Brad Parks - The Good Cop

The next thing I knew, I had both of Tina Thompson’s long, lovely, bare legs stretched across my lap. I began rubbing her left calf, finding the kink in the muscle and slowly kneading it out. She let out a series of delighted sighs.

Then, because I was already in the neighborhood, I rubbed her right calf. After all, as any jogger knows, it feels good to have your legs rubbed after a run, whether you’ve strained a muscle or not. So she kept right on making those pleasant little noises.

Next thing I knew, Tina had scooched down closer to me so I could rub her quads. And I figured that was reasonable because they are, after all, the largest muscles in the legs, and they get sore from running, too. I worked around the knee, then moved up to the thick part of the thigh. Tina was really getting into the massage, having closed her eyes and flung her arms up over her head, such that her camisole was riding up a little, exposing part of her lean midriff.

At a certain point, she asked if I could rub her hip flexor as well because, she reported, that was also a little tender. And because apparently I wasn’t quite hitting the sore spot with her boxers “getting in the way,” she removed them, leaving her in a pair of rather insubstantial black panties.

I kept up the pretense of the massage for a little while longer as I worked on one hip, then the next. Then somehow I was rubbing her arms, then her shoulders. Then, well, of course she had to remove the camisole so I could really work on her back a bit without that “getting in the way.”

So somehow, in this purely innocent fashion-through no fault of my own-I ended up with Tina more or less naked and writhing on the couch, moaning in pleasure. And it would hardly seem sporting of me to let her do all that writhing and moaning by herself, so I joined in.

Tina and I had gotten to this spot-or variations of it-a number of other times during our dalliances through the past few years. And usually one of us pulled back, knowing that taking the final step could change everything. Especially at the right time of the month.

And so I kept expecting she would announce a halt to this little romp. Only she was way too into it, perhaps because my hands were straying into areas where the massage therapist at the health club wouldn’t go.

Then I kept expecting I would finally come to my senses. Except I was way into it, too, perhaps because she had tugged off all my clothes and started playing with some of my happier places.

Soon what started on the couch went to the floor, then to the bedroom, where very, very bedroom-type things started happening. This was, technically, our first time at this, but it didn’t feel like a first-time thing. There was none of the awkwardness or the haltingness. No one was checking in to make sure anyone was okay-the answer was already obvious.

I let her cross the finish line first because I’m just that kind of guy, then followed her soon thereafter. We held each other for a while without discussing any of what had just transpired. And frankly, I didn’t have the energy left to ponder what we had just done, how it would impact Kira and me-that relationship was still so undefined-or whether the Ross family tree had just added another branch. I just lay there and let my senses enjoy the smell, touch, and sight of Tina in her postcoital glory.

The next thing I knew there was a dim, morning light coming through the window and a phone was ringing somewhere. It sounded like a home phone, but it wasn’t my home phone. Then I remembered that’s because I wasn’t in my home. Tina grabbed it and offered a “hello” that managed not to sound like she had just been ripped from sleep.

“Oh, hi, Katie,” she said. There was only one Katie I knew of that would be calling at this hour, and it was Katie Mossman from the All-Slop.

“No, no, perfect timing. I’m just getting back from a run. What’s up?” Tina continued. She was perched on the side of her bed, still naked, and had grabbed a pen and small pad. There was another one of those unsightly numbers-a six, of all horrible things-leading her digital clock.

She began scribbling as I listened to her half of the conversation, which consisted of a lot of “Uh-huh, uh-huh” and “No, I’ll do that.”

It ended with: “Okay, I’ll be there in forty-five minutes or so. Thanks, Katie, bye.”

Tina turned to me and said, “Well, so much for lying in bed this morning.”

“What’s going on?”

“Pretend like I’m calling you on the phone to tell you we got another dead Newark cop-another suicide, from what it looks like. He was found dead in his home. Apparently it’s already all over the incident pagers this morning, so we better get moving.”

“They know who it is?”

“Yeah,” Tina said. “It’s Mike Fusco.”

Red Dot Enterprises didn’t get into business to kill anyone.

It might supply would-be killers with guns. But it left the act to the customers. As the old saw goes: guns don’t kill people, people kill people.

Really, for the associates of Red Dot Enterprises, it was more of a practical decision than a moral one. Most police departments didn’t focus their efforts strictly on guns. They had gang units, drug units, or homicide units, but never gun units. When they bothered with weapons charges, it was always in connection with (or sometimes even in lieu of) other charges. The classic is the drug dealer who is wily enough to hide his stash but goes to jail for being caught with a gun. It was like getting Al Capone on tax evasion. Even though the cops are happy to get a dirtbag off the street, the gun isn’t seen as the real crime. The police cared about guns, yes. But they didn’t care that much.

Murder was an entirely different story. Murder was a messy business, one that attracted undue attention. Newspapers wrote stories about it. Voters paid attention to it. Most of all, police commanders in cities large and small cared about it. Deeply. Many of the same police commanders who would have to scramble to the Uniform Crime Report to find their gun arrests could tell you their homicide clearance rate off the top of their heads.

Especially when it involved a police officer. It was something the associates of Red Dot Enterprises couldn’t believe they were even talking about when the subject first came up. They just wanted to keep their low profile, sell their guns, and make their money quietly. Not kill cops.

So there was more than a little debate about Detective Michael Fusco. There were those in the group who thought they didn’t need to bother with Fusco. Sure, he had some investigative skills and could bring certain law enforcement resources to bear on them. But it’s not like he was the world’s greatest detective. He was a meathead who drove around in a big pickup truck and wore tight sweaters. He wasn’t that much of a threat.

And yet, before long, even the doves in the group were going along with the hawks when it came to Fusco. The clinching factor was when it was learned, through reliable sources, that he had started a relationship with the Widow Kipps shortly after her husband’s death. It was a sign Fusco was too close, and that he probably wouldn’t give up. He had to go, plain and simple.

So they quickly set about planning it. Had Fusco been a civilian, they could have hired some help. Red Dot Enterprises certainly had enough contacts with dangerous men, thugs without conscience who would kill for next to nothing-a little free merchandise would have been all the payment required.

But a cop was a different matter entirely. This was a job they were going to have to do themselves.

Since they were scattered around Tina’s apartment, it took longer to find the various pieces of my clothing than it did to get into them. Around the time I finally discovered my pants-what were they doing out by the front entrance? — at least one of the problems of waking up in my boss’s apartment was beginning to become apparent. If I was in my own place, I would have at least grabbed a quick shower. Tina was of the mind-set I didn’t have time to brush my teeth.