I thought to share a little something with you this Winter Olympic weekend. An excerpt from the latest short story I’m writing, the Lonely Hearts Club. Featuring one of my favourite characters, Det. Kate Ramirez of the NYPD.

Enjoy!

It was another Monday morning at the Precinct, and the dawn’s early light was yet to make it through the still drawn blinds as Detective Kate Rameriz brushed off the excess snow from her North Face down jacket. She stopped for a second in the semi-gloom of the corridor to pull off her knit hat and shake her head. Her black tresses danced. Free of the remnants of the winter storm raging outside, Kate strode across the room to the far side to where a pair of desks sat facing one another—desks she and her partner in Robbery Homicide shared. Hat and gloves safely stowed in the inner sleeves of her jacket, Kate hung her coat on a hook by the radiator. Rifling through her shoulder bag, Kate dug into the battered brown leather satchel and pulled out a hardback novel intent on having a read before the masses descended.

Black-booted feet up on the cluttered desk that was in direct contrast to the one opposite hers—neat, orderly and meticulously clean—Kate leaned back in her chair settling in to read the book in hand, The Spy Who Loved Me. Cracking open the spine, she leafed through the pages till she found one marked with a red sticky tab and smiled. Left hand up in her hair, Rameriz played with an errant strand as she delved in to where she had left off in the story, late last night.

She was coming up on the really good bit.

Standing framed in the open doorway, Lt. Col Sammy Beckett, her military uniform dripping wet from the storm raging outside the apartment building, sucked in a much needed breath as she stared across the room at the small, blond-haired woman who, in equal measure, now regarded her head to foot. Both women smiled. It was over. The long months of cat and mouse, hide and seek, were done for, at least, Sammy hoped so. In two strident steps, she crossed the room and, scooping up the now grinning woman into her arms while grabbing tight buttocks for leverage, took command of the soft, pale pink lips that had so teased her on one too many occasion these last few months. Lips she now bruised with her own.

Lips locked together, tongues trusting and duelling for supremacy in hungry mouths, Sammy Beckett pushed her prize up against the wall grinding her pelvis up into Abbey Carpenter’s groin. And was rewarded with a plaintive moan, a cross between delight and wanton need. Sammy knew that sound all too well; she had needs of her own. And, in response to those needs, continued to tease both herself, and the woman in her arms. Abbey responding by pulling at her clothing—

It was the single sound of a creaking floorboard, some time later, which alerted Kate to the fact someone was on approach to her quiet corner of the room. Slapping her book closed, she quickly whipped her feet off her desk and, opening the lower desk draw to her right, threw the book in with the briefest glance at the image on the back cover. A face that had been haunting her; the visage of a woman she’d been searching nine long years for. There was no mistake in Kate’s mind, even without the driver’s license she still carried for verification. It might be nine years on since ‘Allah’s murderers’ had almost taken her but the face—especially those luminous soft grey eyes with the haunted look in them—had not changed one wit. No matter the intervening years.

“What were you reading?” The question seemed innocuous enough, or would have from any other person she knew, except Wild Bill, for whom everything had more than one meaning, more than one answer, more than one reason.

The diminutive and immaculately dressed figure of William B. Hickcock the third looking to all the world like Stanley Tucci’s younger brother, stood by his desk and began pulling off a pair of expensive looking black leather gloves. Kate eyed the reformed renaissance metro-sexual dressed in his charcoal overcoat flecked with melting snow and, glimpsing the not too shabby suit beneath, wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to come from well-placed money. Having come from almost next to nothing herself, her mother a part-time kindergarten teacher, her father a beat-cop of fourteen years standing who was killed in the line of duty.

Not that Kate begrudged Wild Bill his month’s salary brogues, his six-dollar lattes, or his eighty-dollar haircuts. Not when the guy always had her back no matter what the situation. Remembering their takedown last year, of one of the Bartolli Family’s scam-ops in the warehouse district; and of seeing Wild Bill standing knee-deep in raw sewage yelling into his radio for an ambulance, after she’d been winged in the arm by a stray bullet.

Rising to her feet, Kate rubbed at the perceived ache in her arm. Not even bothering to lie, not with her partner. She shrugged and answered his question.

“Nothing you’d probably want to read.”

The man’s soft round face smiled. “Ah! It’s sleaze and debauchery then?” came the clipped New England accent, as Hickcock carefully hung his coat on a wooden hanger and placed it on the coat tree next to his desk.

“What? No,” Kate said a tad too quickly, remembering what Sammy Beckett had been doing to Abbey Carpenter not minutes earlier. At least, in her mind’s eye they had.

“Dan Brown, perhaps?” Hickcock added, flashing a mischievous grin while stowing gloves and scarf in a draw. The eyebrow arched for effect. Kate smiled despite herself. Wild Bill knew full well she didn’t run with the usual crowd and what her reading material, if any, might run too. Though it was true to say, Kate didn’t run with any crowd. All work and no play had made Kate a detective in record time and the recipient of more than her fair share of scuttlebutt as a result.

“Yeah! Like you know I don’t read lit’rature,” Kate, in good spirits, feigned a thick Bronx accent mimicking a work colleague, and someone she had grown to detest. Too late she caught Wild Bill’s look as his eyes lead her to her immediate left.

“Lit’rature, Rameriz, you even know what dat is?”

The poor attempt at dripping sarcasm was from Arnold Plinksky who, stamping his feet free of winter slush, eyed Kate from where he stood by his desk. The overweight detective took every opportunity to direct a barbed remark at Kate, ever since she had been promoted over him and his perceived seniority. Regardless of the fact he had yet to pass his sergeant’s exam, having failed them on three occasions. Another fact he blamed squarely on Kate who, in the history of the department, was only the second woman to make it to detective and above.

Though that was a fact that probably had more to do with her Captain Jake Cotton’s predecessor than the usual departmental and downtown politics. Not only was the bastard a secret wife beater and woman hater, but the disgraced ex-Captain Edgar Wallace—who had prided himself on his old-school approach—had been found to be on the Bartolli payroll in last year’s big undercover op. The very same one that had almost cost Kate her life. The bullet that had clipped her arm might have found its mark, buried deep in her empty heart, if the dumb-shit that had been shooting at her had been a better marksman. Thankfully, the tactical assault team were better shots. John Mariner taking out the guy with a single headshot as if at a practise session shooting watermelons.

“Well, at least I know how to read, Pinky,” Kate snarked back, deliberately mispronouncing Plinksky’s name for the nth time, watching the man puff up in anger ready for the day’s first round of head-to-head.

Seeing Plinksky about to go postal on them, Wild Bill, in his usual affable manner, stepped in between the pair least they go at it before the first coffee. And taking the man aside began to whisper to him. Kate turned her back on them both and sitting back down at her desk, switched on her computer busying herself with routine. She had no idea what it was Wild Bill always said to Plinksky to calm him down this, or any other time they got in each other’s faces, which was at least every other hour they had to share the same oxygen. But she was thankful her partner had the smooth, calm exterior that belied the man’s secret passions: opera, Kobe steaks, and Star Trek. Three facts that she, and she alone, were privy too, the last being the one that surprised her the most.

Truth was, Wild Bill had the ability to diplomatically defuse almost any and all situations, which was why they not only got given some of the more interesting cases, but also, these last few years, the career-making ones. Another reason, Kate mused as she began filling in the onscreen report she hadn’t finished yesterday, that Wild Bill was rumoured to be Jack Cotton’s replacement now he was in his rightful place, as Captain. Speculation aside, Kate didn’t know what she thought about Bill making Lieutenant and becoming, in effect, her boss rather than her long-time partner and, these last five years, her gracious mentor. But she knew if he got offered the position heading up the detectives, later that spring, she’d be the first to congratulate him and more. She would be there, right at his side, his most vehement supporter.

It would, however, be the end of the queerest oddball partnership in the history of the department. One, to all outward appearances, that should not have worked let alone did work. But, as Kate knew, outward appearances were almost always deceptive. Ten years on the force had taught her a great deal, including just whom it was she could trust. The man, never mind the Detective, William B. Hickcock the Third was one of the good guys and, in her eyes, unimpeachable. Though she knew he had his weaknesses and quaint foibles just as she, in turn, had her own. But Kate also knew that Wild Bill had never let his predilections affect his work, ever. Something she couldn’t say the same for, for herself.

Frowning at her own inability to take Wild Bill’s advice, and not let Plinksky get under her skin, Kate hit the print button at the bottom of the form she’d just filled out and, pushing her chair back, stood. Lost in her own thoughts and blocking out the background noise swell now the vast room was filling up, Kate headed for the printer to collect her copies when, out the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Bobbi Carter from Vice heading her way. Carter, and her skinny-assed swagger, caught up with her at the printer hub. The bright red lipstick mouth smirked.

“So, you finish it yet?” The ebony-skinned woman asked sotto-voce, as she hitched her thumbs into the belt-loops of her faded, spray-on designer knock-offs. The wild Afro hairdo held a half chewed pencil and Afro comb reminiscent of the 80s. It took all Kate’s will power not to laugh. Bobbi Carter was, if nothing else, a master of ‘in-your-face’ disguise.

“Shit, Bobbi, you’re Columbia educated, why do you do it?” It was old familiar territory, but Kate asked anyway even though she knew why. Carter, from White Plains, living in a predominantly white neighbourhood, had watched her mother get gunned down, late one evening, by a white guy looking for drug money. And where she should have followed in her law-professor father’s footsteps (as Kate had followed her own father’s career path) Bobbi Carter had chosen another career in law-enforcement—the one where she got to carry the gun and, on occasion, pull the trigger shooting live ammo at the bad guys.

“Girl, stop changin’ the subject and fess up, I know you dun get yourself a crush on that author chick,” Carter vigorously chewed her gum. While she didn’t quite blush, Kate nonetheless couldn’t help quickly glance about them to check if anyone had overhead Carter’s outlandish remark.

Clucking, Carter added. “Damn, Honey, you know that lot couldn’t hear nuttin’ unless it was a damn truckload of whore riding through here waving their underwears screamin’ ‘come get it boys!’”

Smiling sheepishly, Kate ran her free hand through her hair while clutching her printouts to her side. Bobbi and her act didn’t fool those who knew her, just as Kate’s own macho bravado didn’t fool Carter for a second. Not since the day they first met three years ago in what laughingly passed for the Ladies room, which was nothing more than a converted broom-closet that stood midway down the corridor that connected Vice to Robbery Homicide. Two stalls and one sink, the pair had faced-off over the porcelain tentatively eying one another for several seconds till each other’s gaydar had pinged and the rest, they say, was history.

Kate moved away from the printers, shadowed by Carter, and headed back toward her desk. Half her mind listening to Carter who was, by now, recounting the finer (if not) salacious points of, The Spy Who Loved Me, without all the jive-talking sistah slang. Carter happily informing her she had finished her copy of the book late last night, unlike some. Kate stopped and did a one-eighty of the room looking for Wild Bill’s balding pate. And, unable to locate it amid the milling throng, frowned.

“Now that ain’t gonna do your smooth-skinned face no good,” Carter informed her, adding, “did you hear a word I just said?”

“No, what?” Kate turned her frown on Carter, who had obliquely asked her if she was going to look up ‘you-know-who’ this weekend.

“You know who, has a name,” Kate said, almost tetchily. And no was the answer to that question. Now it had come to a point where she had to make a decision, Kate wasn’t so sure that the reality wouldn’t quite live up to the fantasy woman she’d created in her mind’s eye, all these years, while looking for her.

“Hey, you’re gonna bucket out on this, aren’t you?” Carter skipped straight to the point.

Kate threw her paperwork down on her desk. “Yes, no—shit, I don’t know, Bobbi, I want to go.” Which was the truth, but she was also a coward now it came right down to it. What the hell would she say to the woman anyway?

“Hey, it’s cool,” Bobbi Carter sighed and lightly brushed at Kate’s arm with jewel-encrusted acrylic fingernails. She’d seen that look before, the Detective stubborn as a mule when she put her mind to it.

“At least swing by the bookstore Friday evening, and go take a look at her, you know,” Carter shrugged, adding, “for your own peace of mind, Girl.”

Peace of mind? Kate wasn’t so sure that’s what she was looking for. Now, thanks to Carter’s serendipitous discovery, she knew for certain it was the author Robin McKinley she had been looking for all these years, and that the woman was right there in town, doing a book signing at Boarders prior to a weekend convention. The very same store on Fifth that Carter had dragged her too last week, as her big surprise, and to show her the display of McKinley’s latest novel.

“Shit, Bobbi, it was nine years ago that it all happened, what the hell do I think I’m doing?” Kate said more to herself, than to Carter, who was now looking at her in that way she had when carefully assessing a John out on the street.

“Damn it, Bobbi, don’t!” Kate snapped, adding, “don’t you have work to do?” She nervously shuffled folders on her desk trying to catch sight of Wild Bill, anyone, to rescue her from Bobbi.

“Don’t you go pushin’ my buttons, Girl, I’ve known you for far too long to take this kinda shit,” Bobbi narrowed her eyes, continuing, “I’m coming over on Friday and that’s an end to it, you hear?”

Whether I’m there or not? Kate missed Bobbi glance over her shoulder at somebody behind her and all but jumped when Wild Bill asked in his quiet mild-mannered way.

“Are we having an intervention? I do so love a good intervention!” He stepped out from behind as Kate glowered from one to the other.

“The hell we are!” Kate bristled turning to say something to Bobbi, who backed up a step, hands raised in supplication.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see.” Was all Bobbi conceded and turning on her six-inch stilettos, tottered off back towards Vice.

Kate turned to look at Wild Bill, who offered her nothing more than another benign smile. She raised her finger. “Don’t…don’t even think about it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Unless, of course, I knew exactly what ‘it’ was?” The lip curled at one corner of his mouth as he moved around to his side of the desks, and pulling out his chair, sat. With his hands clasped neatly in front of him Wild Bill waited for his partner to calm down and regroup herself. This morning being no different to any other morning except, this morning, Jack Cotton had asked him into his office for a private and personal chat. A chat that had delivered both good news and bad news, leaving Wild Bill with something of a personal dilemma to address. He looked across their desks at Kate. Dear Kate—his Kate, so full of piss and vinegar and raw pain.

What was he going to do about Kate?

“What?” Kate nervously brushed at her hair, frowned, and ducking her head as the man continued to stare at her, scooped up seven of their active files. Their files; all their open cases, all their on-going cases, and all those cases sitting on the back burner awaiting new leads, new evidence, or some kind of Divine intervention to solve.

Coming around to Wild Bill’s side of the desk, Kate so wanted to ask him where he had been. But didn’t. Quashing the impulse, knowing her mentor would tell her in his own good time, his way. Having already surmised where he had been from the sly and not so subtle remarks emanating from Plinksky, and his partner, Romeo de Franco.

Kate leaned over and carefully laid out the files, left to right, in a sequential formation that indicated: left, still unresolved and or, lingering. And, on the right, the most recent cases still very much alive and kicking with some potential at actually being solved.

“So,” she asked, leaning forward on her hands focusing her mind on the task at hand, work, “what do you want to tackle first?”

Wild Bill smiled sideways up at Kate and gave her question serious thought, as he always did. It was only a little after eight in the morning; it would be another long, gruelling, twelve hours of chasing paper and searching through the database of virtual ‘perps’ and piecing together bits of evidence, like a never ending jigsaw puzzle, before Kate would make it back to her apartment for yet another made-from-scratch pasta dinner, to eat alone.

TO BE CONTINUED…

© Alexandra Wolfe