A Voice from the Field (13 page)

Angelica pulled free of his grip. She pushed her long black hair back from her face and spewed out a string of defiant words that said she wouldn't be rushed. Snatching the bottle of whiskey from the old man's hand, she took a long pull. The nearby crowd noticed the exchange, and a raucous chorus of jeers for her display of gumption rose into the night sky. Angelica ignored the crude comments she knew were directed at her. She had come to welcome the strange effect of the alcohol. It deadened not only her body but also her mind, allowing her to surrender and let go of any foolish hope for a different life.

Cuánto tiempo?
Angelica wondered.
How long have I lived this life?
It had not always been this way. Even now she could still imagine the beams of this very same moon dancing on the waters of Lake Pátzcuaro. She could picture the green hills surrounding the farm where her family worked the fields and lived in a small mud shack. She could recall their faces, but they faded a little more every day. How many brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles? She could no longer be sure, but there had been many and they had been happy. Poor, but happy.

The promise of a life beyond the hard work of a dirt farm had lured Angelica away, but it had all been lies. Now this was her life and everything else was fading away.

Angelica thought back to the woman she thought of as “the bold one.” The one who had fought. Who had resisted. That one would never find herself in such a place as this. Even now Angelica could see her eyes. She could feel the strength of the woman's grip on her foot, pulling her to safety. Angelica remembered the warmth of her hand. Even now, Angelica heard the bold one call out,
Come to me.
But then she was gone.

The hard smack of a man's hand against the side of Angelica's face brought her back to this place of dehumanization. His words were unintelligible to her, but she understood the threat they carried all too well.

The old man moved closer and Angelica reached out, taking him in her hand. She leaned in, closing her eyes in silent recognition of her station in life: a
puta
girl.
I coveted a world not intended for me,
she thought.
I disobeyed my Almighty Father. I shamed my family. I deserted my country. And now I must take my place in hell.

 

ACT II

 

FOURTEEN

Inside Newberg PD, Tia tucked her head and took the stairs two at a time, holding a twenty-ounce Starbucks at arm's length. At the sound of laughter, she looked up just in time to try to avoid a collision with a group of uniformed officers headed the opposite way. Tia managed to maneuver past the first two but ran smack into the third. Despite her best efforts, a good amount of hot coffee sloshed over the top of the cup and onto the cop's black uniform trousers.

“Damn, Suarez. What the hell? I'm not even five minutes into my shift.”

“Sorry, Jimmy.” Tia bent down, swiping at the cop's pants with the back of her hand, just missing the crotch area.

“Damn, girl. Back off from my junk.”

“There,” Tia said, standing up. “Can't even see it. The coffee, that is. Put the dry-cleaning bill on my desk, all right? I'm really sorry.”

Of course it had to be Jimmy Youngblood, a five-year patrol officer well known for his good ole boy ideology and his belief that women just don't belong in police work. Jimmy had been in the courtroom when Tia had her episode. In fact, he'd been the only other cop there, which made him the prime witness, a role he'd played to the hilt.

Not only had he provided all the ugly details for the official investigation; he also even came up with his own artistic re-creation that he practically turned into a stand-up routine. Rumor had it that Youngblood had taken the show on the locker-room circuit and he was a hit.

“Yeah, whatever.” Jimmy grabbed his crotch as he walked away. The three male officers continued down the steps, probably headed for the day-shift briefing. Though they spoke quietly, Tia heard their hushed comments and a reference to “another major meltdown.” She could only wonder what the latest rumor was; she knew a mangled version of the Milwaukee detail had gone around. She resisted the temptation to run down the steps, catch up with the group, and set straight any bullshit.
You'll only make it worse,
she thought.
It's all your own doing.

Tia looked at her watch.
Twenty minutes late.
She rolled her eyes at the thought of the chewing out coming her way. Half-jogging down the short hallway, she blew a breath into her palm and breathed it back in. A pretty good whiff of burnt coffee was all she got, but she wondered if the patrol dogs had picked up anything else. She'd done pretty well all week, but last night Connor had had to work an overtime shift at the market and Tia had been home alone.
Well, not really alone,
she thought.

That's the damn problem.
Spending entire days stuck at a desk on light-duty work was frustrating enough, but being cut off from meds and booze at home was more than she could take. When that tiny voice began to cry for her attention, Tia knew there was only one way to silence it. She ended up hitting the bottle pretty hard and now she was paying for it. She hadn't taken any pills but hadn't been able to resist swinging by the liquor store on the way home last night.

It's this damn light-duty bullshit,
she thought to herself. Not to mention Gage and his testing schedule. Tia knew she had less than four hours to sweat out a fifth of tequila or there would be hell to pay.

She took a last sip of the rancid brew that had cost her four bucks at a drive-thru before dumping it in the hallway trash can in disgust.
How do people drink this shit?

Tia's normal routine was to stop every morning at Books and Java, Newberg's one and only indie coffeehouse. But in addition to being a good friend, Alex was also the wife of the chief of police. No reason for Tia to put the woman in a tough spot by showing up in her store hungover and on her way to work.

Tia slipped into the bullpen she shared with three other detectives and was relieved to find it empty.
First break of the day,
she thought. She slid behind her desk, piled high with pawn slips and burglary reports. Her light-duty assignment had her acting as nothing more than a glorified file clerk, comparing the stolen property listed in local burgs to what was taken in by the half-dozen pawnshops in the area surrounding Newberg. The duty normally went to a senior citizen volunteer.

And here I sit,
Tia thought.
This would drive any cop to drink
.

Tia rubbed hard on her temples, thinking she should have kept the lousy mermaid sludge. Her head throbbed and a tide of liquor rolled in her stomach. She rummaged through the desk, scrounging for an old energy bar or something she could munch on to soak up the booze. Nothing but a three-week-old banana that was more gray than black and in a gelatinous sort of state. She left the banana where it was and slammed the desk drawer in frustration, smashing her thumb in the process.

“God damn it!” she shouted, looking at her broken nail.

“Where you been, Suarez?” Tia looked up and saw Travis Jackson staring back at her with nothing short of contempt. “You missed the weekly crime update.”

“Oh, hey, Sarge.” Still shaking her hand in pain, Tia was in no mood to take a lot of grief from her boss. Her voice was way less than sincere. “Sorry. It won't happen again.”

“Until it does.”

Shit. He knows,
she thought. Tia half-expected him to pull out a Breathalyzer, but she was angry enough to not really care. In Tia's mind, Jackson had caused a good amount of the bullshit she was dealing with. He could have stood up to the attorney. He could have done more to support Tia with Sawyer. He could have done his fricking job, but instead he took the easy way and left her twisting in the wind.

She pushed back. “Is it really a big deal, Travis?” She motioned to the pile on her desk and tried to downplay her offense. “You've got me going through pawn slips and patrol field interview cards. So I'm a few minutes late, so what? The last thing I need is to sit in on a crime update.”

Travis stared back, stoic and quiet in a way that left Tia unnerved. He closed in and Tia picked up on that way cops looked at a drunk. He spoke in a low voice and Tia could hear frustration mixed with what she thought might be genuine concern.

“Look, Tia. This sucks for you. I get that, but if you want to get back on full duty, you've got to go with the program. If Chief Sawyer finds out you're coming in late, not to mention half in the bag, he's gonna have both our asses.”

Tia took on a level of indignation normally reserved for guilty people. “Half in the bag? Come on, TJ. I had a couple of drinks last night. So what? I'm here, aren't I?”

“Oh yeah, you're here. Late for the third time this week and no doubt you plan on sliding out an hour early.”

Tia knew he was right and had every right to jump her shit about it. “All right, I'm sorry I was late. Just cover me this one last time, okay? I'll get all these pawn slips filed today. I won't go home until it's done.”

TJ shook his head. “Wish I could help you, but Sawyer's waiting for you in his office. Told me to send you over as soon as you got in. That was almost a half hour ago.”

“Oh, shit.” Tia felt the blood run from her face, thinking back to her blowout with Dr. Gage two days ago. “What's he want? Do you know?”

Travis shrugged. “I have no idea, but he looked serious. Better get over there.”

Tia stared into space. If Ben had talked with Gage, anything was possible. Her mind reeled until TJ pulled her back in.

“And splash some water on your face.” His voice was a mixture of disgust and pity. “Rinse your mouth with that Listerine you keep in your desk. You smell like a jail cell.”

Tia stared back, embarrassed. “Yeah. Okay, Travis. Sorry if I put you in a bad spot.”

Travis turned to leave shaking his head. “You need to pull your head out of your ass, Suarez.”

Tia stared at the empty doorway, her head cluttered with shame, alcohol, and fear of what might be in store. She pulled herself to her feet and headed down the hall. Ducking into the women's locker room, she went to the sink and doused her face and the back of her neck in cold water, following TJ's advice. Her hands shook with a mixture of nervous tension and the effects of detoxing. The panic attack was sudden and quick. Thoughts of what might be coming gripped her mind.

I'm finished. This is it.

Her stomach began to heave. She turned from the sink and pushed into a stall. She felt a hard, blunt pain when her knees hit the cement and her chest thudded against the porcelain. She hung her head over the opening just in time to project pints of a chunky yellowish-brown concoction into the bowl. A good deal of splashback struck her face and her throat burned with a mixture of tequila, bitter coffee, and bile. A second wave of nausea arched her back, not as violent as the first but still enough to make her eyes water. Her body shuddered in revulsion at the sour odor, but she found some comfort from the fact that her stomach was suddenly empty and quiet.

When she was certain it was over, Tia used her forearms to push off against the rim of the toilet and stood on quaking legs. She pulled off a length of toilet paper and swiped at the long strands of thick spit hanging from her lips, then tossed it into the bowl and wiped her hands on her jeans. She boot flushed the toilet and backed out, slowly turning to the mirror. An unfamiliar face stared back. Tia was disoriented, as if seeing someone she should know but whose name escaped her. Then it hit her.

Holy shit, Suarez.

Red glassy eyes rimmed in dark circles stared out from the mirror. Her pasty skin was specked by the vomit plastered against her cheeks and chin. A few chunks had gotten in her hair—which she suddenly realized hadn't been combed since she'd rolled out of bed not quite an hour ago. Nearly a minute passed as she stood frozen, returning her own stare. Then her chin began to quiver and heavy tears of shame rolled down her cheeks. She wanted to sob out loud. She wanted to curl up on the bathroom floor and wait for someone to find her. They'd probably throw her into a detox facility. Fine. At least it would be over. No more games. No more pretending. No more living a lie.

Is that really what you want? To quit? Give up?

This has got to stop,
she told herself.
If I somehow survive today,
she vowed,
this shit has absolutely got to stop.

Tia washed her face and rinsed her mouth in the sink. She lingered, fighting for her composure, then turned off the water and stepped back. She went to her locker, combed her hair, and put on some light makeup. She squeezed an inch of toothpaste onto her finger and rubbed it across her teeth.

Tia walked out of the locker room and headed down the hall. The liquor and vomit had sucked nearly all the moisture from her body, so she bent over the fountain for one last drink of cool water, doing all she could to calm her nerves. She finished the walk like a condemned woman headed to the gallows.
How did this happen?
she wondered.
How did I go from being on the top of the heap to, well,
being
the heap?

Gage had to have talked to Sawyer; Tia was certain of it. No doubt Gage jazzed the story up pretty good, but thinking back on it, she knew he did not need to embellish very much. Tia figured the decision had already been made. With any luck, Sawyer would let her go out on physical disability. Make up some bullshit about complications from her not-so-old injuries. That would fool the people at a distance—civilians or maybe even a few prospective, non–law enforcement, employers. But the real story would be well known throughout the cop world. Tia Suarez went out “51-50.”