Kovac And Liska: The 9th Girl Part 6

"Again?"

He shrugged, unconcerned with the phone or the lie. He shoved up the sleeves of his jersey, displaying a blue-inked sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. A tat artist's masterpiece, the work of art ran from shoulder to wrist, depicting an epic battle of good and evil, complete with a horned demon and an avenging angel.

Nikki always wondered which character represented Speed. The conclusion she inevitably came to was both. Working undercover narcotics, Speed Hatcher's world was gray with the rot of moral ambiguity. He was both the good guy and the bad guy, depending on the scenario, depending on the point of view. He had always been too comfortable with that dichotomy. What made him so very good at his job made him equally bad at being a husband and a father.

"I smell chili," she said, choosing diplomacy. "Hungry, R.J.? Or have you guys spent the whole afternoon eating junk?"

"Both," R.J. said, tossing the Nerf ball back to his father.

"Where's Kyle?" she asked, turning for the kitchen.

"Who cares?" R.J. crabbed. "He's a jerk."

"He went to a friend's house," Speed said.

Nikki turned back around. "And you let him?"

"Sure. What's the big deal?"

"R.J., please go wash up for dinner," she said pointedly.

Her son rolled his eyes. "Are you guys gonna have a fight already? Jeez, Mom. You just got here."

"We're not having a fight; we're having a discussion," Nikki said. "And not in front of you, so as not to further warp your perception of male-female relationships. Go wash up."

Father and son exchanged a glance and a shrug that clearly said, Women. What can you do? R.J. bounded up the stairs.

Nikki put her full attention on her ex, giving him a meaningful look as she stepped across the hall into her small home office. He followed, rolling his shoulders back like a fighter getting loose before the bell. She closed the door behind him.

"Did you truly not get my messages?" she asked. "Kyle was in a fight last night. He's got half a concussion. How could you just let him go?"

"What was I supposed to do? Arrest him?"

She thought her eyes might burst from her head at the sudden rise in her blood pressure. Her jaw hurt from biting back a flood of angry words. "Did you speak to him?"

"About what?"

"Oh my G.o.d, I want to hit you in the head with a brick," she said. "I don't know what would be worse-believing you're a flip a.s.shole or believing you really are just that obtuse."

Speed rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Nikki, he's a fifteen-year-old boy. He got in a sc.r.a.pe. It's not the end of the f.u.c.king world."

"He lied to me about it."

"Did you miss the part where I said he's a fifteen-year-old boy?"

"Kyle does not lie to me. He didn't inherit your comfort with it, thank G.o.d," she said. "He lied to me about what happened. I believe he lied to me about where he was when it happened-"

"Have you checked his story out?"

"I've been at an autopsy all afternoon."

"And your vic is going to get more dead while you take the time to make a couple of phone calls?"

Nikki gasped. "Don't you dare give me a hard time about making a phone call! You can't even be bothered to answer when I leave you a message that your son is in trouble. And don't give me that bulls.h.i.t story about losing your phone. I called every number you have. Why don't you just say you don't give a s.h.i.t?"

"You overreact to everything, Nikki! A kid gets a f.u.c.king hangnail and you're texting me with the 911! So he got in a sc.r.a.pe. So he got popped. So he hit the kid back. So what?"

"Thank you for reminding me yet again why I'm not still married to you. You don't get this at all, do you?"

"I guess not. Never mind that I was a fifteen-year-old boy once."

"You're still a fifteen-year-old boy," Nikki argued. "That's half the problem."

"And what's the other half?" he asked. "Not you. Not you blowing every f.u.c.king thing out of proportion."

"When am I supposed to bring you into the equation, Speed?" she asked. "When are you available for consultation on this? He's having problems at school-a kid who has never had problems at school. He's having problems getting along with other kids-a kid who has never been in a fight in his life. He's lying to me about where he's going and what he's doing-a kid who has never told me a lie. Just when are you willing to get involved here, Dad? When am I supposed to call you? When he's jacked an automatic weapon and gone into school with guns ablazing?"

Speed slapped his hands to the sides of his head as if to keep it from popping off his neck. "That is so you, Nikki! You jump from A to f.u.c.king Armageddon! He's embarra.s.sed to tell you he got his a.s.s kicked, and you've got him planning the next Columbine ma.s.sacre. Jesus!"

"And you don't find any of this alarming in the least?" she said. "Mr. Drug Enforcement Officer. A fifteen-year-old boy's grades are suddenly slipping. He's having trouble with friends. He's lying to his parents and exhibiting secretive behavior. This doesn't send up a red flag with you at all?"

"Kyle's not using," he said, and though his att.i.tude was dismissive, Nikki thought she might have caught the briefest flash of alarm in the very backs of his blue eyes. "He's too smart a kid for that."

"He's fifteen," Nikki said, happy to throw one of his own lines back at him.

Speed physically took a step back from the argument, resting his hands at his waist, and blew out a sigh. "I'll have a talk with him when he gets home."

"Thank you."

They both stood there, breathing hard, as if they had been wrestling physically as well as verbally. The fight was over. All the hard energy had been burned off. Awkwardness descended. So strange, Nikki thought. They'd spent so many years fighting, it didn't make any sense that they still felt awkward in the aftermath.

"You'd know if he was using," Speed said quietly. His kind of rea.s.surance.

"Would I? I don't know, Speed. I don't know the world these kids live in. It changes every day. Used to be they smoked pot or they did speed. Kids with money could afford cocaine. These days it's synthetic gra.s.s and bath salts-whatever the h.e.l.l that is. They mainline heroine, and they make their own meth out of cold medicine. They know more about prescription drugs than most doctors. It scares the h.e.l.l out of me."

In that moment it was only worse that she was a cop and that she knew things and had seen things other parents only read about in the newspaper, unless they were unlucky enough to have a child mixed up in it.

"I spent the afternoon at the autopsy of a girl Kyle's age," she said. "Someone stabbed her seventeen times and poured acid on her face while she was still alive. How did that happen? How did a girl Kyle's age come to be in a situation like that? What did her mother not know about her life?"

To her horror, tears filled her eyes. She was one tough cookie in every other respect, but not when it came to her boys. In that she was as vulnerable as any mother, fearful of what the world was capable of doing to her children.

"We know how that happens, Nikki," Speed said softly. He put one hand on her shoulder and stroked the other one over the back of her head. "She was a junkie or a hooker or a runaway. Her life put her in harm's way, and some predator took advantage. You've seen it a hundred times. So have I."

Too tired to tell herself not to, she slipped her arms around Speed's waist and pressed her face into his shoulder. He folded his arms around her and held her.

She had seen it. She did know how it happened. Sometimes. Not all the time. And the question still remained. Even if their ninth girl had been a junkie or a hooker or a runaway, the question still remained: What did her mother not know about her life that might have prevented her death?

"My Life"

by Gray

Me

One.

Lone Alone Longing Belonging Acceptance Accept Except Exception Exclusion Conclusion Alone

One.

Me

9.

Sonya Porter was one angry young woman. She came into Patrick's bar with narrowed eyes homed in on Tippen like a pair of dark lasers. She came across the room to their booth with all the purpose of a heat-seeking missile and clipped him upside the head with the back of a hand.

Tippen winced. "Ouch! What was that for?"

"I don't remember," she said, clearly annoyed he would ask. "I was p.i.s.sed off the second I heard the sound of your voice on the phone."

"You were annoyed because you were hungover," Tippen said. "That wasn't my fault."

"Yes, it was," she snapped, then softened a bit. "Well, maybe not this time. But it was your fault that other time, and I never hit you for that."

"So we're even."

She gave him a look of disgust. "Oh, hardly."

Kovac looked from one to the other and back and forth. The girl-he put her around twenty-two-was a stylized character from a postmodern noir film. Jet-black hair cut in a sleek bob that played up the angles of her face. Dark purple lipstick on Kewpie-doll lips contrasted sharply with the perfect milk white of her skin.

She shrugged out of her heavy trench coat and hung it on a hook at the end of the booth. Bright-colored tattoos peeked out of the V-neck of her sweater. A green-inked vine with a purple morning glory flower crept up one side of her neck. A tiny steel barbell pierced the severe arch of one eyebrow. A matching steel ring went like a fish hook through her plump lower lip.

There was a part of Kovac that wanted to get up and leave this circus sideshow now. He was exhausted and out of what little patience he ever had. He had already dealt with two reporters over the phone, carefully doling out the information he wanted to let go of. Just enough detail, just enough insinuation that their Jane Doe's murder might be tied to others. No, they couldn't quote him. No, he didn't have a name for the victim. And now he had to hope they didn't f.u.c.k it up or f.u.c.k him over.

Now this: a Tippen family reunion.

"Oh, well," Tippen said. "I have something to look forward to."

"Maiming, for instance," the girl said.

Tippen was unconcerned with the threat. "Sonya, this is my colleague Sergeant Sam Kovac. Sam, my niece, Sonya Porter, activist, feminist, anarchist, and freelance journalist."

The girl narrowed her eyes at Kovac as she slid into the booth. "Do you have a problem with any of that?"

"I don't like journalists," he said. "The rest of it is none of my business."

"That's fair enough," she said. "I don't like cops."

"Wow, this is gonna work out for everyone," Kovac said sarcastically.

A waitress p.i.s.sed off to be working New Year's came over and asked if they wanted anything. The girl ordered a shot and a beer. Kovac ordered his usual burger and fries, a heart attack on a plate. Liska usually ate half of his fries, which he figured took the damage down to a minor stroke.

They had chosen Patrick's for the meeting-and for the greasy food. An Irish-named bar owned by Swedes that catered to cops. Strategically located halfway between the police department and the sheriff's office, the pub was open 365 days a year from lunch 'til the last possible moment allowed by the city-and sometimes later, depending on circ.u.mstance.

It was a place for meals, camaraderie, and the drowning of sorrows and stress for people not understood by civilian society. Even on a holiday the place was busy with cops coming off their shift, dogwatch uniforms grabbing dinner before heading out, and the retired and otherwise disenfranchised hanging out because they had nowhere else to go. College football was playing on the big-screen TVs above the bar and pool tables.

"Who do you freelance for?" Kovac asked.

"Whoever. That would be the definition of 'freelance,' wouldn't it?"

"I can do without the att.i.tude."

She shrugged. "I can do without being here. You need me. I don't need you."

Kovac looked at Tippen. "And I figured you for the least charming member of your family."

"Oh, I'm a peach," Tippen said.

"This is about the zombie, right?" the girl said.