Brad Parks - The Good Cop

No, those go more to the manner of death, which is what really counts, legally. The manner of death is a more subjective call on the medical examiner’s part, and it relies on what he can learn from the body and what he’s been told by investigators.

I didn’t know what the investigators had told Ibanez, of course. But in the face of what appeared to be foul play, someone had informed Ibanez no more investigation would be done, giving him little choice but to rule the manner of death a suicide. And he considered going along with that unethical.

Or at least that was my best guess. By the time I reached Hoboken, I hadn’t come up with anything better.

* * *

The last available street parking spot in Hoboken was snatched up in late 1995. So rather than join the legion of people circling patiently for the next one, I parked in a garage. I was just getting out of the car when I got a text from Tina. “Hopping in shower. Let yourself in.”

Tina’s door code, 2229, was easy to remember, thanks to the handy, if slightly disturbing, pneumonic she had given me: it spelled the word “baby.”

Tina’s condo was a one-bedroom on the fourth floor with a view of Manhattan that made you feel like you owned the world. I took in the panorama for a second, then went over by the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar.

“Hey, it’s me,” I announced.

“Hey. Sorry. I’ll be out in a second. My jog lasted a little longer than I thought,” she called over the hissing of the shower.

“No problem.”

“Did you pick the wine based on the name?”

“No, I went with a cute label instead. It’s got this little black dress on it and it’s called, get this, ‘Little Black Dress.’ It’s a pinot noir.”

“Oh, that stuff is actually pretty good. Pour me a glass and I’ll be out in a second.”

After pouring us both glasses of wine-I drink wine when beer is unavailable-I went and spied what my dinner was going to be. I saw broiled salmon with dill sauce, snap peas with some kind of fancy onions on them, and asparagus sauteed in what smelled like lemon butter. A fish, two vegetables, and no starch. Such was the peril of accepting a dinner invitation from Tina, who mostly eschews red meat and treats carbohydrates like they’re an aggravating relative she visits only on holidays.

I was sitting on the couch, taking in the view when Tina emerged and gave me a better one. She had pulled back her still-damp hair and was wearing a pair of men’s boxers and a black camisole that nicely showed off her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing a bra underneath, but I could hardly blame her. I wasn’t wearing one either.

“Thanks for being patient,” she said as she took a sip from her glass of wine, then moved into the kitchen to begin plating our meal. “I just needed that run so badly. I skipped yesterday, thanks to Darius Kipps, and if I had to skip today I would have felt like a giant slug.”

My need for exercise goes into hibernation a little more easily, but I said, “Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

“I left the office early tonight, too. I had to sell my soul to do it-I’ll be closing the paper Wednesday and Thursday thanks to this-but it was worth it. I just needed a break.”

“Yeah, I bet,” I said. The rationalization was as much for her sake as mine. Knowing Tina as I do-take a prototypical Type A, then add three parts of ambition and four parts of ceaseless drive-she was still feeling guilty about leaving early.

She inquired as to the state of my story, and I filled her in on the latest while she continued puttering around the kitchen. She was asking more as a friend than a boss-you can tell the difference because her questions don’t have as fine a point on them when she’s being my friend-and soon we were seated before the dinner she had prepared.

“This ought to be a switch for you,” she said. “Everything you’re about to eat is nonprocessed and a hundred percent organic.”

“Yeah, but I’d like to remind you cavemen ate organic, unprocessed food, too. And they’re dead.”

She shook her head but smiled. “Sometimes I think you’re the caveman.”

“Cheers,” I said. “To evolution or the lack thereof.”

We clinked glasses and set to eating. When we’re not fighting like crazed badgers, Tina and I really do get along quite well. And it was pleasant to finally have a cessation of hostilities. The salmon was dynamite. The wine wasn’t bad, considering who picked it. And we fell into easy chatter.

We were finishing up our meal-and had made the rather easy decision that, yeah, it wouldn’t kill us to open up another bottle of wine-when Tina finally got around to what was, as I figured, her agenda all along.

“You know, I’ve been a real bitch to you lately, and I want to apologize,” she said as I refilled her glass.

“No, no, it’s okay. We’ve all been stressed.”

“It’s more than that. I’ve been…”

“It’s okay.”

“No, let me just say this. I feel like I’ve been, I don’t know, not myself. Like today, with Kira, she called me a voodoo sex witch, or whatever it was, and I was already scheming of ways to make her life hell-really, how dare she? I never did anything to her, right? And then I realized I had been inventing reasons to go back into the Info Palace all day just to give her dirty looks. I know she noticed. She must have thought I was a nut.”

“She didn’t mention anything about it,” I said, and for once Tina failed to intercept the blatant lie I had just tossed up.

“And the thing is, I don’t really even care that you two are seeing each other, or dating, or whatever it is you’re doing-”

“It’s sort of still undefined,” I interjected.

“That’s fine. It’s none of my business and, besides, it’s not-I mean, no offense-it’s not something I’m even interested in doing, you know? I don’t want a relationship with you. I don’t want a relationship with anyone. And yet there I was, getting jealous and acting crazy because you guys are … whatever. I think sometimes my competitiveness gets the best of me. I need to win for the sake of winning, never mind that I don’t even particularly want what I’m trying to get.”

“It happens to all of us sometimes,” I reassured her.

“Me more than most. Anyhow, please accept my apology. I’ll try to be on my best behavior from here on out.”

“No problem. Thanks for apologizing.”

“You’re an easy person to apologize to,” she said.

We clinked glasses again. It soon turned out I was easy in other ways, too.

* * *

For the record, it really wasn’t my fault. I try to own my mistakes in this life and know when I am to blame for things. I accept full responsibility when I am. But it wasn’t me. Not this time.

First, it was the kitchen. Tina has this narrow, galley-style kitchen, as is often the case in crowded Hoboken, and there isn’t room in it for two people. So as we did the dishes-with me manning the sink and her puttering around me-she kept brushing into me with that lithe body of hers or having to put a hand on my hip for balance as she scooted past. It was just slight, incidental contact, yes, but sometimes that sets a tone for the less incidental kind.

Next, it was the couch. Tina only has one that faces her television at the right angle. So when she suggested we watch a movie-and, really, I needed at least a movie’s worth of time before I was remotely in shape to drive home-there was no choice but for us to both sit on it lest one of us have a ruined viewing experience.

Finally, it was her calf. The movie was perhaps ten minutes old when she announced that it had been giving her troubles lately and was starting to stiffen up after her jog. She asked if I wouldn’t mind rubbing it, and being the amiable sort of chap that I am, I acquiesced. Isn’t that what good friends do?