William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“I can’t do that. The judge would never allow it. Not so close to the trial date.”

“Christina, please listen to me. I’m his mother. I know what he was like when he returned from Toronto. You don’t know how long it’s taken him to get where he is now. I don’t want to erase all that.”

“I-I-” Christina was at a loss for thoughts, much less words. “I hear you. I’ll-I’ll do whatever I can.”

“I know you will.” Lillian looked at her earnestly. “Because I know you care about Ben. Just as I do. And you don’t want-”

“Of course not.” She rose. “If you’ll pardon me, I need to get back to Tulsa before dark. I’ve got an early flight to Chicago tomorrow morning.”

“I understand.” Lillian smiled, as best she was able, and wagged a finger. “But next time you’re in town, young lady, I want to go shopping.”

“You don’t like my outfit?”

“Don’t be silly. Now you’re starting to sound like Ben.”

“Well, I just thought-”

She put her arm around Christina and walked her to the front door. “I think it’s a splendid outfit. Red is your color, Christina.”

“You don’t think it makes me look like a big tomato?”

“Nonsense. I just wanted-” She paused, and Christina thought she saw her eyes glisten. “I don’t get many opportunities to take anyone shopping anymore. Especially not someone I like as much as you.”

Christina was starting to feel a little itchy-eyed herself. “Thank you. For everything.”

Lillian nodded. “Let me know what happens. And Christina?”

“Yes?”

Her voice fell to a hush. “If Ben gives you any trouble, play Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini.” He’s a total sucker for it. Turns to butter.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“So have you slept with her yet?”

Mike was not entirely surprised to look up from the desk-temporarily assigned to him at the Chicago office of the FBI-and see Sergeant Baxter hovering overhead. “I assume you’re not talking about Gwyneth Paltrow.”

Baxter had her fists pressed against her hips, feet spread. For some reason, she reminded Mike of those old commercials for Mr. Clean. “You know damn well who I’m talking about. The FBI bimbo.”

“Bimbo seems a bit harsh for someone with a master’s degree in criminology.”

“Just cut the crap and give it to me straight. Are you doing her?”

Mike stretched out his arms, pushing away from the desk. “Would it bother you if I was?”

“Damn straight it would. Are you?”

“I’m confused. I thought you made it very clear you weren’t interested in having an intimate relationship with me.”

Her face was taut and lined. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. Exactly. Not that I am. But what I said was that it would be inappropriate.”

Mike shrugged. “Okay. And Special Agent Swift-Danny-obviously feels differently. So what’s your beef?”

“My beef is that you and I are supposed to be partners!”

“But you said-”

“Not that kind of partners. Professionals-as in, doing our job. Remember that? I’m not talking about… about…”

“Grabass in the patrol car?”

“Right. I’m talking about doing our job. Properly. And I can’t do it when my partner is constantly cutting me out. Treating me like the little sister no one wants to play with.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was doing that-”

“Well, you are.”

“-so I guess I’ll let you come along when we go bike riding after school. If Mom makes me.”

“Don’t be such an asshole.” She leaned across his desk. “You know what I think? I think you’re punishing me because I won’t sleep with you.”

“Get over it already.”

“You can’t get what you want from me, so you’re giving me the dirt assignments while you go off with your new playmate.”

Mike had to bite his tongue. Sarcasm wasn’t going to calm her. He did enjoy seeing her get worked up, though. She was a lot sexier when she wasn’t being all cool and professional. “None of your assignments have been dirt. Every interview is important. I can’t predict which ones will pay off and which ones won’t.”

“But you always pair off with her.”

“It makes no sense for all three of us-”

“But I’m your partner!”

“But she’s working with us, too.” He lowered his voice. “And I would like to know why.”

“Maybe you should just ask me .”

Mike and Baxter both pivoted. Swift was in the doorway. She was wearing another black turtleneck, with black cords and her piece holstered over her left shoulder. She looked hot, and Mike wasn’t thinking about the room temperature, either.

“As I recall,” Mike said, “you told us you couldn’t reveal the reason for your assignment to the Nowosky murder.”

“And that’s just eating you alive, isn’t it, sugah?” Swift strolled across the office. “Only thing you hate worse than the FBI is a mystery you can’t solve.”

“Who says I can’t solve it?” Mike shot back.

“Oh, my. Does the big bad policeman have a theory? Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, I’ll play.” It would be hard to be more self-assured and in-your-face than this woman, Mike told himself. This should be a gigantic turnoff. But it wasn’t. “I’ve got a few connections in Hooverland myself, and they tell me it’s all very hush-hush, but there’s a good chance that since the Metzger kidnapping fiasco, you’ve been reassigned to some kind of drug task force specializing in designer and recreational drugs targeted toward kids. What a surprise then that Manny Nowosky, among other enterprises, turns out to have been pushing Ecstacy.” He paused. “How am I doing so far?”

“I haven’t fallen asleep yet.”

“So come clean, Swift. Is that why you’re horning in on our little small-town homicide investigation? Are we tracking a drug connection?”

“If we are, we have a right to know about it,” Baxter said. “Drugs change everything. Those people play for keeps.”

Swift stared at Mike, then at Baxter, before speaking. “You can keep your mouths shut? Because this is important. I’m under strict instructions not to share with local law enforcement.”

Mike raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Swift frowned. “Yeah. It’s drugs. Big time. Ecstacy ring. You know what X is, right?”

“MDMA,” Mike answered. “Methylenedioxymethamphetamine.”

“I’m impressed. So you also probably know that it’s a billion-dollar market, now almost entirely controlled by professional criminals. It’s cheap and easy to make. Kids love it. It’s the ‘hug drug.’ Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy and euphoric-without the wired feeling that comes from amphetamines or the confusion that comes from LSD. Requires no tools-no dirty infected syringes, no coke spoons. So the kids go to these clubs, roll around in their little cuddle puddles, and are stupid enough to think it doesn’t do them any damage.”

“And you think Manny Nowosky was pushing it?”

“Given the kind of money these guys play for, I could see someone getting the drill-bit treatment. Actually, as drug executions go, that could be considered mild.”

“So your interest in Manny is only peripheral. You’re tracking the drugs.” Mike nodded. “Thanks for leveling with us.”

“No prob. I didn’t like keeping secrets from a hunk of manhood like you.”

Baxter burned.

“Just keep it to yourself. And grab your coats.”

“Where are we going? If I may ask.”

“To a local bar, Remote Control. Remember-Roger Hartnell mentioned it. He saw Manny Nowosky there. And if he did, someone else might have as well.”