The Squad Room (5 page)

The Irish pub was a decent place. Better than decent, really. Besides being the longtime regular for the precinct’s detectives—the patrol cops had their own place, as was customary—it even attracted a few non-police women, which was always a nice plus. Back in the day the cops all went to gin mills—hard-drinking places with sawdusted floors, where nobody but cops, firemen, and hardcore boozers ever cared to go. Cops nowadays were different, though; they liked some atmosphere with their painkillers, and women without badges made for great atmosphere. Morrison himself was of the older mindset. Romance, he’d long felt, was a game he’d played and lost; the real good of a place like this—and as far as it went, it
was
a real good—was to push the memories to the back of his mind for an evening.

Morrison joined a group at the bar, including Sergeants Rivera, McNamara, and Simmons. As was usual for day two, everyone was still talking about the case. They were all tired; but for many of them, as busy as they’d been today, this was the first chance they’d had to go over the case collectively. The guy from Rye Brook, Rivera was just telling them,
had turned out to be a bit of a dead end. He’d been a friend of the victim’s since childhood, as it seemed, and had been devastated to learn of her death. He was a chef who’d published several cookbooks, and she’d apparently been picking his brain lately for advice in writing her book.

As the talk swirled around other bits and pieces of the case, Morrison looked up absently and noticed a woman sitting at the other end of the bar. She was strikingly attractive, perhaps in her mid-forties. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing here; there was something about her that just didn’t seem to fit in. Perhaps it was the way she was dressed: slightly upscale, certainly nicer than the rest of the clientele. But whatever it was, he couldn’t stop looking at her.

Three drinks in, he decided he was going to talk to her. He was generally a pretty shy individual when it came to these things, but after the drinks he was feeling up to it. Downing a shot of tequila, he got to his feet, a look of determination in his eye.

“Going in, Cap?” Simmons said, with a smiling nod toward the woman. “You got a line ready?”

“We’ll see,” Morrison said. “Maybe I’ll give her the old baby in a dumpster story—steal Rivera’s thunder.”

“Well, Cap, you know he swears that line works,” Simmons said.

“Every time!” said Rivera, laughing.

“Yeah, but you always find the psycho pussy, the ones who fall for you and come around calling,” Morrison countered. “You guys remember the time this guy’s wife cut up all his clothes and threw them out on the front lawn?” Everyone laughed, Rivera included. “How’re you two doing, by the way?” he asked Rivera.

“Oh, we’re still together—we worked things out,” Rivera said. “What can I say? She loves me.”

Everyone laughed again, and Morrison wandered over towards the woman. The other three sergeants continued their conversation.

“Place is crowding up,” McNamara said, looking around at the bar. The 4–12 shifters were starting to trickle in.

“Yeah—hey,” said Rivera, suddenly waving to some of the newcomers.

“Those guys were on a patrol squad with me, Midtown South. Let me pull them over here—we oughta do a shot together.”

He called his old friends over, and ordered them all a round. It had been a long time since he’d worked on the same squad with these guys, but back in the day they’d spent long years together, and they fell into the old rapport quickly. Rivera was thankful the shots were pretty weak—Southern Comfort shaken up with lime—as the rest of the squad were younger guys, and had given him a two-day headache the last time he’d gone out with them. He asked them how the patrol was treating them these days.

“Oh, same shit, Sarge,” said one, a young officer named Devin. “We’ve been real busy—we were holding 92 jobs at one point.”

“Not quite the same, though, right?” Rivera asked. “GPS in your cars, all your stops videotaped—man, I’m glad I’m almost done; I don’t know if I’d be able to do that.”

“Yeah, well, you get used to it,” another officer said. “How about you guys? Heard you had an interesting homicide today.”

Rivera nodded. “Yeah, definitely different,” he said. “Not easy so far, either. You know how it is: it goes past day two, it’s going to be rough. I wish we were on
Law & Order
and could solve it in an hour, but real detective work’s a lot harder.” The group laughed.

“Hey, speaking of detective work,” an officer named Gray spoke up, “you hear Lou Galipoli made Detective?”

Rivera’s face darkened. “He did?”

“Yeah, just the other day,” Devin said.

“They gave
that guy
a gold shield?” Rivera said, incredulous. The promotion to Detective was one of the only ones the force gave out without a test, and the criteria for granting them were highly subjective.

“Tell me about it. I mean, everyone always speculates about who does and doesn’t deserve that, but with him—”

“Yeah, I can’t say I get that at all,” Rivera said coldly. “He’s a nothing cop, isn’t he? Big badass, always has something to prove, terrible to people? As I recall, he’s particularly weird with women—loves and hates them.”

“Yeah, I’d say all that’s true,” Gray agreed. “He seems like a sick fuck to me. But it’s pretty hard to argue with his service record—he’s got a Silver Star and a CIB. I guess you have to admire that, right?”

“Yeah, I guess you do,” said Rivera, frowning. “A Silver Star, jeez. Maybe I’m being too hard on him. Has he ever gone out with you guys?”

The others laughed.

“Forget it,” said Devin. “He’s one of those guys that doesn’t have any time for you if you don’t outrank him. Beat cops are nobody to Galipoli.”

“Well, that sounds more like the Galipoli
I
know, anyway,” Rivera said. “I’ve never seen him do much on the street, either—just a nasty, fake tough guy.”

“I can back that up,” said Simmons. “He’s loaded with IAB complaints. I don’t know anybody who likes working with him—I’ve heard a lot of guys say they have to beat him to calls just to make sure no Civilian Complaints come through.”

“But with that service record—?” another young cop asked. “He must’ve been through a lot; isn’t the guy a war hero?”

“Some excuse,” said Ricky Collins, a decorated nine-year veteran who’d been working the same sector with the same partner for seven years.

“Well, it
could
be,” argued the young cop. “PTSD, and all that.”

“It’s true, but there are a lot of guys out there with that, that don’t act like he does,” Collins said. “I know
I
can’t stand being on a call with him. It’s torture. Did you ever watch his tough-guy routine? I was glad to hear he’s getting a gold shield—it’ll get him off the street before we all lose our pensions behind the bullshit he does.”

“Well, a Silver Star’s a big deal, but I still can’t believe they made him a detective,” Rivera said. “You have to go through a lot to earn that badge, and all he ever did on patrol was screw up wherever he went. This has to be some political bullshit.”

“I did hear Arndt had something to do with him getting made,” Gray said.

“Of course,” Rivera said. “It takes an asshole to push another asshole
up the ladder. I’m just thankful I work for someone who won’t have to take him.”

“You sure?” Devin asked.

“Oh, Captain Morrison’s the best of the best,” Rivera assured him. “No brand-new detective’s getting put in any of his squads.”

“Lucky you,” said Devin, standing. “Good leadership—I’d say that’s worth another one! Who’s in? I’m buying this time.”

Meanwhile, the Best of the Best had decided to forego the baby-in-a-dumpster bullshit, and just go the direct route. The woman at the end of the bar looked up smiling as he approached.

“What’s such a pretty woman doing sitting at the bar by herself?” he asked her.

“I’ve been waiting for you to walk over here and join me,” she said. “Good answer,” he said, sliding into the seat next to her. “I’m Bill Morrison.”

“Claudia Kalianis,” she said, offering her hand. “I assume you’re a cop?”

“Detective Captain, NYPD.”

“So I can trust you, then.” Another bewitching smile. “Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“No problem.”

Morrison was almost startled at how straightforward they’d been. He hadn’t felt the need to equivocate at all with her. They’d seemed to click immediately. It happened so infrequently.
We both must need someone,
he thought; then, with a rush of exhilarating honesty,
I do, for sure.

“So, Claudia, what do you do?” he asked, trying not to stare at her too hard.

“I’m a psychologist.”

“Really! Do any forensic work?”

“All of us do,” she laughed. “Didn’t you know that? Just watch any
TV show or movie—we’re always in the middle of some crime drama. Though it isn’t far off; it is human nature that moves me.”

“Is that what you’re doing here, at a cop bar?”

“Might as well be! No, I’m staying nearby. I’m in town for a two-day conference.”

“Over Christmas? That’s rough.”

“Ah, it’s a living. I seem to do it all the time, so the holiday doesn’t make that much difference anymore. I’m staying at the Marriott Marquis across the street.”

Something about the way she’d said it emboldened Morrison, and before he knew it the words were tumbling out of his mouth.

“How would you like to spend the night with a cop?”

He hardly had time to feel stupid before she’d taken his hand and put it over hers. He felt almost dizzy with the surreality of it; it had never happened this way for him.

“Look, Claudia,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward, as though he’d gone in over his head, “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. This never happens to me. It really doesn’t.”

“Me neither,” she said softly, “but I don’t care. You want to get out of here?”

“Definitely,” he said.

Without a word to anyone, the two of them got up, left the bar and walked across the street. There was a refreshing crispness in the air, and Morrison felt almost giddy as Claudia entwined her arm in his.

“At this point there’s no sense pretending,” she said, “and since you’re a cop, I’m feeling kind of safe.”

“What do you mean?”

They stopped in the middle of the street. Suddenly she leaned up and kissed him deeply, passionately, before looking at him again.

“Let’s have one at the hotel bar and talk, okay?” she said quietly. He looked sidelong at her. “What are you, wanted in ten states?” She laughed. “Not quite—but come on, let’s get a drink.”

They found seats and ordered a couple of drinks. With the first
sip Bill’s head swam; he’d already been a little tipsy before any of this had gone down, and Claudia’s familiarity was more intoxicating than anything.

She gave him a coy smile. “I don’t know why, but I just want to tell you about myself, and what I like,” she said.

“I’m all ears.”

“Just promise you won’t judge me—don’t say anything at first, okay?” There was a strong tone to her voice that Morrison liked. A lot. He sat back to listen.

“All right.”

“Well, you know that book,
Fifty Shades of Grey?”

“Sure.”

“Well, that’s amateur hour for me. Do you carry a gun and handcuffs around—like, do you have them now?”

He nodded, his eyes wide.

“I’m
really
into that stuff, but I get that not all guys are. I feel a little silly bringing it up already, but I trust you, and I don’t want to freak you out. What do you think?”

“I’m—I’m good with that,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say; in the first fifteen minutes of knowing her, this woman had gotten him more excited than anything had in years.

“Really? That’s great,” she said with visible relief. “When I trust a man, I just—I need to be a certain way. I’m getting excited just thinking about it.”

He smiled. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do whatever it takes.”

She leaned in confidentially. “I like to be out of control,” she said. “That excites me; so do a whole lot of other ideas that I’ve tried, but never gone too far with because of the guys. My ex-husband left me because of this stuff.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. When he filed the divorce papers it killed me—I was too embarrassed to have a deposition, so I just settled. Does that turn you off?”

“Not at all,” he said. She put her hand in his again, and Morrison
realized what that feeling was, stirring in him: he felt alive.

“You’re amazing,” she said. “I’m going to order a movie for us, if that’s okay. Do you get drug tested for work?”

“Yeah, we do—random testing.”

“Do you mind if I smoke around you?”

“I wish, but they clip our hair.”

He felt a little embarrassed at this lie; he’d just never smoked, and had no interest in trying it. But he didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable around him, and he knew most people did if you weren’t doing what they were doing.

“That’s all right,” she said. “It’s just to relax anyway, and I’m already feeling really good. Let’s go upstairs—I’ll show you how I like it, rather than tell you. Do you think you can walk through the lobby with your pants like that?”

Morrison followed her gaze downwards and laughed with her. He felt like a sixteen-year-old at the junior prom, but euphorically distant from it, unselfconscious.

“Well, definitely not, if you keep talking like this,” he said. “We’d better go now, before it’s too late.”

They paid and she led him upstairs to her room. The surreal feeling of the situation was almost overwhelming, but Morrison welcomed it; as strange as it was, it felt as though he were waking up from some long, dismal dream. She put a movie on, but he couldn’t have remembered for the life of him what it was. They started in so comfortably, so familiarly. There was a rhythm in the room with them, an uncontrollable excitement that built and built until they could hold it back no longer. Soon she was directing him, begging him; and it was true, she was out there with the things she wanted, but none of them were things he didn’t want too, and the sweat poured down their bodies as their flesh pounded together, their hearts racing to the peak, their blood boiling on the inside, Morrison’s handcuffs pulling against the bedpost until she collapsed in his arms and he followed with her, his lips seeking out her skin to taste the electricity flowing through them both.