Vertical Coffin

Chapter 19

Don't take it so hard," Jo Brickhouse said. She had just repacked her badge and was leaning her muscled forearms on the table. "Besides, from what I've seen so far, you could use the help."

"I don't want any help. At least, not from you."

"Scully, we live in a democracy. Tony, Bill, and I say yes. You say no. This was voted on. Three against one. You lose. Get over it."

"That's not a vote, that's three coyotes and a poodle deciding on what to have for dinner."

I put a dollar down for my coffee, then got up and headed out of the restaurant. I didn't see her green Suburban parked in the lot, so I turned and looked through Denny's front window. She was still inside buying something at the counter. I got into my Acura feeling completely sandbagged. I'm generally not this damn gullible. I guess my feelings were hurt, or my pride-something.

She came through the swinging door of Denny's, opened my passenger side, and slid in carrying a caffe latte to go.

"Take your own car. I'm not a taxi service," I snapped.

"I was dropped. Don't have wheels. That SUV was a department plain-wrap. Vice needed it back, so I'm with you. You can drop me at the L. A. substation at EOW."

She closed the door, slamming it harder than I like, then started to pour about six packets of Equal into her latte. "Okay, Scully, we need to get something straight before we partner up. I have some issues."

"I'll bet lying isn't gonna be one of them."

"I'm gay. I don't sleep with guys, and you're not the priceless piece of ass that's gonna change that, so put your fantasies away, stay on your side of the car, and we'll do fine."

"Then a blow job's out of the question?"

"You can stow that sarcastic bullshit. I've been in law enforcement for over ten years. I've learned it works a whole lot better if I get this out of the way, up front. I pack a nine-millimeter Glock with thirteen in the clip. I'm a range-qualified sharpshooter and I have two black belts, one in karate, one in tae kwon do. Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I'm a pussy. I don't want to be your backup. We can take turns on cover, or flip for it, whatever. But I'm not your CHCO."

"My what?"

"Coat-holder and communications officer."

"In case you're interested, you're coming off like a complete asshole."

"I can be that, too. But deal straight and you get the best. Pull any horseshit, and you can go ahead and bring it on down, frog-boy, 'cause I won't put up with it." Then she shot me that dazzling smile and took a sip of latte. "These are good. Sure you don't want one?"

I put the car in reverse and backed out a little too fast, but she was really pissing me off. Male pride. I mean, I'm happily married, but come on-you shouldn't knock what you haven't tried. I turned onto Lankershim and drove toward the sheriff's forensic lab.

Jo Brickhouse was looking around the front seat and up on the dash. "Where's your murder book on Greenridge?" she asked. "You didn't give those goat-fucks from ATF your notes, did you?"

"No murder book."

"You're the primary on a homicide and you don't keep a murder book?" She sounded stunned.

"Yeah, I would've been keeping a murder book, but I was pulled off the case before I had time to get most of my evidence back from your slow-as-shit crime lab."

"You don't have to take that tone, Scully. I wasn't criticizing. I just like to keep everything written down: keep a good event timeline, evidence records, crime scene photos, background. I'll get one going. For now, we can use my notes." She pulled out her spiral pad.

"But you're not going to be my secretary, I bet."

"Sure, I've got no problem pushing some pencil lead. But let's do it right." She opened her notebook and tore out three pages. "This lecture on latent prints was simply fascinating. You want it, or can it go in the file?"

"I know a better place you can stick it."

"Temper, temper," she said, and wadded up the papers and dropped them in the back seat.

We drove in silence for six blocks. I snuck another look at her. There was a lot of animal magnetism there. In retrospect, I could see why she needed to get her personal proclivities on the line up front. She'd undoubtedly had to deal with her share of squad-car Romeos. I tried to settle down, make the best of it. Finally she finished her coffee, slurping the last drop, then she just pitched the damn cup into the back seat with the three wadded-up sheets of notebook paper.

"This is not a department car. I'd appreciate it if you didn't throw your litter in the back."

"Sorry."

She hitched herself around and leaned over the seat. She was in a miniskirt, and for a minute she was poking a well-developed ass up in the air, nearly mooning the next car over. The driver did a double take. For my part, I almost hit a taxi. She sat back, put the cup on the seat between us, and stuffed my dumb-ass fingerprint lecture in her purse.

"Sorry about the short skirt. I was doing field interviews today. Sometimes it helps to show a little leg. Tomorrow I'll be in class-C stuff."

"Whatever that is."

"Sheriff's department dress code for plain clothes dicks. Excuse the expression."

We drove in silence for another minute or two. "So, Scully," she finally said. "Where the hell are we going?"

"Bill Messenger took our bullet, that three-oh-eight casing, out to your forensics lab for a print scan and tool marks. I figure, since you pack a star you can get the techs out there to give us a sneak peek."

"This is probably good thinking," she said, then settled back in her seat.

But to be truthful, even the way she said that was pissing me off-like she was validating a surprising idea from a total blockhead. Then she hitched sideways on the seat, snapping her short skirt down. All her movements were athletic and a little too big. She was a muscular girl who took up slightly more space than I was accustomed to.

"So, I had time to check you out before Messenger sent me to meet you," she said. "You're married to your division commander. I've seen her on the news and once at a cross-training day for detectives, out at our SWAT range at Spring Ranch. Damn fine package."

I looked over, not sure what to make of that. Finally I nodded and said, "I think so."

"Look, Shane, I'll give you the keys to the kingdom here, the Rosetta Stone for our partnership."

I waited. What do you say to shit like that?

"I have no hidden agendas, no back-channel dog wash. Like Popeye, T yam what I yam.'" Then she smiled. "So don't get your shorts in a bunch just because I want to lay out some ground rules. You got any stuff you want out there, let it fly."

I didn't have to ask my friends at the sheriff's what Sergeant Brickhouse's department nickname was.

Had to be Brick Shithouse.

I found out later I was right.