face. Perched beside me, July quivers
and hugs Lee, who has magically appeared out of the rainbow mélange of
cruisers.
I look up into the mist and grin stupidly at the ring of
hovering policemen.
“So which means more to you?” I ask July. “The reprimand
or the commendation?”
“The reprimand didn’t come from my superiors. It only came through them.
And everybody pretty much agreed that we’d given the Sheriff’s
Department due notice that there was a problem.”
I recall the expression of fatherly concern on the District
Attorney’s face when, after
being hauled out of bed at three a.m., he’d chewed July out for getting personally involved in a case that
belonged to the Sheriff’s
department. Then he tore another strip off her for not personally waking him at one a.m., when the action started.
“And the commendation will look good on my record when I
move down to SF,” she continues. “But the personal thanks from Bob’s
sister—that meant the most.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
We are sitting in the “hospitality suite” in the D.A.’s
office in Nevada City, sipping coffee and preparing to go through another round
of Q&A about our “bust.” July looks impressive in her uniform. CHP duds
tend to make most femme-cops look blocky. I sometimes think they’re
intentionally unflattering. But they flatter July. On me they’d look like a
Halloween costume.
Mr. D.A. himself—Mark Harrison by name—puts in an appearance
just then, swinging through the double doors with paperwork in hand, looking
very D.A.—ish. He smiles when he sees us and comes to hover at the table.
“You ladies ready for another round?”
“Of what?” I ask. “Coffee or grilled girl?”
“Now, now. It’s
not that bad . . . is it?” He glances at July, who shakes her
head.
“Tink’s just being a drama queen,” she tells him.
“I can’t guarantee this will be the last deposition you’ll
have to give before this goes to trial, but I’m hopeful. We should be able to
send Gina home after this.”
“Great,” I say. “Then Mom and Dad can grill me.”
The D.A. glances at the papers in his hand. “They want a
plea bargain. Manslaughter instead of murder two; illegal possession of
firearms instead of kidnapping, and they want the hate crime aspect thrown
out.”
July’s eyes snap to his face. “You won’t let them?”
“Do I look like a pushover? Thanks to your lack of regard
for jurisdiction, Officer Petersen, we have a murder case. And since Perry
Dixon is more than willing to testify against these gentlemen, I wouldn’t be
surprised to see these arrests lead to others. More than that, we have a line
into an entire hate network and the weapons dealers who armed it. To all
appearances, those boys were planning an out and out race war in Yuba County.
Your methods were unorthodox, ladies, but you got results. I think Bob Wray
would appreciate the fact that you not only solved his murder but may have
prevented others.”
Unorthodox. I shrug. “Bob solved it, himself. It was his
orderliness, his attention to detail and security . . .”
“Which you noticed and put to use. And that trick with the
taillight—quick thinking. Anyone ever tell you you’d make a good detective?”
I grimace, wondering what he’d say that if he’d seen me
curled up in the trunk of the Caddie muttering to its imaginary auto spirit.
July is laughing at me. “Everybody tells her that. Law
enforcement is in her blood.”
Harrison smiles crookedly. “I think they have medication for
that. Right now, you’ve got a date with the defense attorneys.”
July picks up her coffee and stands. “Come on, Agatha. If
we’re lucky we’ll only be here till dinner time.”
“Wow, I’ve been promoted. Think I’m ready to hang out my
shingle?”
“Yeah. Tinkerbell, P.I.”
July is teasing, but I think about it seriously as we
navigate the halls of Blind Justice—a career that will keep me close to law
enforcement. I try it
and hugs Lee, who has magically appeared out of the rainbow mélange of
cruisers.
I look up into the mist and grin stupidly at the ring of
hovering policemen.
“So which means more to you?” I ask July. “The reprimand
or the commendation?”
“The reprimand didn’t come from my superiors. It only came through them.
And everybody pretty much agreed that we’d given the Sheriff’s
Department due notice that there was a problem.”
I recall the expression of fatherly concern on the District
Attorney’s face when, after
being hauled out of bed at three a.m., he’d chewed July out for getting personally involved in a case that
belonged to the Sheriff’s
department. Then he tore another strip off her for not personally waking him at one a.m., when the action started.
“And the commendation will look good on my record when I
move down to SF,” she continues. “But the personal thanks from Bob’s
sister—that meant the most.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
We are sitting in the “hospitality suite” in the D.A.’s
office in Nevada City, sipping coffee and preparing to go through another round
of Q&A about our “bust.” July looks impressive in her uniform. CHP duds
tend to make most femme-cops look blocky. I sometimes think they’re
intentionally unflattering. But they flatter July. On me they’d look like a
Halloween costume.
Mr. D.A. himself—Mark Harrison by name—puts in an appearance
just then, swinging through the double doors with paperwork in hand, looking
very D.A.—ish. He smiles when he sees us and comes to hover at the table.
“You ladies ready for another round?”
“Of what?” I ask. “Coffee or grilled girl?”
“Now, now. It’s
not that bad . . . is it?” He glances at July, who shakes her
head.
“Tink’s just being a drama queen,” she tells him.
“I can’t guarantee this will be the last deposition you’ll
have to give before this goes to trial, but I’m hopeful. We should be able to
send Gina home after this.”
“Great,” I say. “Then Mom and Dad can grill me.”
The D.A. glances at the papers in his hand. “They want a
plea bargain. Manslaughter instead of murder two; illegal possession of
firearms instead of kidnapping, and they want the hate crime aspect thrown
out.”
July’s eyes snap to his face. “You won’t let them?”
“Do I look like a pushover? Thanks to your lack of regard
for jurisdiction, Officer Petersen, we have a murder case. And since Perry
Dixon is more than willing to testify against these gentlemen, I wouldn’t be
surprised to see these arrests lead to others. More than that, we have a line
into an entire hate network and the weapons dealers who armed it. To all
appearances, those boys were planning an out and out race war in Yuba County.
Your methods were unorthodox, ladies, but you got results. I think Bob Wray
would appreciate the fact that you not only solved his murder but may have
prevented others.”
Unorthodox. I shrug. “Bob solved it, himself. It was his
orderliness, his attention to detail and security . . .”
“Which you noticed and put to use. And that trick with the
taillight—quick thinking. Anyone ever tell you you’d make a good detective?”
I grimace, wondering what he’d say that if he’d seen me
curled up in the trunk of the Caddie muttering to its imaginary auto spirit.
July is laughing at me. “Everybody tells her that. Law
enforcement is in her blood.”
Harrison smiles crookedly. “I think they have medication for
that. Right now, you’ve got a date with the defense attorneys.”
July picks up her coffee and stands. “Come on, Agatha. If
we’re lucky we’ll only be here till dinner time.”
“Wow, I’ve been promoted. Think I’m ready to hang out my
shingle?”
“Yeah. Tinkerbell, P.I.”
July is teasing, but I think about it seriously as we
navigate the halls of Blind Justice—a career that will keep me close to law
enforcement. I try it
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