Bullets and Bourbon (23/?): Encounters
Category: The Closer
Pairing: Brenda/Sharon
Rating: M
Chapter Twenty-Three: Encounters (or That One Where Sharon Thinks a Lot, and Then Talks to Some People)
Brenda woke to the unmistakable vibrating of a cell phone that she knew had to be Sharon's, but instantly recognized that the other woman's body was still heavy with sleep. Dark eyes blinked open, but otherwise the blonde remained carefully motionless, not wanting to risk disturbing her companion by so much as the twitch of a muscle.
Sharon had thrown the covers back from her side of the bed but her body was still unnaturally warm, the heat radiating out and into Brenda at every point of contact. Unsurprisingly Sharon had been restless and fitful during the night as she slept off the foreign substances coursing through her veins; she was going to feel like hell today. In sleep, though, her brow was smooth, her breathing even, and Brenda also breathed slowly and deeply, enjoying the possessive weight of the brunette's right leg hooked over her own, her arm draped over Brenda's mid-section.
Sharon's phone fell silent and Brenda relaxed. She would have to get up and get ready for work before too long - it was Saturday, but you didn't take the weekend off when you had two dead bodies and a passel of potential suspects to track down - but she wanted to let the captain sleep as long as possible. For selfish reasons, she acknowledged: asleep, Sharon was warm and open, her body having gravitated toward Brenda's and sought the physical closeness she was so determined to push away with both hands while she was awake and alert. Brenda wanted to preserve this intimacy, even as she felt like she was somehow stealing it. She dreaded the inevitable moment when Sharon would wake up and her body would stiffen as she pulled away, drawing back into herself.
Awful, horrible, impossible woman - what was Brenda going to do with her?
Brenda more than half expected Sharon's phone to start vibrating again, but the source of the sound she heard some twenty minutes later was something else entirely. Frowning, Brenda eased out from under Sharon as stealthily as she could, paused to pull on her yoga pants, and padded down the hall to the front door to see who was so importunately ringing the bell.
The visitor was so unexpected that Brenda Leigh dropped her poker face, managing to produce only a surprised "Hey there."
Claire Raydor smiled slightly, a smile eerily similar to her mother's, and the tall young man standing a few paces behind her folded his arms and looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"Hey there, Brenda Leigh," the young woman returned in the faintly mocking tone that was Sharon all over, and cocked her head. "Is my mom here?"
The deputy chief reminded herself that she was a grown-ass woman, not a naughty child, and that she hadn't been caught doing anything wrong. She stood a little straighter and smiled at Claire before deliberately widening the circle to include the boy who had to be her brother. "She sure is, and she's fine. You know about what happened last night? You must've been worried sick about your mama."
"I drove down to surprise her. I was the one who got the surprise," Claire acknowledged.
"So she called me," the young man finally spoke up. "When I told her Mom called me last night and sounded fine, Claire announced that we should look for her here. So -"
"You must be Jonathan. Come on in, both of you. We'll have some coffee and wake your mama up, and you can see for yourselves." Brenda shooed them into the house in her best impression of her own mama, glad that one of the few household tasks she could be relied upon to remember was setting the timer on her coffee maker.
She left the Raydor offspring in the kitchen with oversized mugs and all the coffee accoutrements, and scurried back to the bedroom, juggling another full mug - with just a dollop of milk, the way Sharon liked it - and a large bottle of water.
"Sharon?"
The form that was now back under the covers shifted. "I brought you coffee and some water, and let me get you some aspirin. Just a sec."
The other woman was sitting up cautiously when Brenda returned with the white capsules, cradling the steaming mug. She accepted the medicine with a little nod that immediately made her wince; and after she had swallowed them down with a gulp of water and sipped her coffee, she dutifully began, "Brenda, last night -"
"Your kids are here," the younger woman interrupted flatly, uninterested in what Sharon had to say. "Well, two of 'em, anyway."
"Shit."
"They're worried, of course. While you take a shower and get dressed, I'll keep them entertained."
"I shouldn't be -"
"Shower, Sharon," Brenda put in abruptly, relishing her ability to boss the hung-over captain, and spun on her bare heel.
Sharon performed her morning ablutions in record time, for which Brenda was grateful, because it was awkward to sit here and ask Jonathan questions about medical school while Claire looked on with a knowing glint in her cat-like eyes. When the older woman appeared in the kitchen in the jeans and long-sleeved Henley Brenda had packed for her, with her wet hair neatly combed behind her shoulders, she was pale and her mouth was drawn, but otherwise Brenda thought she looked pretty much okay.
Apparently Sharon's daughter disagreed. "Jesus, Mom, what did you do last night?" She darted a glance between the two women. "Or don't I want to know?" she appended slyly.
"Possibly I was a bit upset after our family home became the scene of a drive-by shooting," Sharon coolly snarked back. "Thank you for the coffee, Brenda. Let's go, kids. Chief Johnson has to get ready for work."
Brenda glanced at the clock and realized that Sharon was right. In fact, she was going to be late. She wondered if Will would give her overtime for wrangling the once and future head of FID all night long, but somehow she thought not.
She snagged Sharon's elbow as the brunette followed Claire and Jonathan down the porch steps. "We need to talk," she said in a low voice.
"Not now," Sharon muttered through clenched teeth, and Brenda rolled her eyes.
"Of course not now. I'll call you later, after work."
Sharon was non-verbal until Claire stopped at a drive-thru and procured more coffee for all three of them.
"How much did you drink last night?" Jonathan asked from the back seat of the Jeep with his peculiar politeness, as if afraid of offending his mother, and Sharon sighed. It was overcast, but she'd still sell part of whatever was left of her soul for a giant pair of sunglasses.
"Too much. Let's leave it at that."
The captain pretended she didn't see her children exchanging loaded looks via the rear-view mirror. More pressing matters, like keeping the contents of her stomach inside her stomach, required her immediate attention.
"Are you going to tell us what's going on?"
"All the glass will be replaced today, and the guard's still posted at the house, but I don't think -"
"Yeah, not what I meant. We'll get back to why someone's shooting at you, since you're being so evasive. What's going on with Brenda? Did you break up with her?"
"Wait, what?" Jonathon quickly lowered his coffee cup and raised his eyebrows. "You're dating a superior officer? Go, Mom."
Claire looked incredulously from her brother to her mother and back. "Do you two not talk?"
"We talk," Jonathan retorted defensively. "But I think our conversations are probably different from yours."
"We're not dating," Sharon replied flatly, sipping her own coffee and, as her head throbbed viciously, trying to remember why she and David had decided to procreate. She would not throw up in her daughter's vehicle.
"Right, of course not. You're just sleeping with her."
Jonathan looked confused. "Wait, I thought she was married to that FBI guy." When neither Sharon nor Claire contradicted him, his expression lodged somewhere between appalled and impressed. "Jesus, Mom."
"They're separated," Sharon put in, her lips barely moving.
"So what's the problem?" Claire demanded. Jonathan gaped, and Sharon whipped her head around to stare out the window at the passing traffic and immediately regretted it as the world spun with her.
"I'm not having this conversation with you - either of you."
"Could we maybe talk about the whole drive-by shooting thing?" Jonathan interjected rather pointedly, and Sharon sighed heavily.
"Later, son," she answered, the weight of exhaustion settling heavily across her back. "We'll discuss all of it later, after I've slept for about a century."
"Seriously, Mom, what were you and Bren -" Claire began again, and her brother quietly cut her off with a low "Claire. Not now." She had certainly inherited all of Sharon's tenacity.
There was still a patrol car parked in Sharon's driveway, this one containing a different but equally young officer, and the house had been transformed from war zone to construction zone, which was, at least, a step in the right direction. Sharon steeled herself, her stomach roiling, and Jonathan's warm palm came to rest on her shoulder.
"Look, Mom, I'll talk to them and find out what the deal is. You just go lay down. Do you need anything?"
Sharon's response was a meager smile. She felt completely and utterly pathetic, and was so very glad that Claire and Jonathan were there to witness it.
She was buried beneath the bed covers, cursing her own stupidity and praying for a quick demise, when she heard the door open and Claire's sneakers squeaking on the wooden floor.
"Mom?"
Sharon murmured in acknowledgment, which was apparently the wrong thing to do because her daughter flopped down on the foot of the bed and Sharon's body tightened in a burst of agony.
"I just do not understand you." Claire rocked on her haunches, jostling the mattress again, and Sharon swallowed a wave of nausea. "You were willing to have an affair with her - you, Ms. Betsy-By-the-Book - and now that she's left her husband for you, you don't want anything to do with her?"
"You don't understand, honey."
"No, I don't, which is what I just said," Claire agreed bluntly. "Talk about a dick move. If Rachel broke up with Matt -"
"What if Matt broke up with Rachel because he found out the two of you slept together, and then Rachel suddenly decided you and she would make a great couple?" Sharon snapped, fed up with her daughter's well-intentioned needling. "Do you think you'd still be so eager to rent the U-Haul and sign up for the lifetime membership?"
"Oh." Claire stood up and awkwardly rocked back on her heels. "I didn't know."
"That's because it's none of your damn business," Sharon replied coolly, burrowing under the comforter. She was fairly certain none of this was in the Good Parenting Handbook; but she didn't think it had a section on how to tell your adult children to butt out of the aftermath of your illicit home-wrecking affair. Maybe she'd write a letter to the editors and suggest an addition to the revised version.
Claire glared at her as she crossed the room. "Of course it is. I'll go for now, but you're my mother, and left to your own devices, clearly you're just going to fuck it up."
Sharon couldn't muster the strength to offer a response. Her daughter hesitated, one hand braced on the doorjamb, and looked over her shoulder at the tangle of covers on the bed, the mass interrupted by the familiar contours of Sharon's body and the long slash of her dark hair.
"You're in love with her," Claire said warily, her tone slightly brittle. "You know that, right?"
The pause was a long one, and when Sharon finally spoke her voice was muffled against the pillow. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I know."
2.
The house was blessedly quiet, blessedly empty. Sharon walked slowly into the living room, eyes peeled for the sparkle of the tiniest glass shard against the honey-colored wood, but Claire and Jonathan had done an impressive job cleaning up. The captain turned her head and looked toward the street, which was once again separated from where she stood by reassuringly thick window panes. The workmen had been almost astoundingly efficient - so in this matter, at least, Sharon Raydor was still being treated like one of the LAPD's own.
The chair and the sofa - she could have them reupholstered, she supposed. Was there someone in the greater Los Angeles area who specialized in the disguising of bullet holes in furniture? It sounded far-fetched enough to be possible.
Sharon sighed. Fuck it, she thought. She'd just replace them. Something dark brown, maybe, or even crimson.
She flopped down unceremoniously on her ravaged sofa, the fingers of her left hand distractedly picking at one of the rents in the fabric. Her eyes slowly roved over the room in which she spent most of her leisure time. It felt different, unfamiliar, estranged. There was only so much that could be accomplished with brooms and dustpans and gleaming new glass. It looked neater, tidier than it had; but Sharon suspected that even with new furniture, the memory of this violent, devastating event ripping through her own little personal sanctuary wouldn't be effaced.
As relieved as she was that Jonathan had taken Claire out for dinner and had even made noises about going to a movie afterward, Sharon realized that her ears were straining for the slightest sound that would betray the presence of another person in the house.
Not her adult kids, she admitted to herself, but Brenda.
The captain scowled into the deepening twilight. It was ridiculous. The woman had only been there for two weeks, and Sharon had known she'd leave eventually. Why had she let herself go and get so used to her presence?
Probably for the same reason she'd spent twenty years in Force Investigation, Sharon reflected, her lips curling in self-deprecation. She was a masochist, a glutton for punishment.
On most days, Sharon Raydor would have offered a far different explanation of her conduct, particularly her professional conduct, but today was not most days. Thanks to her absurd, weak over-indulgence the night before she felt fairly miserable physically, even after drinking a gallon of water and eating enough carbohydrates to choke the average horse, and her mental state was no better.
She chuckled dryly. Her mental state, she acknowledged, was worse. It resembled this room, tidy enough on the surface, but subject to the odd gaping hole with its stuffing pouring out.
Her behavior the night before had been appalling. As humiliating as it was today to think that Brenda had found her in that state, she also knew that she'd been incredibly lucky that it had been Brenda and not anyone else. Imagine if another member of the LAPD had found the head of FID, very publicly on suspension pending investigation of her conduct, drunk and stoned.
"Stupid," Sharon said aloud, disgusted with herself, with her emotions and her lack of purpose and her self-destruction. "Stupid, stupid, stupid woman!"
She closed her eyes, trying to remember exactly what she'd done after Brenda had arrived, and shuddered. She was a level-headed, responsible middle-aged woman, not some fifteen-year-old drowning Ophelia. Smoking weed and going on a mini-bender - was it because she'd eschewed that rebellious phase most adolescents experienced? Was it the onset of dementia? Perhaps she and her mother could be roommates, she thought bitterly, and snorted to herself. The women of the Raydor family could have adjacent beds at the nursing home.
Having your home turned into the scene of a violent crime was something that, thankfully, most people never had to experience. Even so, Sharon's reaction had been completely unlike her, completely inappropriate. She queasily suspected that she'd done a great deal of gazing at Brenda Leigh Johnson like a lovesick calf, and what was it she'd ended up saying to the woman? That she needed the blonde there to be able to sleep?
The captain heard herself groan, the sound unexpected in the silence. She'd made a complete fool of herself. Just a week ago she'd made her very painful but very necessary stand, ending this ill-conceived relationship with the deputy chief, and at the first sign of trouble she'd crawled into the woman's bed like a frightened child.
And that was how she'd felt, really. She'd wanted comfort. She'd wanted to be held. She'd wanted someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay, rather than being the one soothing and shushing everyone else's fears of the things that go bump in the night.
She was painfully sober now, and all too aware that life's little narratives seldom had happy endings. Her head throbbed viciously, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as her pride. Again her first instinct was to blame Brenda for causing her to behave like this, to lose her center of gravity and go hurtling off into some shadowy void that was foreign territory to logical, analytical Sharon; but again she knew that would be utterly unfair. Perhaps Brenda had been the catalyst, but none of this was her fault, not really.
It wasn't Brenda's fault that someone had tried to murder Sharon less than twenty-four hours earlier.
It wasn't Brenda's fault that her career was a worse shambles than her bullet-riddled living room, or that she felt completely purposeless and directionless without a reason to get up in the morning.
It wasn't Brenda's fault that Sharon had willingly broken what she considered a basic moral code, and that her self-respect had taken a serious hit as a result.
It wasn't Brenda's fault that Sharon could see herself crumbling before her children's eyes and feel Claire's hostility growing, as if perhaps both her daughters were destined to hold their mother in equally low esteem.
It was Brenda's fault, though, that the relatively solitary existence the captain had relished for the last decade now felt so bleak, so barren.
The truth was that Brenda Leigh Johnson had somehow opened Sharon up, revealing needs and desires that, once discovered, refused to be shoved back into their locked cupboard and hidden away in some seldom-visited corner of Sharon's consciousness. She wanted companionship and affection, squabbling over who controlled the remote control or what to have for dinner, sex and morning breath and laughter and fighting and someone to curl up with under a blanket when the evenings turned chilly.
Sharon acknowledged that she probably wouldn't have trouble meeting someone, if she really wanted to. She could find a partner to share dinners and Sunday afternoon drives up the coast and deep glasses of red wine. The problem, of course, was that she didn't want someone; she wanted a spindly, drawling, conniving deputy chief who always gave tit for tat and was guaranteed to raise her blood pressure.
Her phone vibrated where she'd dropped it on the coffee table, and the impatient shudder of the little device crawled up its owner's spine, seeming to press against her nerves. Brenda was calling. Of course Brenda was calling, since before, when Sharon had desperately hoped to hear from her, she had reneged, and now that the older woman couldn't bring herself to answer, she was scrupulously keeping her promise.
Guilt pricked at Sharon's pores. At the very least she owed Brenda her thanks. But she felt too raw to talk to her now, too gloomy and exposed. Too out of control.
Granted, lounging on the sofa and vaguely watching endless episodes of Midsomer Murders - a police procedural that was somehow comforting due to its laughable, programmatic absurdity and the rate at which bodies piled up in an otherwise idyllic English backwater - would probably not be recognized by most people as being "out of control," but Sharon knew that was what it was. If the way Claire arched one eyebrow when she returned home, raking her gaze over her mother as she intoned, "Oh, is this what we're doing now?" could be taken as a guide, her daughter also recognized her mother's state for what it was, even having never seen it before.
When villagers started dropping dead courtesy of the poisonous venom of a rare Ecuadorian frog (no doubt a dime a dozen in bucolic southeastern England), Sharon sat up and clicked off the television, as disgusted with herself as with Midsomer County's indefatigable murderers.
"What am I doing?" she demanded aloud.
She was a mess. She, Sharon Raydor, had spent most of the day in her pajamas. Her hair was unbrushed. So were her teeth, for that matter. Her skin felt unpleasantly dry, tight. She knew she looked like unholy hell.
Her house was a mess.
Her life was a mess. And sitting here on the goddamn sofa watching television and feeling sorry for herself was about as useful as a paper umbrella in a torrential downpour.
She curled her lip in self-disgust. She needed to get a grip, get her center of gravity back.
On some level, she acknowledged, she must have believed that would magically happen once she got Brenda out of her personal space, although that wasn't the way she would have expressed it. She would have said something about giving the healing process the chance to begin, most likely, if she'd said anything at all.
She should have known better. Removing the younger blonde woman hadn't shored up Sharon's defenses; it had guaranteed their spectacular collapse. Her eyelids drooped shut. What a horrifying thought. Brenda Leigh Johnson had been the mortar holding this whole mess together.
Sharon knew she would have to deal with this situation with Brenda.
Just not tonight.
She couldn't answer the question of whether Brenda Leigh was the root cause or a symptom of the chaos that reigned in her normally orderly world; but she knew she couldn't contend with the younger woman until she'd made sense of all the rest. Sharon had been lying down for too long.
The doorbell rang. If she'd had the energy, the captain would have sworn. Instead she grunted. What hideous new surprise awaited her? she wondered. It would be just like Brenda to drive over here in a fit of pique because Sharon was refusing to take her calls, but Sharon felt as if her body was made of lead at just the thought of having to confront the younger woman and her irrepressible, stubborn energy tonight. She felt too raw, too battered by her own doubts.
Claire came thumping down the stairs. "Don't get up," she called facetiously, "I've got it."
Sharon sighed. Seconds ticked by as she awaited the announcement of Brenda Leigh's presence, but her ears pricked up as she heard a distinctly masculine rumble in dialog with her daughter.
She had straightened her posture instinctively by the time she heard dual sets of footsteps in her entryway and Claire's hesitant, "Mom? It's, ah, Commander Taylor?"
There was nothing Sharon could do about her unkempt hair and makeup-free skin or the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra beneath her shirt. But by the time she turned to face the unwelcome guest, all traces of dismay had been wiped from her features and she wore a reasonable facsimile of her game face. "Commander," she said dryly, unsmiling, "how unexpected."
"Hello, Sharon." When she made no move to get up, he sat without asking in the same chair he'd occupied once before. "I wasn't on duty last night and today has been a busy one, but I wanted to come by and see how you are after this… unpleasantness." He looked around the ravaged room and then expectantly back at her.
"I'm sure that's very kind of you, but I'm fine. A few coats of paint, a little fabric, and everything will be good as new." She spoke smoothly, keeping a weather eye on Taylor. Her mind clicked rapidly away. What the hell did the man want? He hadn't come over here to inquire politely as to the state of her health. She watched him shift in the chair, stretching one leg out in front of him.
"Major Crimes is still looking for the shooter."
She knew that, of course, and responded only with a tilt of her head.
He didn't speak again for a long moment, during which Sharon listened to the clock tick. He seemed almost to be waiting for something, but what? If he expected her to offer him a drink, he was going to be sorely disappointed.
When he finally did speak, it felt abrupt, sudden. "All alone tonight, captain? No company?"
Her skin prickled, a frisson of unease tingling down her spine. "My daughter is here - but you already know that. I'd hardly call her company."
"Then you're not expecting Chief Johnson?"
Sharon inclined her head, appraising the man. "Should I be?"
Taylor's eyes narrowed slightly, crinkling at the corners, and then he smiled that smarmy smile she particularly hated. "I keep my ear to the ground, captain. I find it can be very… helpful in my position. Word is the chief's been staying here with you because she and Agent Howard are having some - difficulties."
The captain regarded the commander without blinking, but her pulse was picking up unpleasantly. The gall of this man, to show up at her home - for a second time - with his old-maid gossip. But she didn't have the luxury of indulging her righteous indignation. Certainly Taylor was fishing - but for what, exactly? Did he have suspicions about the nature of the relationship she'd been having with Brenda? Did he know? Had someone said something, seen something?
Sharon reached up and smoothed her hair, using the simple gesture to steel herself. She'd been out of FID long enough for her carefully honed, enforced calm to get a little rusty, and she needed it now. She offered her own small, humorless smile. "As you can see, she isn't here."
Taylor placed his hands on his splayed knees, and Sharon felt her nostrils flair. Why did some men sit like that, as if they just assumed everyone wanted a closer look at their genitals? She'd have to have that chair recovered - and it hadn't been sprayed by bullets.
"Why the curiosity about the chief, commander? Surely you saw her at work today." Instantly Sharon realized she shouldn't have said that. It was Saturday, and she would have had no reason to assume Major Crimes was working a case. Her irritation spiked.
"I'm just trying to determine whether anyone else had reason to expect Deputy Chief Johnson to be here last night at the time of the shooting."
"Other than you?" He blinked, and she elaborated, "You said anyone else. Did you expect her to be here?"
The commander raised his eyebrows. "As I understand it, the chief was at work last night," he returned, which, of course, wasn't an answer to her question, and then he stood. How interesting. Suddenly he was in a hurry to leave. "Thank you for your time, captain."
The brunette blinked, her lips narrowing as she instinctively leapt to her feet and trailed the man toward her front door. "What about my OIS?" she demanded, her tone just this side of overtly hostile. "You must have had time to complete your investigation. It's December. I've been suspended for over two months."
Taylor slipped his hands into his pockets and jingled his change. "Captain, you may as well hear it from me: my investigation has turned up some pressing concerns about the… structural integrity not only of FID, but of all of Internal Affairs. The investigation really isn't just about your conduct - which I have no doubt was both lawful and necessary - any more. You'll be hearing from my office soon."
Sharon stood there, leaning in the doorway, until she'd watched Russell Taylor get into his car and drive away. Her anger roiled and bubbled just below the surface, but more worryingly, a deep sense of unease had taken up residence in her gut.
That man was a snake, always looking out for his own interests and willing to bite anyone who got in his way. Sharon had known that for years. She'd dealt politely, carefully with him, reasoning that it was best not to bait a venomous reptile, so they'd had little in the way of overt conflict. But make no mistake, she knew better than to trust him.
"Structural integrity," he'd said, as if IA were a bridge. She knew what that meant. It meant he was planning to take her division away from her. She didn't know precisely how, but he'd almost told her as much by assuring her that she'd be cleared of all charges, just not yet. Not until he had time to finish doing… whatever he was doing. That had been a false step on his part.
Just what was he doing? And how did it concern Brenda?
The commander had apparently expected Brenda to be at Sharon's house last night. Sharon didn't like that. She didn't like that at all. Her eyes narrowed against the darkness, as if that would help her to see the man's motives.
In all her years in IA, Sharon had been the object of hostility, intimidation, even death threats. But no one had ever taken the rather excessive, cinematic step of shooting up her house until Brenda Leigh Johnson had come to stay.
She felt that frisson again. No, she didn't like this at all. The leak, the mugging, the robbery, and now this - someone had been trying to get rid of a certain blonde deputy chief for months. If presented with enough opportunities, that person was bound to succeed.
And Sharon wasn't around to prevent those opportunities. She was sitting on her sofa, watching murder mysteries, drinking too much, and feeling sorry for herself. She snorted in disgust. No more, she promised herself. No more.
"Mom?" Claire called from behind her, her voice coming from the direction of the kitchen. "Can you come here? I was trying to bag up the rest of the trash with the broken glass and everything, but I've managed to make an even bigger mess. I'm afraid it's a two-person job."
"All right, honey." Sharon stepped inside, firmly closing the door behind her as if shutting out all traces of the commander's presence. "Don't worry, we'll clean it up."
After tonight, the captain knew she had more than one mess to clean up, and she wouldn't put it off for a minute longer than she had to. It was time for her to be back where she belonged, professionally and personally. She stopped at the utility closet, extracting a broom (which she almost never used for riding, only sweeping) and an over-sized dustpan. "Don't cut yourself," she called in warning, because once you were a mother, you were always a mother, even when your kids grew up and presumably knew better than to grab jagged glass shards with their bare hands.
The other messes would require more than a broom and dustpan, but as the head of the Force Investigation Division, the captain was no stranger to the cleaning up of messes - particularly messy messes. It was, she decided, well past time for her to focus her unique skill set on a few little janitorial projects of her own.
3.
When Brenda stepped out into the humid, misty morning, the last thing she expected - or wanted, she reminded herself - to see was a sweaty Sharon Raydor lounging on the hood of her car and sipping coffee from a paper cup. Dark eyes narrowed. "It's extremely presumptuous of you just to show up here," she parroted, hostile.
The brunette shrugged, but Brenda knew she wasn't as coolly insouciant as she would've appeared to anyone else. "I did phone. Repeatedly."
She had - four times on Sunday - which, truth be told, had given the deputy chief no small amount of satisfaction each time she'd pressed the "ignore call" button. "I don't particularly feel like talkin' to you."
"Likewise, I'm sure."
"And yet you just keep on callin', and now here you are," Brenda pointed out, marching over to the driver's door. "Which is odd, since you obviously didn't want to talk to me at any point during the past week. And if you've left a dent in my car, I'll be sendin' you a bill for havin' it hammered out."
"Naturally." Sharon slid to her sneaker-clad feet, revealing the pristine surface of the hood. Brenda thought she looked tired - not the kind of tired you got from running, but the kind of tired you got from not sleeping. Her eyes were faintly shadowed, her skin pale. "As enjoyable as this exchange is, I didn't come over here to discuss anything personal."
Brenda faltered as she inserted the key into the lock. "Oh no?"
"Only insofar as having someone try to kill you is personal."
The blonde's eyes flew to Sharon's. "Excuse me?"
Sharon instinctively stepped into Brenda's space, her voice dropping. "Who did you tell that you were staying at my house, Brenda? Did you tell your team? Chief Pope? Commander Taylor?" Sharon's eyes widened slightly, communicating her intensity. "It hasn't occurred to you that the timing of this was a little too coincidental, coming on the heels of the break-in here and the mugging?"
The deputy chief reeled back as if the older woman had slapped her and then recovered herself. "I'm surprised at you, captain," she retorted, her sharp jaw tightening. "I don't know who your source is, but your information's outta date. We've confirmed the identity of the shooter. He wasn't after me."
Dark eyebrows rose. "How do you know?" Sharon demanded urgently, her voice lowering still further.
Brenda's eyes glinted. "You remember Officer Jason Donovan?"
"Jason Don -?" Sharon blinked. "Of course. He was an undercover cop on the drug squad, which gave him an excellent cover for the heroin ring he was running. He did a deal with the DA, went away for -"
"Five years. Yeah." Despite herself, Brenda felt a twinge of sympathy for the other woman. "Well, he's out now. Time off for good behavior."
"Oh." Sharon blinked again, frowning.
"So see, instead of me, you ought to be worryin' about yourself. Not that I'm not touched by your concern." Brenda didn't sound as flippant as she'd intended. She was touched that Sharon cared about her - she was just mad as hell that she didn't care enough to want to be with her.
"Listen, we're gonna get him. Just be careful, okay?"
Sharon nodded, frowning even more intensely.
"How did you get here, anyway? Did you run?" The captain nodded again. "That must be, what -?"
"Far enough." Sharon shrugged. "I have plenty of time."
"I'll give you a ride home. You shouldn't be out runnin' by yourself if -"
"No," Sharon interrupted firmly. "If he really wants me dead, he'll find a way." She hesitated, as if considering saying more, but then just nodded again, definitively.
Brenda winced slightly. Sharon was right, but it wasn't what the deputy chief wanted to hear. She might want to kill Sharon herself, but she didn't want anyone else to have the satisfaction. "We'll get you a -"
"No. No protective detail. Brenda -"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Brenda Leigh -"
"If you're sure, I need to get to work."
Sharon stepped back, something flickering and then dying out behind her eyes. "I'm sure," she insisted, folding her arms.
"Okay. Well, uh - take care of yourself. Be careful."
"Yes, chief. You too."
Brenda didn't have to look in her rearview mirror to know that Sharon was still standing in her driveway, motionless, watching her until she drove out of sight.
4.
"You look like a man who could use a drink. Let me buy you one."
Sergeant Tim Elliott took in the trenchcoat-covered figure beside him on a stool at Malloy's polished mahogany bar and broke into a huge smile. "Sharon!" he exclaimed, and then flushed. He'd never dared utter his boss's first name before. "Uh, Captain Raydor, ma'am. Good to see you. I wasn't sure you were going to make it."
"Sharon will do for now, Tim. I apologize for being late, and I was serious about the drink." She inclined her head toward his beer. "Another?" At his nod, she addressed the bartender: "Brooklyn and an Eagle Rare. Make it a double. Neat."
Elliott waited until their drinks had been placed before them, a little of his beer sloshing over the side of the glass and making a small puddle on the bar. Raydor cast it a disapproving glance.
"I was going to call you about Donovan, but Lieutenant Flynn said Chief Johnson -"
Sharon tossed back a third of her drink and held up her hand. "Yeah, I know all about Donovan. Hardly a criminal mastermind, but a terrific marksman."
Elliott darkly contemplated the amber liquid for several seconds before beginning, "Are you suggesting he missed on purpose?"
"He wasn't trying to kill me or anyone else, Sergeant. Scare, maybe. But I don't scare easily."
Elliott considered and then smiled. "No, you don't. When are you coming back, boss?"
"Soon, Sergeant." Sharon sipped her drink. "Soon."
"We need you. And I don't have to tell you that no one in the division wants to work for Commander Taylor."
"I was right, then."
"It definitely looks that way. Scuttlebutt about reorganization is all over the department."
Sharon's lips pressed vehemently together and she muttered something that sounded a lot like "bastard." She permitted herself a small sip of her drink before saying, in her usual clear, low tone, "It's the police, not a popularity contest."
"I'll keep my ear to the ground, captain."
Sharon's lips quirked at the same expression the commander had used. Where would the LAPD be without its fecund interoffice grapevine? She nodded and tossed back the remains of her drink. "I'd appreciate that, Tim. Especially if you hear anything else about Donovan." A small but genuine smile curved her lips as she placed a few bills on the bar and quickly rebuttoned her coat. Maybe no one else would believe it, but Raydor was aware that her own people liked her; they knew she was tough but fair. She missed her work; she missed her team. She sure as hell wasn't going to let Russell Taylor take either of them away from her. "Enjoy your evening, Sergeant."
"You too, captain."
She nodded. "I plan to."
5.
"Hey, Mom."
"Hi, honey." Sharon stretched up on her toes to hug Jonathan before sliding into the booth across from him. "Sorry I'm late; I had to meet someone. Did you already order?"
He nodded, brushing a lock of dark auburn hair out of his eye. "The usual. That okay?"
"With extra olives?"
"Of course."
She smiled brightly. "Then of course it's okay."
Her son nudged the glass of house red he'd ordered for her, as he did almost every week, across the table. "Call Claire," he said flatly. "She's worried about you."
"I'm fine. Don't I appear to be fine?"
John grinned and sipped his beer. "You look fine," he agreed. "Better than the last time I saw you."
His mother snorted.
"And you've got to quit telling your friends I'm a drug dealer."
"You, your shady roommate -"
"Mom, he's chief resident at the hospital."
"I don't give a shit if he's the pope."
Jonathan rolled his eyes. "And how's work?"
"Fine," Sharon returned evenly. There were some things her children didn't need to know. These days there were a lot of things her children didn't need to know.
"I wish you'd just say you're not going to tell me."
"I'm not going to tell you."
"Here's to that." He lifted his drink in a toast.
"Johnny -"
"Mommy."
"Jonathan. Will Rebekah be at your father's for Christmas?"
"As far as I know. The terrible trio, reunited. You could call her too, you know."
Mother and son made eye contact for several beats of silence.
"You going out to Park City to see Grandpa?"
"I haven't decided yet what I'm doing. There are a few work-related matters that I -"
"There's more to life than work," he cut in.
"Says the medical student. When was the last time you slept?"
"I'm serious, Mom. What about Brenda? Are the two of you -"
"Come on, Jonathan. I expect this from Claire, but not from you." Sharon drank deeply from her wine. She was going to need another glass if her son had decided to go all Dr. Ruth on her.
"Yeah, okay. Admittedly this is more her bag than mine, and I'm slightly uncomfortable at the moment, so just bear with me." They both leaned back as a smiling server whisked their pizza onto the table between them. "And then we can enjoy our dinner in peace, okay? I'll even let you douse the whole pie in chili oil."
Resigned, Sharon gestured for him to continue. Johnny leaned forward again. With the gentle light in his serious eyes and his dark hair tumbling across his forehead, he looked uncannily like the shy young economics student Sharon Raydor had fallen in love with thirty years earlier.
"Look, Mom, all I'm saying is that you deserve someone who loves you and makes you happy, okay?"
"That's my line to you, honey. I'm the parent."
"Doesn't make it any less true," Jonathan insisted stubbornly, scooping up a slice of pizza and transferring it to his mother's waiting plate. "You've been by yourself for a long time - and how long has it been since you dated someone you were actually serious about?"
Sharon snorted derisively. "And the ten minutes in total you've spent with Brenda Leigh Johnson have convinced you that she's that person, hmm?"
Jonathan rolled his eyes as Sharon defiantly dumped a generous amount of spicy chili oil onto the remainder of the pizza. "No, I didn't say that," he pointed out, patiently logical. His dark eyes locked with his mother's lighter ones. "What I'm saying is that there's something about this woman that compelled you to get involved with her in, uh, objectionable circumstances - to do something I never thought you'd do."
Sharon winced, but her son didn't look particularly judgmental. She reminded herself that he wasn't a carbon copy of his father after all. He just looked concerned. Reaching across the table, he lightly, briefly, touched his mother's hand where it rested on the table. "What is it," he asked seriously, "that makes you so sure she's not the one?"
6.
"Dining alone, chief?"
Will Pope froze in the act of squeezing his lemon one-handed into his sparkling water while using the other to scroll through myriad "urgent" emails on his Blackberry. His eyes flickered up to an expanse of charcoal gray Armani, and followed the supple lines of the fine wool encasing the form beneath up to a polite but supercilious smile and keenly intelligent green eyes. "Sharon," he blurted out, summoning a smile. "Captain Raydor. Ah, please join me."
"Thank you, chief." Manicured nails released their grip on the chair opposite his. "I will."
"Fancy meeting you here."
Raydor's raised brow was equally as facetious as Will's tone. "Indeed. But a … fortuitous coincidence, since I do need to speak with you."
Pope signaled to a server. "After we order. I'll have my usual," he said to the young woman, whose blonde ponytail bobbed as she nodded.
"I'll have the same."
Will looked surprised. "You don't even know what it is."
"I imagine it's some sort of salad. You're watching your weight."
Will felt the tips of his ears turn pink. "Grilled chicken on arugula with walnuts, pear, and shaved parmesan."
The captain smiled affably. "Lovely."
When the young woman had moved away, Will looked expectantly at his unexpected companion.
"I won't waste your time, chief. Either reinstate me as of next week or give me early retirement with double the usual severance package, all my unused vacation time, my full pension, and a good service bonus."
Pope's eyebrows flew up toward what used to be his hairline. "What exactly makes you think you're in a position to wheel and deal here, captain?"
Raydor did the most annoying thing she could possibly have done under the circumstances: she smiled. "The fact that I've been the object of a completely gratuitous, three-month IA investigation that, oddly, has not involved anyone actually assigned to IA. The fact that said investigation has expended God only knows how much of the taxpayers' money without reaching any conclusion, despite what would seem to be the open-and-shut nature of the incident. The fact that the city, the entire department, and you as an individual are facing a multi-million-dollar lawsuit based on Chief Johnson's purported conduct and that in my absence, as far as I've been able to ascertain, no one is doing anything about it, because it's my job and you can't afford anyone to replace me while you're still playing my full salary so that I can hone my Sudoku skills and go for long training runs - and that's assuming you could even find anyone else both qualified and willing to take on the Chief Johnson matter at this late stage of the game, which, Chief, I highly doubt."
Pope's lips thinned. "You're not irreplaceable, Captain Raydor."
Now she raised her own eyebrows, her smile widening fatuously. "I never said I was. No one is irreplaceable, which you well know as acting chief. By the way, any word on when the mayor's planning to make a permanent appointment?"
Will looked from her guileless gaze down to his Perrier. He longed to throw the bottle's contents in Sharon Raydor's face. She'd found out, then, that he was to be passed over yet again.
"It's in the best interest of the department," she continued, not dropping the smile, "as well as your best interest personally, to resolve this matter as quickly and inexpensively as possible. You need me in order to do that."
Pope didn't argue. They both knew she was right, and that she held the winning hand. Letting Russell Taylor handle Raydor's OIS investigation had turned into a colossal mistake, and the longer it had gone on, the more embarrassing it would've been for Will to put a stop to it.
"Commander Taylor feels that there are major structural problems with the internal organization of IA," Will parried.
Something glimmered in Raydor's eyes. "Does he," she returned with no hint of a question. "How interesting. Let me guess: he 'feels' that FID should be dissolved, and that a new head should be appointed for a more centralized Internal Affairs division - someone with a rank higher than captain? Say, commander?"
Chief Pope winced. He was going to kill Russell Taylor. He'd strangle him with one of his own neckties. When the captain said it all out loud that way, it sounded as if Pope had allowed Taylor to waste months of time and money on a petty attempt to advance his own career - something that could instead tank both their careers if Raydor spun it the right way. "Which member of your division shared that confidential information with you, Captain Raydor?"
A muscle in Sharon's jaw twitched as she leaned back to make ample room for the salad the server was placing before her. "Oh, a little birdie. The LAPD seems to have a lot of those these days."
Raydor took a neat, precise bite of her salad, chewed slowly and thoughtfully while Will mentally chewed nails, and finally swallowed, every movement carefully measured. "And then there's the fact that I believe someone has put out a hit on Deputy Chief Johnson." Sharon sipped her water and then smiled again, even more brightly than before. "It wasn't you, was it, chief?"
Pairing: Brenda/Sharon
Rating: M
Chapter Twenty-Three: Encounters (or That One Where Sharon Thinks a Lot, and Then Talks to Some People)
Brenda woke to the unmistakable vibrating of a cell phone that she knew had to be Sharon's, but instantly recognized that the other woman's body was still heavy with sleep. Dark eyes blinked open, but otherwise the blonde remained carefully motionless, not wanting to risk disturbing her companion by so much as the twitch of a muscle.
Sharon had thrown the covers back from her side of the bed but her body was still unnaturally warm, the heat radiating out and into Brenda at every point of contact. Unsurprisingly Sharon had been restless and fitful during the night as she slept off the foreign substances coursing through her veins; she was going to feel like hell today. In sleep, though, her brow was smooth, her breathing even, and Brenda also breathed slowly and deeply, enjoying the possessive weight of the brunette's right leg hooked over her own, her arm draped over Brenda's mid-section.
Sharon's phone fell silent and Brenda relaxed. She would have to get up and get ready for work before too long - it was Saturday, but you didn't take the weekend off when you had two dead bodies and a passel of potential suspects to track down - but she wanted to let the captain sleep as long as possible. For selfish reasons, she acknowledged: asleep, Sharon was warm and open, her body having gravitated toward Brenda's and sought the physical closeness she was so determined to push away with both hands while she was awake and alert. Brenda wanted to preserve this intimacy, even as she felt like she was somehow stealing it. She dreaded the inevitable moment when Sharon would wake up and her body would stiffen as she pulled away, drawing back into herself.
Awful, horrible, impossible woman - what was Brenda going to do with her?
Brenda more than half expected Sharon's phone to start vibrating again, but the source of the sound she heard some twenty minutes later was something else entirely. Frowning, Brenda eased out from under Sharon as stealthily as she could, paused to pull on her yoga pants, and padded down the hall to the front door to see who was so importunately ringing the bell.
The visitor was so unexpected that Brenda Leigh dropped her poker face, managing to produce only a surprised "Hey there."
Claire Raydor smiled slightly, a smile eerily similar to her mother's, and the tall young man standing a few paces behind her folded his arms and looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"Hey there, Brenda Leigh," the young woman returned in the faintly mocking tone that was Sharon all over, and cocked her head. "Is my mom here?"
The deputy chief reminded herself that she was a grown-ass woman, not a naughty child, and that she hadn't been caught doing anything wrong. She stood a little straighter and smiled at Claire before deliberately widening the circle to include the boy who had to be her brother. "She sure is, and she's fine. You know about what happened last night? You must've been worried sick about your mama."
"I drove down to surprise her. I was the one who got the surprise," Claire acknowledged.
"So she called me," the young man finally spoke up. "When I told her Mom called me last night and sounded fine, Claire announced that we should look for her here. So -"
"You must be Jonathan. Come on in, both of you. We'll have some coffee and wake your mama up, and you can see for yourselves." Brenda shooed them into the house in her best impression of her own mama, glad that one of the few household tasks she could be relied upon to remember was setting the timer on her coffee maker.
She left the Raydor offspring in the kitchen with oversized mugs and all the coffee accoutrements, and scurried back to the bedroom, juggling another full mug - with just a dollop of milk, the way Sharon liked it - and a large bottle of water.
"Sharon?"
The form that was now back under the covers shifted. "I brought you coffee and some water, and let me get you some aspirin. Just a sec."
The other woman was sitting up cautiously when Brenda returned with the white capsules, cradling the steaming mug. She accepted the medicine with a little nod that immediately made her wince; and after she had swallowed them down with a gulp of water and sipped her coffee, she dutifully began, "Brenda, last night -"
"Your kids are here," the younger woman interrupted flatly, uninterested in what Sharon had to say. "Well, two of 'em, anyway."
"Shit."
"They're worried, of course. While you take a shower and get dressed, I'll keep them entertained."
"I shouldn't be -"
"Shower, Sharon," Brenda put in abruptly, relishing her ability to boss the hung-over captain, and spun on her bare heel.
Sharon performed her morning ablutions in record time, for which Brenda was grateful, because it was awkward to sit here and ask Jonathan questions about medical school while Claire looked on with a knowing glint in her cat-like eyes. When the older woman appeared in the kitchen in the jeans and long-sleeved Henley Brenda had packed for her, with her wet hair neatly combed behind her shoulders, she was pale and her mouth was drawn, but otherwise Brenda thought she looked pretty much okay.
Apparently Sharon's daughter disagreed. "Jesus, Mom, what did you do last night?" She darted a glance between the two women. "Or don't I want to know?" she appended slyly.
"Possibly I was a bit upset after our family home became the scene of a drive-by shooting," Sharon coolly snarked back. "Thank you for the coffee, Brenda. Let's go, kids. Chief Johnson has to get ready for work."
Brenda glanced at the clock and realized that Sharon was right. In fact, she was going to be late. She wondered if Will would give her overtime for wrangling the once and future head of FID all night long, but somehow she thought not.
She snagged Sharon's elbow as the brunette followed Claire and Jonathan down the porch steps. "We need to talk," she said in a low voice.
"Not now," Sharon muttered through clenched teeth, and Brenda rolled her eyes.
"Of course not now. I'll call you later, after work."
Sharon was non-verbal until Claire stopped at a drive-thru and procured more coffee for all three of them.
"How much did you drink last night?" Jonathan asked from the back seat of the Jeep with his peculiar politeness, as if afraid of offending his mother, and Sharon sighed. It was overcast, but she'd still sell part of whatever was left of her soul for a giant pair of sunglasses.
"Too much. Let's leave it at that."
The captain pretended she didn't see her children exchanging loaded looks via the rear-view mirror. More pressing matters, like keeping the contents of her stomach inside her stomach, required her immediate attention.
"Are you going to tell us what's going on?"
"All the glass will be replaced today, and the guard's still posted at the house, but I don't think -"
"Yeah, not what I meant. We'll get back to why someone's shooting at you, since you're being so evasive. What's going on with Brenda? Did you break up with her?"
"Wait, what?" Jonathon quickly lowered his coffee cup and raised his eyebrows. "You're dating a superior officer? Go, Mom."
Claire looked incredulously from her brother to her mother and back. "Do you two not talk?"
"We talk," Jonathan retorted defensively. "But I think our conversations are probably different from yours."
"We're not dating," Sharon replied flatly, sipping her own coffee and, as her head throbbed viciously, trying to remember why she and David had decided to procreate. She would not throw up in her daughter's vehicle.
"Right, of course not. You're just sleeping with her."
Jonathan looked confused. "Wait, I thought she was married to that FBI guy." When neither Sharon nor Claire contradicted him, his expression lodged somewhere between appalled and impressed. "Jesus, Mom."
"They're separated," Sharon put in, her lips barely moving.
"So what's the problem?" Claire demanded. Jonathan gaped, and Sharon whipped her head around to stare out the window at the passing traffic and immediately regretted it as the world spun with her.
"I'm not having this conversation with you - either of you."
"Could we maybe talk about the whole drive-by shooting thing?" Jonathan interjected rather pointedly, and Sharon sighed heavily.
"Later, son," she answered, the weight of exhaustion settling heavily across her back. "We'll discuss all of it later, after I've slept for about a century."
"Seriously, Mom, what were you and Bren -" Claire began again, and her brother quietly cut her off with a low "Claire. Not now." She had certainly inherited all of Sharon's tenacity.
There was still a patrol car parked in Sharon's driveway, this one containing a different but equally young officer, and the house had been transformed from war zone to construction zone, which was, at least, a step in the right direction. Sharon steeled herself, her stomach roiling, and Jonathan's warm palm came to rest on her shoulder.
"Look, Mom, I'll talk to them and find out what the deal is. You just go lay down. Do you need anything?"
Sharon's response was a meager smile. She felt completely and utterly pathetic, and was so very glad that Claire and Jonathan were there to witness it.
She was buried beneath the bed covers, cursing her own stupidity and praying for a quick demise, when she heard the door open and Claire's sneakers squeaking on the wooden floor.
"Mom?"
Sharon murmured in acknowledgment, which was apparently the wrong thing to do because her daughter flopped down on the foot of the bed and Sharon's body tightened in a burst of agony.
"I just do not understand you." Claire rocked on her haunches, jostling the mattress again, and Sharon swallowed a wave of nausea. "You were willing to have an affair with her - you, Ms. Betsy-By-the-Book - and now that she's left her husband for you, you don't want anything to do with her?"
"You don't understand, honey."
"No, I don't, which is what I just said," Claire agreed bluntly. "Talk about a dick move. If Rachel broke up with Matt -"
"What if Matt broke up with Rachel because he found out the two of you slept together, and then Rachel suddenly decided you and she would make a great couple?" Sharon snapped, fed up with her daughter's well-intentioned needling. "Do you think you'd still be so eager to rent the U-Haul and sign up for the lifetime membership?"
"Oh." Claire stood up and awkwardly rocked back on her heels. "I didn't know."
"That's because it's none of your damn business," Sharon replied coolly, burrowing under the comforter. She was fairly certain none of this was in the Good Parenting Handbook; but she didn't think it had a section on how to tell your adult children to butt out of the aftermath of your illicit home-wrecking affair. Maybe she'd write a letter to the editors and suggest an addition to the revised version.
Claire glared at her as she crossed the room. "Of course it is. I'll go for now, but you're my mother, and left to your own devices, clearly you're just going to fuck it up."
Sharon couldn't muster the strength to offer a response. Her daughter hesitated, one hand braced on the doorjamb, and looked over her shoulder at the tangle of covers on the bed, the mass interrupted by the familiar contours of Sharon's body and the long slash of her dark hair.
"You're in love with her," Claire said warily, her tone slightly brittle. "You know that, right?"
The pause was a long one, and when Sharon finally spoke her voice was muffled against the pillow. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I know."
2.
The house was blessedly quiet, blessedly empty. Sharon walked slowly into the living room, eyes peeled for the sparkle of the tiniest glass shard against the honey-colored wood, but Claire and Jonathan had done an impressive job cleaning up. The captain turned her head and looked toward the street, which was once again separated from where she stood by reassuringly thick window panes. The workmen had been almost astoundingly efficient - so in this matter, at least, Sharon Raydor was still being treated like one of the LAPD's own.
The chair and the sofa - she could have them reupholstered, she supposed. Was there someone in the greater Los Angeles area who specialized in the disguising of bullet holes in furniture? It sounded far-fetched enough to be possible.
Sharon sighed. Fuck it, she thought. She'd just replace them. Something dark brown, maybe, or even crimson.
She flopped down unceremoniously on her ravaged sofa, the fingers of her left hand distractedly picking at one of the rents in the fabric. Her eyes slowly roved over the room in which she spent most of her leisure time. It felt different, unfamiliar, estranged. There was only so much that could be accomplished with brooms and dustpans and gleaming new glass. It looked neater, tidier than it had; but Sharon suspected that even with new furniture, the memory of this violent, devastating event ripping through her own little personal sanctuary wouldn't be effaced.
As relieved as she was that Jonathan had taken Claire out for dinner and had even made noises about going to a movie afterward, Sharon realized that her ears were straining for the slightest sound that would betray the presence of another person in the house.
Not her adult kids, she admitted to herself, but Brenda.
The captain scowled into the deepening twilight. It was ridiculous. The woman had only been there for two weeks, and Sharon had known she'd leave eventually. Why had she let herself go and get so used to her presence?
Probably for the same reason she'd spent twenty years in Force Investigation, Sharon reflected, her lips curling in self-deprecation. She was a masochist, a glutton for punishment.
On most days, Sharon Raydor would have offered a far different explanation of her conduct, particularly her professional conduct, but today was not most days. Thanks to her absurd, weak over-indulgence the night before she felt fairly miserable physically, even after drinking a gallon of water and eating enough carbohydrates to choke the average horse, and her mental state was no better.
She chuckled dryly. Her mental state, she acknowledged, was worse. It resembled this room, tidy enough on the surface, but subject to the odd gaping hole with its stuffing pouring out.
Her behavior the night before had been appalling. As humiliating as it was today to think that Brenda had found her in that state, she also knew that she'd been incredibly lucky that it had been Brenda and not anyone else. Imagine if another member of the LAPD had found the head of FID, very publicly on suspension pending investigation of her conduct, drunk and stoned.
"Stupid," Sharon said aloud, disgusted with herself, with her emotions and her lack of purpose and her self-destruction. "Stupid, stupid, stupid woman!"
She closed her eyes, trying to remember exactly what she'd done after Brenda had arrived, and shuddered. She was a level-headed, responsible middle-aged woman, not some fifteen-year-old drowning Ophelia. Smoking weed and going on a mini-bender - was it because she'd eschewed that rebellious phase most adolescents experienced? Was it the onset of dementia? Perhaps she and her mother could be roommates, she thought bitterly, and snorted to herself. The women of the Raydor family could have adjacent beds at the nursing home.
Having your home turned into the scene of a violent crime was something that, thankfully, most people never had to experience. Even so, Sharon's reaction had been completely unlike her, completely inappropriate. She queasily suspected that she'd done a great deal of gazing at Brenda Leigh Johnson like a lovesick calf, and what was it she'd ended up saying to the woman? That she needed the blonde there to be able to sleep?
The captain heard herself groan, the sound unexpected in the silence. She'd made a complete fool of herself. Just a week ago she'd made her very painful but very necessary stand, ending this ill-conceived relationship with the deputy chief, and at the first sign of trouble she'd crawled into the woman's bed like a frightened child.
And that was how she'd felt, really. She'd wanted comfort. She'd wanted to be held. She'd wanted someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay, rather than being the one soothing and shushing everyone else's fears of the things that go bump in the night.
She was painfully sober now, and all too aware that life's little narratives seldom had happy endings. Her head throbbed viciously, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as her pride. Again her first instinct was to blame Brenda for causing her to behave like this, to lose her center of gravity and go hurtling off into some shadowy void that was foreign territory to logical, analytical Sharon; but again she knew that would be utterly unfair. Perhaps Brenda had been the catalyst, but none of this was her fault, not really.
It wasn't Brenda's fault that someone had tried to murder Sharon less than twenty-four hours earlier.
It wasn't Brenda's fault that her career was a worse shambles than her bullet-riddled living room, or that she felt completely purposeless and directionless without a reason to get up in the morning.
It wasn't Brenda's fault that Sharon had willingly broken what she considered a basic moral code, and that her self-respect had taken a serious hit as a result.
It wasn't Brenda's fault that Sharon could see herself crumbling before her children's eyes and feel Claire's hostility growing, as if perhaps both her daughters were destined to hold their mother in equally low esteem.
It was Brenda's fault, though, that the relatively solitary existence the captain had relished for the last decade now felt so bleak, so barren.
The truth was that Brenda Leigh Johnson had somehow opened Sharon up, revealing needs and desires that, once discovered, refused to be shoved back into their locked cupboard and hidden away in some seldom-visited corner of Sharon's consciousness. She wanted companionship and affection, squabbling over who controlled the remote control or what to have for dinner, sex and morning breath and laughter and fighting and someone to curl up with under a blanket when the evenings turned chilly.
Sharon acknowledged that she probably wouldn't have trouble meeting someone, if she really wanted to. She could find a partner to share dinners and Sunday afternoon drives up the coast and deep glasses of red wine. The problem, of course, was that she didn't want someone; she wanted a spindly, drawling, conniving deputy chief who always gave tit for tat and was guaranteed to raise her blood pressure.
Her phone vibrated where she'd dropped it on the coffee table, and the impatient shudder of the little device crawled up its owner's spine, seeming to press against her nerves. Brenda was calling. Of course Brenda was calling, since before, when Sharon had desperately hoped to hear from her, she had reneged, and now that the older woman couldn't bring herself to answer, she was scrupulously keeping her promise.
Guilt pricked at Sharon's pores. At the very least she owed Brenda her thanks. But she felt too raw to talk to her now, too gloomy and exposed. Too out of control.
Granted, lounging on the sofa and vaguely watching endless episodes of Midsomer Murders - a police procedural that was somehow comforting due to its laughable, programmatic absurdity and the rate at which bodies piled up in an otherwise idyllic English backwater - would probably not be recognized by most people as being "out of control," but Sharon knew that was what it was. If the way Claire arched one eyebrow when she returned home, raking her gaze over her mother as she intoned, "Oh, is this what we're doing now?" could be taken as a guide, her daughter also recognized her mother's state for what it was, even having never seen it before.
When villagers started dropping dead courtesy of the poisonous venom of a rare Ecuadorian frog (no doubt a dime a dozen in bucolic southeastern England), Sharon sat up and clicked off the television, as disgusted with herself as with Midsomer County's indefatigable murderers.
"What am I doing?" she demanded aloud.
She was a mess. She, Sharon Raydor, had spent most of the day in her pajamas. Her hair was unbrushed. So were her teeth, for that matter. Her skin felt unpleasantly dry, tight. She knew she looked like unholy hell.
Her house was a mess.
Her life was a mess. And sitting here on the goddamn sofa watching television and feeling sorry for herself was about as useful as a paper umbrella in a torrential downpour.
She curled her lip in self-disgust. She needed to get a grip, get her center of gravity back.
On some level, she acknowledged, she must have believed that would magically happen once she got Brenda out of her personal space, although that wasn't the way she would have expressed it. She would have said something about giving the healing process the chance to begin, most likely, if she'd said anything at all.
She should have known better. Removing the younger blonde woman hadn't shored up Sharon's defenses; it had guaranteed their spectacular collapse. Her eyelids drooped shut. What a horrifying thought. Brenda Leigh Johnson had been the mortar holding this whole mess together.
Sharon knew she would have to deal with this situation with Brenda.
Just not tonight.
She couldn't answer the question of whether Brenda Leigh was the root cause or a symptom of the chaos that reigned in her normally orderly world; but she knew she couldn't contend with the younger woman until she'd made sense of all the rest. Sharon had been lying down for too long.
The doorbell rang. If she'd had the energy, the captain would have sworn. Instead she grunted. What hideous new surprise awaited her? she wondered. It would be just like Brenda to drive over here in a fit of pique because Sharon was refusing to take her calls, but Sharon felt as if her body was made of lead at just the thought of having to confront the younger woman and her irrepressible, stubborn energy tonight. She felt too raw, too battered by her own doubts.
Claire came thumping down the stairs. "Don't get up," she called facetiously, "I've got it."
Sharon sighed. Seconds ticked by as she awaited the announcement of Brenda Leigh's presence, but her ears pricked up as she heard a distinctly masculine rumble in dialog with her daughter.
She had straightened her posture instinctively by the time she heard dual sets of footsteps in her entryway and Claire's hesitant, "Mom? It's, ah, Commander Taylor?"
There was nothing Sharon could do about her unkempt hair and makeup-free skin or the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra beneath her shirt. But by the time she turned to face the unwelcome guest, all traces of dismay had been wiped from her features and she wore a reasonable facsimile of her game face. "Commander," she said dryly, unsmiling, "how unexpected."
"Hello, Sharon." When she made no move to get up, he sat without asking in the same chair he'd occupied once before. "I wasn't on duty last night and today has been a busy one, but I wanted to come by and see how you are after this… unpleasantness." He looked around the ravaged room and then expectantly back at her.
"I'm sure that's very kind of you, but I'm fine. A few coats of paint, a little fabric, and everything will be good as new." She spoke smoothly, keeping a weather eye on Taylor. Her mind clicked rapidly away. What the hell did the man want? He hadn't come over here to inquire politely as to the state of her health. She watched him shift in the chair, stretching one leg out in front of him.
"Major Crimes is still looking for the shooter."
She knew that, of course, and responded only with a tilt of her head.
He didn't speak again for a long moment, during which Sharon listened to the clock tick. He seemed almost to be waiting for something, but what? If he expected her to offer him a drink, he was going to be sorely disappointed.
When he finally did speak, it felt abrupt, sudden. "All alone tonight, captain? No company?"
Her skin prickled, a frisson of unease tingling down her spine. "My daughter is here - but you already know that. I'd hardly call her company."
"Then you're not expecting Chief Johnson?"
Sharon inclined her head, appraising the man. "Should I be?"
Taylor's eyes narrowed slightly, crinkling at the corners, and then he smiled that smarmy smile she particularly hated. "I keep my ear to the ground, captain. I find it can be very… helpful in my position. Word is the chief's been staying here with you because she and Agent Howard are having some - difficulties."
The captain regarded the commander without blinking, but her pulse was picking up unpleasantly. The gall of this man, to show up at her home - for a second time - with his old-maid gossip. But she didn't have the luxury of indulging her righteous indignation. Certainly Taylor was fishing - but for what, exactly? Did he have suspicions about the nature of the relationship she'd been having with Brenda? Did he know? Had someone said something, seen something?
Sharon reached up and smoothed her hair, using the simple gesture to steel herself. She'd been out of FID long enough for her carefully honed, enforced calm to get a little rusty, and she needed it now. She offered her own small, humorless smile. "As you can see, she isn't here."
Taylor placed his hands on his splayed knees, and Sharon felt her nostrils flair. Why did some men sit like that, as if they just assumed everyone wanted a closer look at their genitals? She'd have to have that chair recovered - and it hadn't been sprayed by bullets.
"Why the curiosity about the chief, commander? Surely you saw her at work today." Instantly Sharon realized she shouldn't have said that. It was Saturday, and she would have had no reason to assume Major Crimes was working a case. Her irritation spiked.
"I'm just trying to determine whether anyone else had reason to expect Deputy Chief Johnson to be here last night at the time of the shooting."
"Other than you?" He blinked, and she elaborated, "You said anyone else. Did you expect her to be here?"
The commander raised his eyebrows. "As I understand it, the chief was at work last night," he returned, which, of course, wasn't an answer to her question, and then he stood. How interesting. Suddenly he was in a hurry to leave. "Thank you for your time, captain."
The brunette blinked, her lips narrowing as she instinctively leapt to her feet and trailed the man toward her front door. "What about my OIS?" she demanded, her tone just this side of overtly hostile. "You must have had time to complete your investigation. It's December. I've been suspended for over two months."
Taylor slipped his hands into his pockets and jingled his change. "Captain, you may as well hear it from me: my investigation has turned up some pressing concerns about the… structural integrity not only of FID, but of all of Internal Affairs. The investigation really isn't just about your conduct - which I have no doubt was both lawful and necessary - any more. You'll be hearing from my office soon."
Sharon stood there, leaning in the doorway, until she'd watched Russell Taylor get into his car and drive away. Her anger roiled and bubbled just below the surface, but more worryingly, a deep sense of unease had taken up residence in her gut.
That man was a snake, always looking out for his own interests and willing to bite anyone who got in his way. Sharon had known that for years. She'd dealt politely, carefully with him, reasoning that it was best not to bait a venomous reptile, so they'd had little in the way of overt conflict. But make no mistake, she knew better than to trust him.
"Structural integrity," he'd said, as if IA were a bridge. She knew what that meant. It meant he was planning to take her division away from her. She didn't know precisely how, but he'd almost told her as much by assuring her that she'd be cleared of all charges, just not yet. Not until he had time to finish doing… whatever he was doing. That had been a false step on his part.
Just what was he doing? And how did it concern Brenda?
The commander had apparently expected Brenda to be at Sharon's house last night. Sharon didn't like that. She didn't like that at all. Her eyes narrowed against the darkness, as if that would help her to see the man's motives.
In all her years in IA, Sharon had been the object of hostility, intimidation, even death threats. But no one had ever taken the rather excessive, cinematic step of shooting up her house until Brenda Leigh Johnson had come to stay.
She felt that frisson again. No, she didn't like this at all. The leak, the mugging, the robbery, and now this - someone had been trying to get rid of a certain blonde deputy chief for months. If presented with enough opportunities, that person was bound to succeed.
And Sharon wasn't around to prevent those opportunities. She was sitting on her sofa, watching murder mysteries, drinking too much, and feeling sorry for herself. She snorted in disgust. No more, she promised herself. No more.
"Mom?" Claire called from behind her, her voice coming from the direction of the kitchen. "Can you come here? I was trying to bag up the rest of the trash with the broken glass and everything, but I've managed to make an even bigger mess. I'm afraid it's a two-person job."
"All right, honey." Sharon stepped inside, firmly closing the door behind her as if shutting out all traces of the commander's presence. "Don't worry, we'll clean it up."
After tonight, the captain knew she had more than one mess to clean up, and she wouldn't put it off for a minute longer than she had to. It was time for her to be back where she belonged, professionally and personally. She stopped at the utility closet, extracting a broom (which she almost never used for riding, only sweeping) and an over-sized dustpan. "Don't cut yourself," she called in warning, because once you were a mother, you were always a mother, even when your kids grew up and presumably knew better than to grab jagged glass shards with their bare hands.
The other messes would require more than a broom and dustpan, but as the head of the Force Investigation Division, the captain was no stranger to the cleaning up of messes - particularly messy messes. It was, she decided, well past time for her to focus her unique skill set on a few little janitorial projects of her own.
3.
When Brenda stepped out into the humid, misty morning, the last thing she expected - or wanted, she reminded herself - to see was a sweaty Sharon Raydor lounging on the hood of her car and sipping coffee from a paper cup. Dark eyes narrowed. "It's extremely presumptuous of you just to show up here," she parroted, hostile.
The brunette shrugged, but Brenda knew she wasn't as coolly insouciant as she would've appeared to anyone else. "I did phone. Repeatedly."
She had - four times on Sunday - which, truth be told, had given the deputy chief no small amount of satisfaction each time she'd pressed the "ignore call" button. "I don't particularly feel like talkin' to you."
"Likewise, I'm sure."
"And yet you just keep on callin', and now here you are," Brenda pointed out, marching over to the driver's door. "Which is odd, since you obviously didn't want to talk to me at any point during the past week. And if you've left a dent in my car, I'll be sendin' you a bill for havin' it hammered out."
"Naturally." Sharon slid to her sneaker-clad feet, revealing the pristine surface of the hood. Brenda thought she looked tired - not the kind of tired you got from running, but the kind of tired you got from not sleeping. Her eyes were faintly shadowed, her skin pale. "As enjoyable as this exchange is, I didn't come over here to discuss anything personal."
Brenda faltered as she inserted the key into the lock. "Oh no?"
"Only insofar as having someone try to kill you is personal."
The blonde's eyes flew to Sharon's. "Excuse me?"
Sharon instinctively stepped into Brenda's space, her voice dropping. "Who did you tell that you were staying at my house, Brenda? Did you tell your team? Chief Pope? Commander Taylor?" Sharon's eyes widened slightly, communicating her intensity. "It hasn't occurred to you that the timing of this was a little too coincidental, coming on the heels of the break-in here and the mugging?"
The deputy chief reeled back as if the older woman had slapped her and then recovered herself. "I'm surprised at you, captain," she retorted, her sharp jaw tightening. "I don't know who your source is, but your information's outta date. We've confirmed the identity of the shooter. He wasn't after me."
Dark eyebrows rose. "How do you know?" Sharon demanded urgently, her voice lowering still further.
Brenda's eyes glinted. "You remember Officer Jason Donovan?"
"Jason Don -?" Sharon blinked. "Of course. He was an undercover cop on the drug squad, which gave him an excellent cover for the heroin ring he was running. He did a deal with the DA, went away for -"
"Five years. Yeah." Despite herself, Brenda felt a twinge of sympathy for the other woman. "Well, he's out now. Time off for good behavior."
"Oh." Sharon blinked again, frowning.
"So see, instead of me, you ought to be worryin' about yourself. Not that I'm not touched by your concern." Brenda didn't sound as flippant as she'd intended. She was touched that Sharon cared about her - she was just mad as hell that she didn't care enough to want to be with her.
"Listen, we're gonna get him. Just be careful, okay?"
Sharon nodded, frowning even more intensely.
"How did you get here, anyway? Did you run?" The captain nodded again. "That must be, what -?"
"Far enough." Sharon shrugged. "I have plenty of time."
"I'll give you a ride home. You shouldn't be out runnin' by yourself if -"
"No," Sharon interrupted firmly. "If he really wants me dead, he'll find a way." She hesitated, as if considering saying more, but then just nodded again, definitively.
Brenda winced slightly. Sharon was right, but it wasn't what the deputy chief wanted to hear. She might want to kill Sharon herself, but she didn't want anyone else to have the satisfaction. "We'll get you a -"
"No. No protective detail. Brenda -"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Brenda Leigh -"
"If you're sure, I need to get to work."
Sharon stepped back, something flickering and then dying out behind her eyes. "I'm sure," she insisted, folding her arms.
"Okay. Well, uh - take care of yourself. Be careful."
"Yes, chief. You too."
Brenda didn't have to look in her rearview mirror to know that Sharon was still standing in her driveway, motionless, watching her until she drove out of sight.
4.
"You look like a man who could use a drink. Let me buy you one."
Sergeant Tim Elliott took in the trenchcoat-covered figure beside him on a stool at Malloy's polished mahogany bar and broke into a huge smile. "Sharon!" he exclaimed, and then flushed. He'd never dared utter his boss's first name before. "Uh, Captain Raydor, ma'am. Good to see you. I wasn't sure you were going to make it."
"Sharon will do for now, Tim. I apologize for being late, and I was serious about the drink." She inclined her head toward his beer. "Another?" At his nod, she addressed the bartender: "Brooklyn and an Eagle Rare. Make it a double. Neat."
Elliott waited until their drinks had been placed before them, a little of his beer sloshing over the side of the glass and making a small puddle on the bar. Raydor cast it a disapproving glance.
"I was going to call you about Donovan, but Lieutenant Flynn said Chief Johnson -"
Sharon tossed back a third of her drink and held up her hand. "Yeah, I know all about Donovan. Hardly a criminal mastermind, but a terrific marksman."
Elliott darkly contemplated the amber liquid for several seconds before beginning, "Are you suggesting he missed on purpose?"
"He wasn't trying to kill me or anyone else, Sergeant. Scare, maybe. But I don't scare easily."
Elliott considered and then smiled. "No, you don't. When are you coming back, boss?"
"Soon, Sergeant." Sharon sipped her drink. "Soon."
"We need you. And I don't have to tell you that no one in the division wants to work for Commander Taylor."
"I was right, then."
"It definitely looks that way. Scuttlebutt about reorganization is all over the department."
Sharon's lips pressed vehemently together and she muttered something that sounded a lot like "bastard." She permitted herself a small sip of her drink before saying, in her usual clear, low tone, "It's the police, not a popularity contest."
"I'll keep my ear to the ground, captain."
Sharon's lips quirked at the same expression the commander had used. Where would the LAPD be without its fecund interoffice grapevine? She nodded and tossed back the remains of her drink. "I'd appreciate that, Tim. Especially if you hear anything else about Donovan." A small but genuine smile curved her lips as she placed a few bills on the bar and quickly rebuttoned her coat. Maybe no one else would believe it, but Raydor was aware that her own people liked her; they knew she was tough but fair. She missed her work; she missed her team. She sure as hell wasn't going to let Russell Taylor take either of them away from her. "Enjoy your evening, Sergeant."
"You too, captain."
She nodded. "I plan to."
5.
"Hey, Mom."
"Hi, honey." Sharon stretched up on her toes to hug Jonathan before sliding into the booth across from him. "Sorry I'm late; I had to meet someone. Did you already order?"
He nodded, brushing a lock of dark auburn hair out of his eye. "The usual. That okay?"
"With extra olives?"
"Of course."
She smiled brightly. "Then of course it's okay."
Her son nudged the glass of house red he'd ordered for her, as he did almost every week, across the table. "Call Claire," he said flatly. "She's worried about you."
"I'm fine. Don't I appear to be fine?"
John grinned and sipped his beer. "You look fine," he agreed. "Better than the last time I saw you."
His mother snorted.
"And you've got to quit telling your friends I'm a drug dealer."
"You, your shady roommate -"
"Mom, he's chief resident at the hospital."
"I don't give a shit if he's the pope."
Jonathan rolled his eyes. "And how's work?"
"Fine," Sharon returned evenly. There were some things her children didn't need to know. These days there were a lot of things her children didn't need to know.
"I wish you'd just say you're not going to tell me."
"I'm not going to tell you."
"Here's to that." He lifted his drink in a toast.
"Johnny -"
"Mommy."
"Jonathan. Will Rebekah be at your father's for Christmas?"
"As far as I know. The terrible trio, reunited. You could call her too, you know."
Mother and son made eye contact for several beats of silence.
"You going out to Park City to see Grandpa?"
"I haven't decided yet what I'm doing. There are a few work-related matters that I -"
"There's more to life than work," he cut in.
"Says the medical student. When was the last time you slept?"
"I'm serious, Mom. What about Brenda? Are the two of you -"
"Come on, Jonathan. I expect this from Claire, but not from you." Sharon drank deeply from her wine. She was going to need another glass if her son had decided to go all Dr. Ruth on her.
"Yeah, okay. Admittedly this is more her bag than mine, and I'm slightly uncomfortable at the moment, so just bear with me." They both leaned back as a smiling server whisked their pizza onto the table between them. "And then we can enjoy our dinner in peace, okay? I'll even let you douse the whole pie in chili oil."
Resigned, Sharon gestured for him to continue. Johnny leaned forward again. With the gentle light in his serious eyes and his dark hair tumbling across his forehead, he looked uncannily like the shy young economics student Sharon Raydor had fallen in love with thirty years earlier.
"Look, Mom, all I'm saying is that you deserve someone who loves you and makes you happy, okay?"
"That's my line to you, honey. I'm the parent."
"Doesn't make it any less true," Jonathan insisted stubbornly, scooping up a slice of pizza and transferring it to his mother's waiting plate. "You've been by yourself for a long time - and how long has it been since you dated someone you were actually serious about?"
Sharon snorted derisively. "And the ten minutes in total you've spent with Brenda Leigh Johnson have convinced you that she's that person, hmm?"
Jonathan rolled his eyes as Sharon defiantly dumped a generous amount of spicy chili oil onto the remainder of the pizza. "No, I didn't say that," he pointed out, patiently logical. His dark eyes locked with his mother's lighter ones. "What I'm saying is that there's something about this woman that compelled you to get involved with her in, uh, objectionable circumstances - to do something I never thought you'd do."
Sharon winced, but her son didn't look particularly judgmental. She reminded herself that he wasn't a carbon copy of his father after all. He just looked concerned. Reaching across the table, he lightly, briefly, touched his mother's hand where it rested on the table. "What is it," he asked seriously, "that makes you so sure she's not the one?"
6.
"Dining alone, chief?"
Will Pope froze in the act of squeezing his lemon one-handed into his sparkling water while using the other to scroll through myriad "urgent" emails on his Blackberry. His eyes flickered up to an expanse of charcoal gray Armani, and followed the supple lines of the fine wool encasing the form beneath up to a polite but supercilious smile and keenly intelligent green eyes. "Sharon," he blurted out, summoning a smile. "Captain Raydor. Ah, please join me."
"Thank you, chief." Manicured nails released their grip on the chair opposite his. "I will."
"Fancy meeting you here."
Raydor's raised brow was equally as facetious as Will's tone. "Indeed. But a … fortuitous coincidence, since I do need to speak with you."
Pope signaled to a server. "After we order. I'll have my usual," he said to the young woman, whose blonde ponytail bobbed as she nodded.
"I'll have the same."
Will looked surprised. "You don't even know what it is."
"I imagine it's some sort of salad. You're watching your weight."
Will felt the tips of his ears turn pink. "Grilled chicken on arugula with walnuts, pear, and shaved parmesan."
The captain smiled affably. "Lovely."
When the young woman had moved away, Will looked expectantly at his unexpected companion.
"I won't waste your time, chief. Either reinstate me as of next week or give me early retirement with double the usual severance package, all my unused vacation time, my full pension, and a good service bonus."
Pope's eyebrows flew up toward what used to be his hairline. "What exactly makes you think you're in a position to wheel and deal here, captain?"
Raydor did the most annoying thing she could possibly have done under the circumstances: she smiled. "The fact that I've been the object of a completely gratuitous, three-month IA investigation that, oddly, has not involved anyone actually assigned to IA. The fact that said investigation has expended God only knows how much of the taxpayers' money without reaching any conclusion, despite what would seem to be the open-and-shut nature of the incident. The fact that the city, the entire department, and you as an individual are facing a multi-million-dollar lawsuit based on Chief Johnson's purported conduct and that in my absence, as far as I've been able to ascertain, no one is doing anything about it, because it's my job and you can't afford anyone to replace me while you're still playing my full salary so that I can hone my Sudoku skills and go for long training runs - and that's assuming you could even find anyone else both qualified and willing to take on the Chief Johnson matter at this late stage of the game, which, Chief, I highly doubt."
Pope's lips thinned. "You're not irreplaceable, Captain Raydor."
Now she raised her own eyebrows, her smile widening fatuously. "I never said I was. No one is irreplaceable, which you well know as acting chief. By the way, any word on when the mayor's planning to make a permanent appointment?"
Will looked from her guileless gaze down to his Perrier. He longed to throw the bottle's contents in Sharon Raydor's face. She'd found out, then, that he was to be passed over yet again.
"It's in the best interest of the department," she continued, not dropping the smile, "as well as your best interest personally, to resolve this matter as quickly and inexpensively as possible. You need me in order to do that."
Pope didn't argue. They both knew she was right, and that she held the winning hand. Letting Russell Taylor handle Raydor's OIS investigation had turned into a colossal mistake, and the longer it had gone on, the more embarrassing it would've been for Will to put a stop to it.
"Commander Taylor feels that there are major structural problems with the internal organization of IA," Will parried.
Something glimmered in Raydor's eyes. "Does he," she returned with no hint of a question. "How interesting. Let me guess: he 'feels' that FID should be dissolved, and that a new head should be appointed for a more centralized Internal Affairs division - someone with a rank higher than captain? Say, commander?"
Chief Pope winced. He was going to kill Russell Taylor. He'd strangle him with one of his own neckties. When the captain said it all out loud that way, it sounded as if Pope had allowed Taylor to waste months of time and money on a petty attempt to advance his own career - something that could instead tank both their careers if Raydor spun it the right way. "Which member of your division shared that confidential information with you, Captain Raydor?"
A muscle in Sharon's jaw twitched as she leaned back to make ample room for the salad the server was placing before her. "Oh, a little birdie. The LAPD seems to have a lot of those these days."
Raydor took a neat, precise bite of her salad, chewed slowly and thoughtfully while Will mentally chewed nails, and finally swallowed, every movement carefully measured. "And then there's the fact that I believe someone has put out a hit on Deputy Chief Johnson." Sharon sipped her water and then smiled again, even more brightly than before. "It wasn't you, was it, chief?"