Nancy Holder - Daughter of the Flames

She could ask for details, but it was shoptalk and she was trying to develop an other-than-work relationship with him.

“You’re okay, though?” she said.

“Sure. I’m going home to sleep for a year. Or maybe until you get off work.”

Her smile was frozen into place by a surprise attack of butterflies. “Ah,” she croaked. “Then you’ll be hungry when you wake up.”

His gaze was direct, his eyes sparkling. They reminded her of the Pacific Ocean, although she had never seen it. “Yes, I will be,” he said. “Starving.”

“Yeah, well.” She touched the tortoise shell clip restraining her insane hair. “Um, that’s good, because I want to…”

“You reading your patrol manual?” he asked her. “Thought after I catch some Zs and you piss off some more law-enforcement officers, we might have dinner and I could quiz you.”

Pat was helping her study the official handbook of the Department because she was getting her application together for the Police Academy. She had the sixty units of college level courses; she was still young enough—there was really nothing stopping her. Learning the manual was to give her an added boost of confidence—Pat’s suggestion. He had sussed out that she was afraid she wouldn’t measure up, despite being a cop’s kid and the NYPD’s fondness for families continuing the tradition. But because she was so anxious, Pat wanted her to have an edge. She did, too.

Her father would lose his mind if he found out. He had made it more than clear that he did not want her to become a cop. The streets were brutal. He had lost Jorge Olivera, his partner, to a bullet from Jorge’s own gun, grabbed away by a suspect in a stupid convenience-store robbery attempt. He had lost his wife to an incurable disease no one could name. Izzy knew that if something happened to her, it would kill him.

And yet…what she had was not enough. What she did, not enough. She processed forms and organized evidence. She knew it was important work, that it contributed to putting away the bad guys and protecting the innocent. She understood that without clear-cut procedures, the machinery of justice, such as it was, would shatter, precisely because police officers operated under the rule of law. Chaos belonged to the street. Order, to those who wore the blue. Otherwise, it was only a matter of might making right.

She liked learning the manual with Pat, but she hadn’t come clean about her real problem. She had a phobia about guns. They scared her. Badly. Every night of her recurring nightmare ended with a gunshot.

She had not even told Dr. Sonnenfeld that.

Because what if her phobia was insurmountable? The goal of becoming a cop was what made it possible for her to swipe her tag into that elevator security lock every single workday.

The tenth anniversary of her mother’s death made it seem more important that she follow her dream—also, more frustrating. She had thought her father would have moved along by now, too. Found someone to take care of him—a woman his own age.

As the years ticked by, that seemed less and less like it was going to happen.

Izzy licked her lips. “Great minds think alike,” she said, “except for the ‘quizzing me on the book’ part.” How to deliver this news? “Big Vince wants to check you out.”

She went blank. This was new territory for them, and she was groggy from lack of sleep. “Because, you know, he doesn’t want me to apply to the Academy. So, tonight’s not good for the multiple choice…” She trailed off.

“Iz?” he asked, peering at her. “Are you asking me over for dinner at your place, darlin’?”

Darlin’? She worked overtime not to blush. For God’s sake, she was twenty-six years old. She’d even had sex…twenty-six million years ago.

Trouble was, she seemed to pick men like her father—very macho on the outside, but in search of some woman to dump all the detail work on, including the housework and the day-to-day details of, well, daily life.

Or maybe that was part of the definition of macho.

Maybe this invitation was a mistake.

“Iz?” he prodded, smiling at her with all the patience and good humor a seasoned detective could muster.

“I am,” she confirmed. “I am inviting you to our place for dinner. Tonight, if you’d like. Short notice, but what does it matter in our line of work?”

“That would be lovely,” he drawled, pulling a smile across his exhausted features. He was the kind of man who could say words like “lovely” and drench them with masculinity. “I’d like that.” He snaked his hand through the window and caught up hers. Warmth and lovely tingles. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll pass muster. Your father’s just looking out for you. He’s a cool old guy.”

“Say that to his face and he’ll deck you,” she shot back, smiling faintly, enjoying the sensation of flesh on flesh. They’d brushed lips, hello and goodbye, not done much else. She was the one who had pulled back every time. He was the one who let her.

He flashed her a quick wink. “Let him try.”

“Say that to his face and he will. Seven? That work?”

“That works. I’ve got the address.” He chuckled when she looked slightly surprised.

She released his hand, picked up her Starbucks and sipped. “We’ll be waiting. Big Vince will notice if you’re late.”

“Got it.”

They shared another smile and he sauntered off into the day. His back was broad. His hips, not so much. Sigh.

Yolanda poked her in the ribs with her elbow.

“Snag him, mami, ” she said. “He is totally sweet.”

“You snag him,” Izzy teased her.

Yolanda closed her eyes and shook her head. “Chavela, I am finished with men. Never, never. Until at least next Tuesday.” She opened her eyes and giggled. “It doesn’t hurt to look. And that guy’s looking at you, so you might as well return the favor.”

“Whatever,” Izzy said noncommittally, picking up Cratty’s bag of drugs. “Meanwhile, I have evidence to stow.”

“Another day, another box of junk,” Yolanda said. “As if it mattered very much.”

“It has to matter,” Izzy said. “Doesn’t it?”

Yolanda sighed. “You have stars in your eyes, amiga. Me, I just want to do a good job and collect my paycheck. Find a guy, marry him, become a housewife and get fat.” Her eyes gleamed with predatory eagerness. “The simple life.”

“Believe me, there is nothing simple about it,” Izzy replied.

At five, Izzy was done for the day. She walked a few blocks in the setting sun to 110th where the Five had a stop. She went back down into the bowels of New York City and caught the train, groaning because it was packed.

As she held on to a strap in front of an old woman with a shopping bag, she reviewed her meal preparations for the evening. Cooking relaxed her, and she began to smile to herself as she envisioned the dishes she would prepare.

Serving and eating them with Pat and her father at the same table was another matter entirely.

The Five screeched to a stop and she joined the line dance as the other passengers shuffled toward the double doors and into the borough of Brooklyn. The train was steamy from riders sweating in their outerwear, rather than bothering to unpeel in the close confines of the car.

The doors opened to the underground station, letting in the stench of urine and the haunting refrain of a sax busking in the distance. Over the echoing clack of footfalls, two people argued loudly in Korean.

The escalator was broken, as usual; she took the cement steps, slowing behind a young Asian girl in a Yankees bomber jacket. Anticipating the chill outside, Izzy pulled her own jacket closer, wishing she’d worn her long coat.

Yeah, a coat like that one, she thought idly as she reached ground level and began to cross India on the same side as Russo’s and Fantone’s.