Scarla by BC Furtney

dam burst. Laughter and tears flowed freely.
“Undercover?”
he whispered, in equal relief and disbelief, just happy his little girl wasn’t who the boys had been talking about after all.
    Scarla teared-up too, then realized she hadn’t cried since Lannie. Not even close. And close was as close as she’d let herself get, so she nipped it. “Cut that crying shit out, since when are you such a fuckin’ pussy?”
    H nodded knowingly, collected himself. “Soft in my old age, I guess.”
    She grabbed her bag. “Well, there’s no
crying
in Big H’s. C’mon, let’s get a beer.”
    He looked for his keys. “Okay, you got some explainin’ to do anyway.” He found them in his desk drawer. “Lemme lock the office and get Clay to hold it down, I’ll catch up.”
    She smirked. “Don’t forget your walker, old man.”
    She turned to leave, and there it was. Where only he could see it from his desk.
Scarla Fragran—Women’s Lightweight Kickboxing Champion,
on the back of the office door. Scrawled in sharpie:
For you, DADDY! Love, Big S.
He wasn’t her father of course, just the closest she’d ever had to one. She wasn’t his child either, just the closest he had left. She opened the door, exiting fast, head down. No one in the gym saw her crying.

8
----
    Facil emerged from Turkovich’s office and ambled down the hall, stopping to pour himself a cup of the department’s notorious coffee. One cup perked you up, a second had your hands rattling. Turkovich sat on the edge of his desk, watching through the narrow pane of glass that framed the door. Facil held the sugar for five beats, mixed the brew, spotted a jumbo-sized aspirin bottle. He popped four, pocketed a fistful, kept walking. A pair of beat cops approached, their eyes locked on him while his watched the floor.
    “Lieutenant LeTour,” remarked the one closest, voice full of reverence.
    Facil looked up to see them stopped in their tracks. He went another two steps, before spinning on his heel. “Yeah?” They were both in their twenties, fresh-faced, wide-eyed, ready to make a difference. Maybe they would. Or maybe they’d floor it into the ground.
50/50
, he thought, as the officer pressed a soft palm to his.
    “Daniel Carmichael. New to the force, sir.”
Sir
sounded strange.
    The other was equally earnest. “Martin DiCenzo, sir.”
    Facil eyed them. “Do we know each other?”
    They both laughed. Carmichael kept the lead. “Your reputation precedes you. We heard a lot of stories about you in academy. It’s an honor to finally meet the man.”
    What stories would
those
be, and who did the telling?
“Welcome to hell,” he nodded, not into chit-chat.
    They laughed. “Thanks, I think,” DiCenzo gushed. “Any advice for a coupla newbies?” But Facil was already gone.
    * * * *
    CHIEF DARRIN J. RATTAN,
read the gleaming door plaque. Facil entered without knocking, strolled through a spacious carpeted room. A busty secretary in a low-cut top sat watching, her long hair held up in a chopstick, turquoise-rimmed glasses perched halfway down her nose. She was the latest in the Chief’s unending parade of big-titted office jockeys.
    He reached her desk, saw the closed door to her right. “Afternoon, Jenn.”
    She didn’t smile. “He’s not here. Business lunch.” She bit her pen, tongued the cap. It wasn’t lost on him.
    “Say when he’d be back?”
    She plucked a post-it note as he eyed her considerable cleavage. “
No
, but you have a message.” She handed it over.
    “Thai Den, three o’clock,” he read aloud, as her eyes floated down his body.
    “They’re waiting for you, so you’d better go.”
    “They?”
    She licked her lips. He eyed his watch. 2:44pm. The phone rang, she answered. He walked away. “Chief Rattan’s office … he’s unavailable at the moment, would you like his voicemail?” She transferred the call, watching Facil’s ass out the door.
    * * * *
    He punched in the six-digit elevator code and waited. -1 … -2.