, toward the bay, so that she could see the dawn. She could feel its promise; sense the joy of new challenges and opportunities. She revelled in the feeling, anticipating it, and embracing it each morning. Not even two years as the partner of Inspector Sledge Hammer had deadened the sense of possibilities that she usually felt as the sun rose.
The train ride to the Precinct office was an opportunity. A chance to organize her thoughts. To plan her day.
Not today.
Today, dawn brought only uncertainty and trepidation. The ride was an opportunity for her fears and uncertainties to prey on her self confidence. She felt like she was being dragged, against her will, towards a moment that she couldn't face, but couldn't avoid either.
The first tears in her eyes had been from the alcohol, but those that followed, streaming down her face, were from frustration.
How often, she asked herself, have I tried to get him to open up, even just a little? How many times have I tried to entice him with a home cooked meal? How many times have I begged him to let someone...
NO! At least be honest. Not someone – let me – in? She forced herself to be honest, at least in private.
Well, I finally succeeded. Why didn't I see it coming? She thought bitterly. Or did I see it? Is that why ...
The tears ran freely now, their moist tracks briefly warming her face with their passage. She tasted their salt on her lips. Salt and tequila. Poetic justice, she thought, since once again life has handed me a lemon.
Her mind, lulled by the steady rocking of the train, drifted back, reviewing earlier events.
The long talk she'd had with him yesterday afternoon had not ended the way she'd hoped. He'd seemed more distant than ever, beyond her reach. Beyond anyone's reach. Irredeemable, she'd decided, with one last look over her shoulder as she walked away.
So it surprised her when he turned up at the church, just as the ceremony was getting underway. It startled her when he declined the minister's invitation to "speak now" and offered no objections. And it confounded her to learn that he'd left his gun at home. Sure, he'd gone back for it right after the ceremony was finished. But clearly, somehow, something had changed his mind. Something she had said?
You might have mistaken us for companions, she thought, recalling that they had spent most of the evening together.
Professionally, she'd grown used to his continual presence, as they had worked cases together. Still, it came as a surprise how easily, how comfortably, she'd accepted his presence socially, even if only for that evening. How, with only a bit of encouragement, he'd remembered to hold her chair, and had brought her drink, as well as his own, to the table. Yes, she'd have preferred just a bit of alcohol, but the root beer was … thoughtful … and it was the thought that counted, right? Briefly she had wondered about alien body snatchers. Had it not been for always present distance in his eyes, she might have taken the thought seriously.
As the evening wound down, the two of them had remained at the local cop bar after the reception broke up. She had felt relaxed, suffused with a warm glow of accomplishment, perhaps even happiness, as she made small talk and idly stirred her drink. A real drink, this time. Of course, it all left her vulnerable ... unprepared.
What had he said next? She tried to remember his words exactly. Something about wanting to be alone? No, not wanting to be alone, that was what he had said. And something about wanting to share his life, the good times and the bad?
As she recalled the conversation, it struck her again how little it sounded like the Sledge Hammer she had come to know. How much it sounded like the vows she'd heard just hours earlier. How her heart, unbidden, missed a beat.
That alone should have served as a warning. Why didn't I see it coming? Why were his next words still a surprise?
"Will you marry me?" He had asked.
It was a simple question. Much simpler than the answer.
Yes, her heart sang. Her spirit seemed to soar, and her heart skipped in a way she had not felt in years. In a way she had never expected to feel again. Could this actually be happening, she had thought? Could he be serious?
No, said her head, firmly. You know better. His history. Your history. You're partners. You have to work together. Department policy. There had to be a dozen reasons, good reasons, for not getting involved with anyone from work. Besides, he was chauvinistic, barbaric, nihilistic, and misogynistic. What future lurked in that? There had to be ten times that many reasons for not getting involved with him. He couldn't be serious.
It was a simple question, wasn't it? One with an equally simple choice of answers – yes, or no. She could take a chance, a wild leap into the unknown. They could work out the problems – other people had. Or she could play it safe. He would probably be hurt, but he'd understand. If she could get him this far, surely she could make him understand that "no" wasn't the same as "never". All the possibilities of a lifetime seemed within her reach.
Oh, sure, she thought bitterly, for about a heartbeat. Then, startled, she had spoken out loud the one thought common to her heart and mind.
"Are you serious?"
Even as she spoke the words, she'd seen the look in his eyes, and instantly known the moment was over. Instantly, known that the words were wrong. Instantly, known that there were other words, better words. Known, also instantly, that it was too late.
In his eyes she saw the distance between them stretching to infinity. Saw the answer, even before he spoke it, which would close the door between them firmly. As she sought desperately for other words, any words, he spoke first – a single word that still stung.
"No."
The word was as nothing compared to the look she saw in eyes. Even as he spoke the single word, she saw … nothing at all. As if the moment had never existed. As though he was, and always would be, somewhere else.
With an indifferent shrug he'd gone back to stirring his drink. She'd dropped her head into her arms, as she tried to think of a way to repair the rift that had just been created. She was still trying when the bartender announced closing time. She had looked up to see Sledge paying the tab. She avoided his eyes as she gathered up her purse and turned toward the door. She tried to mumble "thank you" or "good night" but the words had been unintelligible, even to her. As they turned to go their separate ways, she hailed a cab. She reached for the door as the car pulled to the curb and then hesitated.
Should I at least offer him a ride home? It was worth one more try, she thought. Wasn't it?
She turned expecting to see her partner nearby, but instead was shocked to see him hurrying in the opposite direction. And he appeared to be talking to his gun. As if it was a person.
Anger flared. She jerked the cab door open and slipped inside, giving the driver her home address. When the cab pulled away, passing Hammer on the street, she was looking the other way.
She shivered, suddenly aware that she was still standing on her terrace, the glass still in her hand. She sat down in one of the patio chairs, feeling as empty as the glass she held. Twirling it by its stem, she briefly considered whether she needed a refill, or to put it down. It was useless, she decided, with a sigh. Even if she could silence the voice in her mind tonight, at best it deferred the inevitable. She couldn't run from herself, so she would have to listen, sooner or later. She might as well get it over with.
Why are male egos so fragile? She wondered. Why did he have to be in such a hurry to deny the very question he had asked? If he'd given me just a moment longer, the right words would have come. I could have explained myself. Was another moment too much to ask?
A tiny spark of anger flared again inside her. She fanned the spark, willed it to grow.
Yes! He had been the one to say "No". He had withdrawn from her, shutting her out as he always did, without any debate or discussion. Why should she feel responsible? She would rather feel angry, than hurt or empty, she decided.
But even anger couldn't silence the questioning voice inside her.
What did you expect? It was a simple question – and a simple answer – yes or no. And no man asks someone to marry him expecting to hear "Are you serious?"
Well, I didn't say "No", she objected, trying to sustain her anger.
It was useless, she knew. She was arguing with herself. Worse, she was arguing with her logical self; the part of herself that she counted on to unravel the most complex criminal cases. The part of herself that would offer no help at all in dealing with her emotional recriminations or matters of the heart. It would only point out the obvious and mock her failure. She knew that. Knowing wasn't the same as stopping.
You didn't say "Yes", it reminded her. Why can't you just face the truth?
What truth was that?
It was a simple question. If you know what you want ...
That was the real issue, wasn't it? Do I know what I really want? And if I do, why hadn't the answer come easily? Why was I so startled by his forthrightness that all I could do was blurt out, "Are you serious?" Wasn't the question itself sufficient? Maybe I'm not ready yet. Maybe, subconsciously, I know that. Maybe …
So, why wasn't the answer "No"? What is really bothering you?
The voice had her on that point. She had no answer to that question.
No answer you will admit to …, the voice mocked her.
She sighed. The voice inside her head wasn't content to just listen to her problems. It just had to offer an opinion on everything. It was definitely male, she decided. Well, Sledge said I was losing my femininity, so maybe this is one of the symptoms.
No answer you will admit to …, it repeated.
The spark of anger guttered, extinguished by another wave of sadness, and despair. The tears that had briefly subsided threatened to well up again.
When I left his apartment, I was certain he wouldn't even come to the wedding. I had given up.
Given up? On what? On him, letting you into his life? Why do you care, if it's not what you want?
The voice that mocked her from the dark recesses of her mind refused to give her any respite. It simply continued.
Why haven't you let him into yours?
I have, she protested. Every effort that I've made to penetrate the shell that surrounds him has been rebuffed. He fends me off. He pushes me away. He deflects my every attempt to get through to him. He would rather eat frozen dinners than accept an offer of a home cooked meal. He would rather chase a felon through concrete canyons rather than spend a moment in the park. Even in the face of death he preferred the satisfaction of pursuing his assailant to my offer of solace.
The anger inside her grew again, and she fanned the flames.
Until today, the voice countered.
Yes. Until today. She surrendered, but even that didn't quiet the voice in her head.
Why do you want what you hope you can't have? It asked.
Her body stiffened.
What do you mean?
He asked you to marry him. If you really wanted into his life, why didn't you say "yes"?
What does it matter? She hissed back. Why can't things just be simple?
It is simple. Why are you avoiding the question? Why wasn't your answer "yes"?
It's complicated, she began.
It's not complicated, the voice interrupted her, you and Hammer are the same …
Me? Like Hammer? I'm nothing like him! Her protest was in vain.
Are you sure of that?
The question startled her.
Everyone at the precinct, including Captain Trunk, knows that the two of us are polar opposites. It was so obvious …
The voice in her head began to laugh, softly, as though amused by her argument.
He's alone, she stated, defensively.
You're alone, it countered, still sounding amused. He's been the only one in your life, and after tonight …
The voice left the thought unfinished as though taunting her.
He startled me, she insisted, searching for an excuse.He's the one who said "No", not me.
Her protest was met by silence.
I've always been the one trying to get him to open up, to let me into his life. He always pushes me away. He won't let anyone close.
And you thought that made him safe. You thought if everyone saw you trying to get his attention, no-one would notice that you …
NO! She protested.
You thought you could hide in plain sight …
She decided to try another approach.
He's the one hiding from something …
She knew, well she was pretty certain that she knew, that Inspector Hammer hid something behind his façade of misogyny and nihilism. Some secret he did not want the world, or her in particular, to see. Some hurt, some wound perhaps, that he refused to let heal. Whatever it was, it was the shield he used to ward off any semblance of attachment, or dependence, on anyone. Or anything, except his magnum and his willingness to use it.
Did I really expect any different result from our discussion in his apartment? Why do I even bother trying?
Because I've been his partner long enough to see that shield occasionally, momentarily, dropped, she answered herself, not waiting for the voice.
Whether the burden was just too heavy to sustain, or whether he subconsciously wanted someone to see, she didn't know. But she knew what she had seen.
She'd seen in on their very first case. On suspension and against explicit orders from Captain Trunk, he had followed her to the warehouse. At the moment she'd been taken captive, he'd crashed through the roof like some comic book hero. She smiled to herself. All that was missing was a cape. The fact that she hadn't actually needed his help was of less importance than the fact that he had defied everyone else to give it. To her own surprise, she found that she didn't mind the idea of being rescued. As long as he didn't make a habit of it.
She saw it again when Lionel Dashman had dazzled her with his English charm. Sweeping her up in clichéd visions of romance. When her naivety had been exposed she had expected, at the very best, to hear "I told you so". Or, at worst, to be treated like some emotionally fragile female who could burst into tears at any moment. He'd done neither of those things. He'd surprised her again; acting as if none of the day's events were of any significance, and in so doing offering the one thing she needed most – a shred of dignity and a distraction from the day's events.
She saw it in an inadvertent "Thank you" and in his admission of "I know" – delivered in moments when the situation was dire and salvation seemed unlikely.
Instead of disagreeing, the voice inquired. Why are you defending him?
Too late, she saw that she had been trapped.
I am defending him, she realized. Why am I so determined to find something good …?
She knew the answer to that, she realized. She was more like Hammer than anyone had realized; more like him than she had ever admitted. She, too, kept a secret. Something that she had shared with no one, not even her partner. Something …
You can tell me.
No, she decided. It has taken too much time to close that wound and move on with my life I'm not going back ...
She would admit, to herself, only that that the words he had spoken were words she had never hoped to hear – again.
Not now. Not from him. Certainly not today.
He tells his gun everything.
You're my conscience, not my sidearm.
Are you certain of that?
Doreau glanced sideways at the empty glass on the table beside her, mentally estimating the amount of alcohol she had consumed.
I'm not that drunk, she decided.
Exhausted by an argument that could go on forever, and that she could never win, she dropped her head, resting it on her arms, crossed on the table before her. The earlier shot of tequila had partially numbed her body against the chill of the evening air. She felt herself start to drift through a warm, semi haze; mesmerized by a single question that she chased, futilely, through the endless corridors of her mind.
Why didn't I see it coming?
Why?
Something tugged at the back of her mind, trying to get her attention. She was in a dark place, writing notes about … something. For a moment she felt totally alone but then, in the dim light from a single desk lamp, she became aware of a figure moving toward her; sitting down across from her. She continued writing, trying to ignore it. It sat silently, waiting … for what?
She stole a glance, and confirmed her suspicions. The figure waiting in silence was that of her partner, Inspector Hammer. Shame and disappointment flooded through her. She was a fool. She'd been stupid. Surely he was here to gloat, to rub it in. Yet, he remained strangely silent. She tried to turn, to confront him...
... and had to catch at the table to regain her balance. She suddenly realized that she felt stiff, cold. And she was alone!
In the dim light, as she slowly oriented herself, she realized that she was still outside, on her terrace.
How long, she wondered?
Last night's events briefly seemed distant, perhaps even a bad dream. The chill from the night air and the stale taste in her mouth were real enough though. As was the sliver of color over the eastern horizon that hinted at morning. She forced herself upright and, picking her empty glass up from the table, turned and shuffled inside, totally without purpose. The warmer air inside her apartment only served to emphasize the chill that she felt, and she rubbed her arms briskly. The movement warmed her, and brought her mind fully into the present. Glancing at the clock, she realized that she would have to leave soon, if she wanted to arrive at work at her usual time. Strangely, the realization seemed to offer no motivation at all.
Does it matter if I'm late just this once?
She found herself in the bathroom, staring past her own reflected image in the mirror. For some reason, the last image from her dream refused to go away.
Her partner, sitting silently, saying nothing. Why? Why was it important?
She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate. It took a while for her to connect the scene with someone else from her past. Lionel Dashman! After he'd been exposed as an international assassin, and she'd been exposed as his patsy, she'd retreated to her desk hoping to be left alone. Hammer had found her.
Why am I remembering that now?
Wait a minute!
Suddenly she was wide-awake, staring into the mirror.
He was acting like .. like nothing had happened!. Why not now, too? If I act like nothing happened, and he acts like nothing happened, maybe nothing happened. What do I have to lose?
She glanced at her watch, and at the brightening eastern sky. There was hope! Maybe there was still time.
She almost gave up when she looked again at the mirror, this time seeing herself fully: the mess of her makeup and her tousled hair, the rumpled dress and the bloodshot eyes. She didn't have time to fix all that; she needed to arrive before him, as usual, for her plan to work. She settled for wiping her face clean, and running a brush through her hair.
Her shoes – the closet! She remembered. She hurried into the living room, searching for her purse and finally finding it on the floor. Gathering it up, she hurried out the door, locking it hastily behind her. She had to arrive early.
Her ride to the precinct left her unnaturally impatient. The BART came smoothly to a halt. She bolted through the partially opened doors ignoring the startled passengers, and hurried out of the station. Normally she was at her desk, reviewing cases when he arrived. If she gave the impression that today was just another day; that nothing out of the ordinary had passed between them, maybe he would be ... himself. That was all she needed, for Hammer to be himself, and everything would work out. She hoped!
As she walked briskly up the front steps into the precinct offices, security was unlocking the doors.
"Good morning, Detective," he said cheerily.
She stared straight ahead, discouraging eye contact She didn't have time for conversation. She stepped into the first elevator, and leaned on "Door Close". She didn't breath until it did. She had the car to herself during the ride to her floor.
After what seemed an eternity, the elevator arrived at its destination and paused. The doors slid open. Doreau froze.
Security was just unlocking the front door when I arrived. There shouldn't be anyone here. So why are the lights on?
Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of the elevator, and into the hallway. Walking down that hallway, toward her desk, knowing what she suspected she knew, required every ounce of will power she possessed. She should be alone, but she knew she wasn't. It wasn't even 7:30 yet and her partner was never in before 8:30. A sinking feeling washed over her.
Maybe, if I'm lucky, it will be Captain Trunk.
She found herself holding her breath as she reached the bullpen area. Turning the final corner she inhaled sharply. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to convince herself that she was seeing things.
"No way," she hissed under her breath. "I'm seeing things."
She steeled herself, steadying her frayed nerves. Feeling a thread of her normal self-control return, she opened her eyes again. Nothing had changed. There he was, at his desk, directly across from hers, head down, doing … paperwork? Fury rose inside her.
Why is he here now? Can't I depend on him for anything?
Something seemed to snap and she realized that the heat of her anger was gone, replaced by the icy chill of determination.
He was never in the office on time. It was almost a standing joke that that he was punctually a half hour late.
So why is he here now? Look at him! Hair uncombed. Still wearing yesterday's clothes. Unshaven. What was so important that he didn't even have the time to shave?
The pile of Snickers wrappers on his desk caught her attention.
How long has he been here? And why? Was he trying to turn over a new leaf? An unshaven and dishevelled, Snickers fueled, new leaf? What is this important to him? Rubbing my nose in failure?
Well, she could hardly stand here all day, analysing Hammer. She willed herself to move. Drawing herself up, steeling her determination, she stepped into the room – confidently, she hoped.
She paced herself across the floor, crossing the space between her and her desk in steady, even strides. Her heels clicked on the hard, functional surface, making her feel strangely self-conscious as she made her way. An even, regular cadence, she thought to herself, listening to the click, click, click. The sound seemed to echo in her ears.
Too loudly, she wondered? No matter.
She found herself wanting him to know it was her, wanting him to hear her footsteps and look up, smile, crack one of his ridiculous jokes … anything at all to let her know that last night was behind them, forgotten. Or even just to acknowledge her presence.
Nothing. Hammer didn't look up. He acted as though he was lost in thought, oblivious to her presence. Her heart sank as her confidence flagged. She wasn't sure how she had expected this moment to unfold, but it sure wasn't like this. She shook her head, realizing that she really hadn't thought about .. this, at all.
She reached her desk, and hung her purse over the chair back, ready to be picked up in an instant if a call came in. She opened her desk drawer searching for the pencil and pad of paper she had left there Friday. They were gone, missing.
She stole a glance across the desk towards her partner, busily studying a pad of paper before him and tapping a mangled pencil against the edge of his desk. There was no doubt in her mind where he had gotten them. She was tempted to demand them back, but from the look of the pencil in Hammer's hand, she decided she didn't want it … certainly not badly enough to make a scene. Still, she fumed silently all the way to the stationary cabinet and back.
Her inner voice resumed its relentless second guessing and her determination began to wilt.
Maybe you should have approached more quietly, more discretely.
Maybe the voice had a point. The sound of her heels against the floor had not only served to announce her arrival, but had identified her as well. There were not that many female officers, and fewer still who felt comfortable with her choice of footwear. Hammer would have known it was her from her footsteps alone. He had time to prepare. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. Still, she found his lack of interest annoying, whatever his motivation was.
Why should I keep quiet? Why should I make it easy for him?
She slammed the fresh pad of paper down on the desk. She stuck her new pencil in the sharpener and deliberately ground it to a point. Then she honed the point further, while wondering how many different ways an insufferable partner could be killed with a sufficiently sharp pencil.
Or at least, maimed.
About half way through the pencil she realized she was daydreaming and stopped.
Unconsciously tapping the pencil on the desk she considered the situation. HE was still ignoring her, pretending to be focused on a blank pad of paper.
Her pad of paper.
And on a case file she had seen enough of to know they had closed it two weeks ago. Feeling increasingly frustrated, she opened her file drawer more firmly than necessary. She started slightly as the desk shivered from the sudden stop as the drawer reached the end of its travel. Hammer didn't flinch. She withdrew case files individually, slapping each one down on the desktop.
Still nothing?!
She shut the drawer firmly, making the desk shake again. She regarded her pencil again, pensively noting the neatly tapered point.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but he's either died or deliberately ignoring me.
Deciding it wasn't worth further effort, she gave up and began going through each of her open case files carefully, meticulously, making notes as she did. Usually she did this while she waited for her partner to appear, so she would know the case particulars when they went out to investigate each one. This morning she did it to distract herself from wondering why her partner wouldn't look at her, or even acknowledge her existence.
It was only partially effective. Every few moments she found herself casting glances in Hammer's direction, each time finding his pose and expression unchanged. Briefly, she considered checking for vital signs.
Don't be stupid, she told herself. Anyone who touched Sledge unexpectedly risked being body slammed to the floor. She's seen it happen to Captain Trunk, and although she was younger and more agile than the Captain, she had no desire to test Hammer's reflexes herself. Then she saw him shrug.
At least I know he's alive. Why won't he even look at me this morning? Why does it bother me? Why do I feel like it's my fault?
Questions with no answers continued to race in her head. She tried once again to focus her attention on the case files and had almost succeeded in forcing Hammer from her thoughts when the sound of footsteps approaching interrupted her concentration. She was pretty sure she recognized that walk – Captain Trunk.
This could be interesting!
Doreau focused her gaze on the case file in front of her, but all her other senses were attentive to sounds of those footsteps and to her partner, searching for any reaction at all. The footsteps hesitated, about ten to fifteen feet away, she judged. Stealthily, she stole a glance at her partner. Hammer remained totally oblivious. That fact lifted her spirits slightly.
So it's not just me. Hammer was ignoring Trunk as well. Why? It isn't normal for Sledge to pass up an obvious opportunity to pitch his latest hare-brained crime fighting proposal to the Captain.
In spite of her scepticism, she wondered what new scheme he might have dreamt up this time.
For a brief moment, she felt certain that Captain Trunk was going to speak. That moment passed. Then the Captain's footsteps moved on, as well. Doreau was left ... with what? Questions? About last night. About a partner with an unhealthy attraction to his gun. And an unexplained interest in an old case file.
Doreau slipped her shoes off, flexing her toes and sighed.
It's going to be a long morning, she thought to herself, as she began reviewing Case 425-15439. I might as well be comfortable.
It wasn't long before the first of the early risers began to trickle in. Many took one look at Hammer, one look at the clock, and went straight to their desks. They knew something was wrong, had no idea what, but were sure of one thing: they wanted no part of whatever it was.
The sudden howl of pain from the other side of the desk took everyone by surprise, including her.
If he thinks he can get my attention with some infantile, jejune prank, she fumed, as she continued typing at her keyboard, barely missing a stroke. Then she saw him rubbing a spot on his leg and wondered why anyone pinched themselves that hard.
Some braver, or more naive, officers looked at Hammer, and then at her, obvious questions in their eyes. Pointedly, she shook her head, indicating she had no idea, either.
Gradually routine reasserted itself. More officers arrived. Some were obviously curious; Doreau caught their eyes discreetly and shook her head if they seemed inclined to approach too near. If necessary, she waved them off, discreetly. Most took the hint. She let Inspector Perkins take his chances. She almost panicked, as Hammer's hand moved beneath his jacket. Before she could react, Hammer's hand jerked back. She couldn't help herself; she gawked.
Perkins had the good sense to not stop.
Not so Officer Daley. Daley seemed oblivious, or determined. Normally, the two of them spent a few minutes each morning catching up over coffee. Normally, Hammer wouldn't have been around. Doreau had no intention of testing his patience, or reactions, this morning.
Daley, it turned out, hadn't even noticed Hammer. Doreau had been the target of her feminine observations.
"Dori," she began, before Doreau could offer a warning. Her tone was simultaneously shocked, and awed. "Dori .. did you .. did Sledge .. finally ..?
Doreau instantly flushed as the implication set in. My clothes. My hair. My face. She thinks I ... For the first time she saw herself as others might see her, in her current state.
At her blush, Daley's shock and awe turned to shock and delight. "You did .. ? You DID .. Oh, congratu .." Doreau flushed even deeper, realizing that her first flush had only served to confirm Daley's conjectures. Daley aimed a punch at Doreau's shoulder. It missed as Doreau took a firm grip on her shoulder.
"Quiet!" She hissed, interrupting and steering Daley toward the lady's room, for privacy. Along the way, one thought consumed her; "How many others?"
Safely in the privacy of the women's Sanctum Sanctorium, she took a moment to compose herself.
"No." She began. "No. Nothing happened!" She leaned against the counter and closed her eyes.
How do I explain this? Without making it worse than it is?
Daley waited, puzzled and uncertain.
With a deep sigh, she steeled herself.
The truth. Part of it anyway ...
"Sledge proposed." She gave Daley only an instant to consider that before adding, "And then he UNproposed." She wasn't lying; she was only exercising her Fifth Amendment rights by leaving out her part in that change of heart, she reasoned. Then she took advantage of her earlier anger to add some additional misdirection.
"I don't think he's ever done anything so completely thoughtless, insensitive, bone headed, uncaring, misogynistic, thick sculled, inconsiderate, unfeeling, immature ..." She ran out of adjectives. ".. thoughtless .. did I say that already?"
"Gee, how does Sledge feel, Dori?"
"It's Hammer," Dori actually cracked a smile. "Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe better."
"Any way," she shrugged, still searching for a way out. "I've been too angry to sleep, and forgot to pick up my dry cleaning ... so .." She gestured at herself and tried looking sorry for herself ...
Daley took the hint. "Don't worry Dori. We've all been there." Daley offered a sympathetic hug. "I'll get your dry cleaning for you." She turned and headed off, leaving Doreau to recompose herself.
I wonder how far she'll get before ... Doreau mused, watching the door swing closed.
She used a couple of moments to refresh her makeup, and do the best she could with her hair. Feeling slightly more herself, she left the lady's room, and headed back to the bullpen. She was just in time to see Hammer finish holstering his gun. At least, that's what it looked like.
What did I miss?