Jodi Compton - The 37th Hour

“Those are all narcotics guys for the city-county task force,” Genevieve said, “except the really tall guy. That’s Kilander, a county prosecutor.”

She raised her voice. “You mean my very tall friend?” she yelled back. Then, to me again, “You want to meet them? They’re probably recruiting for some kind of team.”

Clearly, I saw, she was friendly with their ringleader, Radich, who up close resolved into a Mediterranean-looking man of Gen’s age with a rough-edged face and tired-looking dark eyes. Kilander was about six-five, with blond hair and blue eyes, polished and sincere-looking like an ex-farm boy turned news anchor. The other two were a lithe mid-height black man of my age, Hadley, and an ex-military-looking Scandinavian with a painfully short buzz cut and flat blue eyes, Nelson.

“This is Sarah Pribek. She’s a patrolwoman,” Genevieve said. “And more important, a state champion point guard in her high school days.”

The men exchanged smiles.

“So,” Genevieve continued, “why don’t you consider me her agent in negotiations for whatever crappy interagency team you’re putting together?”

“Putting together?” Radich said innocently. “We need some-one right now, to sub in. Nelson’s leaving. And you can play, too, naturally, Detective Brown.”

“Naturally my ass,” Gen said.

“Wait,” I interjected. “One guy’s leaving and two of us sub in?”

“I count as half a person or something,” Genevieve explained.

“No,” Radich said. “We were already playing three-on-two. Where the hell is Shiloh?”

“I’m here,” a new voice said.

Watching Genevieve joust with Radich, I didn’t even see him approach, returning from somewhere on the sidelines. I turned to look at the newcomer, and my throat worked involuntarily.

There wasn’t even a ripple of surprise in those lynx eyes, but I knew he recognized me. He was clean-shaven this day. I wanted to take my eyes away from his face and couldn’t.

Radich carried on with introductions. “Mike Shiloh, Narcotics, this is Genevieve Brown from the Investigations Division-”

“I know Genevieve.”

“-and Sarah Pribek, Patrol.”

“Hey,” he said.

“They’re going to play with us for a little while. Kilander got first pick last time, so you call it this time. Brown or Pribek.”

Genevieve looked at me and rolled her eyes at the foregone conclusion.

Shiloh’s gaze passed over both of us, then he looked at Genevieve and jerked his head in the direction of his teammate, Hadley. “Come here, Brown,” he said.

“Mike!” Hadley sounded disgusted. Radich flashed a mildly surprised look at Genevieve, who lifted both shoulders in a search-me fashion.

In all the confusion, I hoped nobody saw the shock of the insult register on my face. Kilander, the prosecutor, was the only unperturbed one; he flashed me a smile as though we had a great and sexy secret.

So that was how it stacked up. Genevieve darted gamely among us, with slow-footed Radich guarding her. Hadley did a pretty good job of covering Kilander, his speed counterbalancing Kilander’s height and skill. But really the game was all Shiloh and me.

He was very good, I had to admit, pressing me on my weak low-post moves, not letting me get out where I could sink my three-pointers. I managed, though, to keep his scoring down. Our teams were tied for much of the game. Shiloh crowded me, but was careful not to foul me. Finally my temper snapped and I body-slammed him.

Shiloh marked this victory by not commenting on my loss of control as he stood and accepted the ball from Hadley. Genevieve, though, as we all moved aside to let Shiloh take his free throws, hissed gleefully in my ear: “You just cost your team the game.” She was teasing, but I was annoyed with myself.

“Maybe he’ll miss.”

“He doesn’t miss,” Genevieve whispered back.

Shiloh accepted the ball from Radich, bounced it in the judicious, time-killing way of basketball players everywhere, shot, and whanged it off the rim.

I laughed in relief that my teammates took for triumph. Shiloh ignored me. It didn’t matter in the end. His team ended up winning the game by a narrow margin.

As Genevieve was saying goodbye to Radich, Shiloh turned to me from about six feet away, stopping in the middle of following Hadley off the court. Sweat made his faded green Kalispell Search and Rescue T-shirt stick to his ribs, reminding me of the flanks of a cooling racehorse.

“Kilander was a forward at Princeton,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Maybe you should work on your passing game.”

Out of earshot, on our way to the locker room, Genevieve was less diplomatic. “What the hell was that?” she demanded.

“What?”

“I’ve never seen two people so competitive in my life. Do you know Shiloh from somewhere?”

“Why is it my fault?” I complained evasively.

“You fouled him,” she said.

“It serves him right for not picking me for his team. What the hell was that, by the way?”

Genevieve turned thoughtful. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know him that well. I’m not sure that anybody does. He’s not real well liked around the department.”

“Why not?”

Genevieve shrugged. “He does things like what he just did with you. He probably didn’t even realize that he was snubbing you.” She bent over to lace up her boots, one foot propped on a bench. “He’s competent, from what Radich says, but not real good with people. Radich is his lieutenant, you know.”

I turned that over in my mind.

“He and Kilander have a little history. An unfriendly one.” Then, just as the conversation was getting really interesting, Genevieve changed the subject. “Are you on midwatch tonight?”

“Nope,” I said. “Got the whole day off. Why?”

“I told you that you should come over for dinner sometime; tonight’s as good a night as any. My daughter’s fixing it. She’s already a better cook than I am.”

I reflected that I would have to get Genevieve to talk about Kilander and Shiloh some other time, but in the following days the opportunity never came up. The next thing I heard about him was that I was being taken off the street for a night to work with Det. Mike Shiloh on some kind of stakeout.

Wear street clothes. That was about the extent of my instructions when I went to meet Shiloh at the motor pool. He was dressed only marginally better than the night I’d first met him, and just nodded for me to accompany him as he signed out an unmarked car, a dark-green Vega.

“Where are we going?” I asked when we were on the road.

“Outside the city,” Shiloh said. “Meth country.”

A minute after I decided we were going to drive in silence, he went on. “This is actually going to be pretty dull,” he said. “In a small town, it’s harder to blend in. Hard to park for a while without attracting too much attention. With a female partner you can pass for a couple out parking after a date.”

“And you thought of me.”

“No,” Shiloh said flatly. “Radich did.”

I wondered if he couldn’t forgive me for seeing him weak and needing someone. I wondered if it had crossed his mind that I could be pissed that he, too, saw me weak and needing someone. Maybe we were going to carefully avoid mentioning having slept together for the rest of the time we knew each other. Damned if I was going to bring it up.

“Well, I’ll have to thank Radich,” I said.

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “This is a no-brainer. Like I said, dull.”

“What did you do to your arm?”

“What?” Shiloh followed my gaze to the crook of his elbow, to the round Band-Aid there. “I gave blood. I’m O negative, a universal donor. They call me a couple of times a year, asking me to come in and donate.” He pulled off the Band-Aid, revealing unmarked skin.