Chapter One
It seemed to Mickey that she had lived twenty years in the last twelve months.
She parked the car and just sat there. So much had happened it was hard to put the year’s events in perspective. Numerous earth shaking events, any single one of which would have changed her life forever; all of them together had almost overwhelmed her.
It had all started with an ordinary day that went crazy.
“Oh, please! When are you ever going to stop whining? You have just as many rights as the rest of us,” Marty yelled as he propelled the car down the street at an outrageous speed.
“How do you figure that?” Mickey yelled back.
“There are things I can’t do, too, you know....”
“And that’s supposed to make it all right?” Mickey said in disbelief. “They have stereo-typed us all.…”
“Then how come you gays are the only ones bitching?” Marty swerved to miss a car and spilled his coffee.
“You fucking dick!” he screamed out the window.
“Funny, that’s what I was going to say.”
Mickey laughed at the confused look on Marty’s face. “You are such an asshole,” she said, but not without a smile.
“I’m not an asshole... Well, maybe I am. I just don’t understand this whole argument. You’re a cop. You want to be a cop. Your friend, Bruce.…”
“Derek,” Mickey corrected. She knew which friend Marty was referring to, because that was the point they had reached in this—at least three times a week—argument.
“Whatever. He’s a clothing designer, and that’s what he wants to be. So I don’t get the big deal....”
“The big deal is that I know a whole lot of people who would like to be teachers, or cops, or firemen, or politicians... who can’t be.”
“Before the law you queers didn’t have shit for rights. You couldn’t file taxes together, you couldn’t adopt kids. You couldn’t put each other on your insurance, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”
“The law was supposed to make gay people feel free to come out of the closet, but it’s had the opposite effect. They gave with one hand, but they grabbed with the other. There are now twice as many laws that govern us, and we have to carry fucking cards....”
“Aren’t you fucking people ever going to be happy?”
“Aren’t you, dick head? Every day you gripe about one law or another, or some fucking tax....”
“That’s different,” Marty objected.
“Only because it affects you....”
“A possible ten seventy-one at Bushman’s Market on the corner of Fifth and Vine....”
“Ten four.” Mickey hit the siren, stuck the light on the roof, pulled and checked her gun almost in one action.
Marty turned the car around, floored it, and began weaving in and out of the traffic. He was, as he often reminded her, the best driver on the force.
He was also, as she just as frequently reminded him, the most dangerous.
As always, it seemed like it took them hours to get there. It actually took them less than two minutes.
The front window of the store was busted out, and a man lay sprawled on the sidewalk surrounded by glass. In his chest was a shotgun wound you could throw a cat through.
Marty squealed to a stop, and they wound up sideways in the street. Theirs was the first car to respond, so they swung their doors open and jumped out, guns in hand, using the doors as shields. Marty grabbed the bull horn.
“This is the police! We don’t want anyone else to get hurt, so come out with your hands up.”
A man ran out of the building with his hands up and yelled, “They ran out the back!”
They could hear the siren of another car. Marty didn’t hesitate, he ran for the store.
Mickey was starting to move when she saw the man’s hands move.
“Marty, get down!” she screamed.
As she saw the man reaching for something in the back of his pants, she jumped out from behind the door and started firing—once, twice, three times. As the man stumbled backwards, she saw him bring up the sawed-off shot gun; then she saw the flash and heard it fire. The sound of the blast was muffled as if in a dream, drowned out by the pounding of blood pumping in her ears. She shot him again, and the gun fell from his hands.
He stumbled again and then fell to the sidewalk, but she didn’t take her weapon off of him.
She looked at the open store door, and back at what was left of her partner.
“Damn it, Marty,” she cried. “You should have waited!”
Mickey looked back at the store. She heard sirens close, and then she heard the car stop. Fuck it!
She ran into the store. A woman clutching a child screamed. Mickey saw where she was looking, turned, saw a glint of metal, and fired.
A man fell.
A third man turned and ran out the back.
Mickey chased him into the ally and fired just over his head. He turned to look back, and she was able to put a bullet in his right shoulder. The impact spun him towards her. She took careful aim, and her second bullet hit him between his eyes. He fell to the street, his homemade gun spinning out of his hand and firing, and the twenty-two bullet landed with a thud in the meat of her shoulder.
“Well shit!” she yelled. Then she shot him again for good measure.
“And how did you feel?”
“How do you think I felt? He was my partner for five years. He was my best friend. What the fuck kind of question is that? How did I feel? I felt like someone pulled my soul out of my body and shit on it. Like the whole world had suddenly attacked me, and I was helpless to do anything about it.” Mickey glared at the woman behind the desk. She resented this whole procedure, and she told her so. “I wouldn’t be here if the department didn’t make me come.”
“You make a point of telling me that on every visit. Did it ever occur to you that I might really be able to help you?”
“No,” Mickey responded dully.
“Tell me about Marty.”
Mickey laughed. “Marty was a dick head. You know the kind. One of those men that still believes that men are superior by design. He was a slob. He used to eat corn dogs and fart in the car.”
She looked down at her hands.
“And Marty is the only friend I have that I know I can count on. The only person who will stand by me when everyone else has walked away. He tells me exactly what he thinks, and I never have to wonder how he really feels about me or anything else. He loves me. He loves me even when he thinks I’m wrong.”
“Do you realize that you are speaking about Marty in the present tense?”
“Well, excuse the fuck out of me,” Mickey snarled. “He just died three days ago... guess I’m not used to it.”
“I wasn’t trying to correct you, Mickey. Denial is a natural part of the grieving process. But you do need to start trying to accept Marty’s death.”
“Accept it! I’ll never accept it!” Mickey yelled. “But I saw his blood splattered corpse, so I know he’s dead, lady. I knew he was dead the instant I saw him lying there. I’m not expecting him to walk in that door any minute. You ever see what someone looks like after they’ve been shot at close range with a sawed off twelve gauge?”
“No,” the doctor answered simply.
“There isn’t any wondering if maybe they can be fixed. There isn’t any hope that any doctor’s going to be able to save them. There’s ground meat and organs and blood and a huge gaping hole where body parts should be.”
Mickey got up and started to pace the room. She fixed the sling on her arm.
“You need to talk to someone about it. If not me, then what about your partner? Can you talk openly to Chris?”
“No, I can’t. That’s why she moved out and filed for a divorce six weeks ago. Where the hell have you been?” Mickey said hotly. “God! I’m glad they made me come to this fucking counseling session! I just feel better and better.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I thought it was your job to know.”
“I’m sorry,” Doctor Parker said again. She ran her fingers through her hair. “So... are you seeing someone?”
“Hell! It’s only been six weeks! I think I’m allowed a little time to mourn over the death of my marriage. Besides, I haven’t really had the time to cruise for chicks. What with that fucking lunatic hacking up women, no one in the department has any spare time.”
“Mickey...” Doctor Parker sighed. “Obviously you have a whole lot of things to work through.” She pulled her keyboard towards her and started keying. “I’m recommending that you see me twice a week....”
“Okay! Okay! I’ll play ball. What do you want me to talk about?”
Parker laughed. “All kinds of things and it’s going to take two sessions a week for as long as it takes....”
“Oh, man! They’re going to put me on shit detail if you say I’m a head case!” Mickey groaned.
“You’re not a head case, Mickey. You just need to deal with some feelings that you are obviously repressing....”
“I’m not repressing shit! I’m bitching. I’m screaming. I’m crying... You want tears? Give me a second, and I’ll give you fucking tears.”
“I’ll see you on Tuesday at two o’clock.”
“Fucking beautiful!” Mickey mumbled as she slammed out.
The casket was heavy. The doctor would no doubt have a fit if he knew she was doing this. Especially considering that he had put seven stitches in her shoulder and had specifically instructed her not to lift more than five pounds. He also said to keep her arm in a sling. Mickey didn’t care. This was the last thing she was every going to be able to do for Marty, and she was going to do it if it killed her. She swallowed hard, and tried to ignore the pain.
Alfonzo must have heard her groan when they picked up the box.
“You okay, Mick?” he asked.
She hadn’t realized till right then that she was crying.
“I’m fine. Thanks, Alfonzo.”
She cleared her throat. It had all been okay till they had lifted the damned casket. At that very moment she had looked right into Bobby’s eyes.
Bobby. Marty’s four-year-old son. She hadn’t even thought about Bobby up to that point. She had helped Marty’s widow Susan make arrangements and shuffle family, but Bobby had been sent to stay with his aunt for a few days, and she had forgotten all about him until he had looked at her and held her gaze.
Of course he would seek her out. She was the only one there besides his immediate family that he knew. Mickey had been as constant in the boy’s life as his parents had been, and in his grief he looked to her for support. He had sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. She had winked at him, and he had almost smiled. That was when Mickey lost it.
A lot of people thought kids didn’t know what “dead” meant. That the concept was somehow beyond their capacity to understand, but Mickey knew in the instant that her eyes met Bobby’s that they did—at least Bobby did. He knew it meant he was never going to see his father again.
They set the casket down beside the grave, and Mickey looked up and saw Chris standing beside Susan. She started to get mad, but changed her mind. After all, Chris and Susan were best friends; where else would she be? After the initial shock Mickey had to admit she was glad to see her.
Chris smiled at her and motioned for Mickey to come stand by her, which she did. Chris took her hand and gave it a squeeze. Mickey looked down at Chris’s hand holding hers. She wanted to have the strength to pull away from Chris, but she didn’t. She needed Chris just then. Mickey swallowed her pride and held Chris’s hand tightly.
“Marty died protecting us all...” the priest started, and Mickey tuned him out. She’d heard that opening line more times than she wanted to remember. Besides, Marty died because he was a stupid hot dog, not because he was particularly brave. A seriously terminal case of testosterone poisoning. Mickey almost laughed.
“Marty leaves behind him a loving family. A loving wife, a young son, and loyal friends.”
After what seemed like an eternity, the priest stopped talking. Mickey was supposed to give a eulogy now, but she was crying, and she didn’t want to let go of Chris’s hand. Chris finally nudged her, and Mickey moved up to where the priest had been. She cleared her throat and dried her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her dress blues. She cleared her throat again.
“Okay. Give me a second.”
She looked down at the ground, and then she looked at Susan who smiled weakly through her tears and nodded.
“Marty and I... we were arguing right before... the shrink asked me if that made me feel guilty. Well, of course it didn’t. Anyone that knows us knows we always argued about everything all the time. We also spent a lot of time agreeing with each other. We were more than partners....”
Her tears fell then, and she had to stop for a minute.
“Marty was the only real friend I had. We didn’t just work together; we played together. We spent more time together than any two humans ought to, and I’m so... Marty was an obstinate, pig-headed bastard, and I loved him more than I love my own brother.”
She walked away, and someone else got up to talk. Everyone talked. It went on, and on, and painfully on. Chris put an arm around her.
“You’ll be okay,” she reassured her.
“What the hell do you care?”
“Don’t be like this, Mickey. You know I’m always going to care.”
Susan tried to talk, and couldn’t, so she walked over and fell into Mickey’s arms crying. Susan’s sister and mother looked more than a little hurt, but Susan naturally gravitated to the only person there who was hurting as badly as she was.
Mickey was crying too hard herself to be much more than a post to lean on. But at six foot, and one hundred sixty pounds, she was at least a hell of a good post. Chris whispered things to Susan that Mickey couldn’t hear that seemed to calm Susan down.
By the time they got to folding the flag, Mickey was numb, but the twenty-one gun salute woke her up again. She took in a deep, shuddering breath, and for a moment she saw it all over again in her mind. She broke out in a cold sweat.
Funerals were too damn long.
Outside, the mourners were devouring hordes of food, while in the bathroom Mickey was busy trying to wash her face enough that it wouldn’t look like she had been crying. She didn’t really want to face all those people out there, but she couldn’t keep the bathroom tied up for hours. She dried her face as well as she could and walked out. Too many people, but most of them would eat and leave.
Bobby walked up to her and tugged on her pants leg. He held his arms up, and she reached down and picked him up. It hurt a lot, but she ignored it.
“I don’t blame you, bud. I wouldn’t want to be looking at all those butts, either.”
He nodded big, and patted her on the back. “You’ll get a new friend, Mickey.”
“Knock that crap off, kid. You’ll get me crying again,” she said.
“Uncle Riley says my dad was a hero. Was he a hero, Mickey?”
“Just like Superman, only dumber,” Mickey said with a smile.
“When I see you... it’s like Daddy’s still here. ’Cause you was always here when Daddy was.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “I miss my daddy.”
Mickey swallowed hard. “Me, too, kid. Me, too. How about we keep each other company for a while?”
He hugged her neck hard. “That would be real good,” he said.
Over her shoulder he saw his cousins playing in his room.
“Down!” he ordered.
She set him down, and watched him run off to play. When you’re a kid, a piece of play dough can make you forget your grief at least for a while. The older you got, the harder it was to forget. The older Bobby got the more he would grieve for his father. By the time he was twenty he would just start realizing what he had lost the day some punk blew his father away. For Bobby this would be a pain that would grow with him.
The loss of Marty in Mickey’s life left a void that she knew would be filled by nothing. She felt numb and hurt and angry all at the same time.
Chris walked up to her, as if to remind her just how empty her life was. “You look green, Mick. Maybe you ought to sit down,” she suggested.
“It’s so damn hot.” Mickey unbuttoned her jacket. “Too many damn people.”
“Shsh,” Chris said. “Take your jacket off and sit down.”
Mickey smiled. “You keep talking like that, and people are going to think we’re still married.”
“If you weren’t such an obstinate butt-head, we might be.” Chris pointed at a chair.
Mickey nodded, took off her jacket, and swallowed the words, and if you weren’t such a cheating slut.
Susan’s mother screamed and fainted, and Mickey realized that the wet stuff under her arm wasn’t all sweat.
“Shit,” she said, looking at the growing red stain on what had been her best white shirt.
Chris took Mickey by the elbow and propelled her towards the bathroom. She sat her on the clothes hamper and started unbuttoning her shirt.
“Geez, honey. I don’t know. What would Leslie say...?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Chris hissed.
She took the shirt off and looked at the slowly oozing wound. She wet a towel and started to dab it clean. Then she saw the stitches. One was obviously broken.
“What the hell happened to you?” Chris demanded.
“Christ, Chris! What do you think happens when you get shot?” Mickey said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Did you think they sprayed on a little Bactine, slapped on a bandaid, and shipped me home?”
“I didn’t know you got shot, smart ass. No one bothered to tell me.” Chris traded the wet rag for a dry one and held it on the wound. “We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”
“How could you not know? Just slap a band aid on it.”
Chris shook her head no, so Mickey got up and went to the medicine cabinet. She found a Captain America stretch bandaid and used it to bring the two parts of the wound back together.
“See? Good as new.”
“You’re an asshole,” Chris accused.
“Yes, well I believe we covered all of that in court,” Mickey said.
Chris walked up and put her arms around Mickey’s neck. Mickey wanted to push her away, but it felt good to be held by her again. Mickey wrapped her arms around Chris’s waist, and they kissed. Their lips parted.
“I don’t need your charity, Chris.”
“Mickey... Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you, Chris. If I hated your guts I wouldn’t be the complete fucking idiot that you have always made a point of telling me that I am.” Mickey looked into her eyes. “I love you. Just like I’ve always loved you. But I can’t have you. I now know that I never really did. And as you once pointed out, I can be a real bitch when I want something I can’t have.”
“We could go back to your place. We could be together tonight....”
“What about Leslie?” Mickey asked sarcastically.
“She’d understand,” Chris said.
“Yeah, well I don’t,” Mickey said in disbelief. “I never have. What the hell happened to you? What happened to us?”
Chris moved away from Mickey then. She turned towards the wall, and when she turned around there were tears streaming down her face. “You were always working—even when you were at home. You have a death wish... I... I didn’t want to end up like Susan, all alone and desolate when you got yourself killed.”
“Oh, now that is really lame.” She looked at her bloody shirt and then at Chris. “I’ve never even been close to being really hurt before, and you never once asked me to quit.”
“What would have been the point? We both know that you’ll never quit. Even if you did, you’d always resent me for taking your career away. Leslie has a desk job. She may be a little dull, but at least she’s always going to be there....”
“So is the crack of my ass. That doesn’t mean I have to love it,” Mickey hissed. “If you still love me, then be with me.”
“I don’t love you, Mickey. I can’t. It’s too dangerous. Leslie comes home jittery because she’s had too much coffee. You come home bleeding. I just can’t take it anymore. I don’t want to play second fiddle to anyone’s damn career. With Leslie there is no danger of that. I am, and always will be, first in her life. She lives for me.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Mick, you Okay?” Susan asked.
“Yeah, but I need a clean shirt.”
“I’ll get you one!” Susan hollered back.
“You know this make me sound really sad, but up till this very moment—even when I got the final divorce papers—I didn’t really think it was over,” Mickey said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. Sorry I couldn’t be who you needed me to be, and really sorry that you weren’t who I thought you were.”
Susan knocked on the door, and Chris opened it.
Susan walked in and handed the shirt to Mickey. “You okay?” she asked again.
Mickey nodded, although she was far from it.
“I’m not boring enough. But other than that, I’m okay.”
“Why didn’t you tell me she got shot?” Chris asked accusingly.
“Because I knew you would freak, and I have enough on my plate,” Susan said simply.
“I’m sorry I made your mom pass out,” Mickey said.
“Blow it off. You know mother—never passes up the opportunity to be the center of attention.”
“I’m gonna cruise on home,” Mickey said.
She looked at Chris. “I hope you’re happy. And for the record, I’m sincere. After all the shit, all the lies, and all the pain, someone ought to be happy.” She kissed Chris gently on the cheek and walked out.
Susan looked at Chris. “Go after her.”
“I can’t,” Chris said, wiping a tear from her cheek.
“She loves you.”
“That’s not enough,” Chris said. “Besides, you know Mickey; she could never really forgive me.”
“I’m afraid she’ll do something stupid,” Susan said.
“I know she will, and that’s why I can’t be with her.”
It wasn’t like she was abandoning Susan; she lived right next door.
Mickey and Marty had bought this duplex long before either of them was married. It had needed a lot of work because it had been a HUD house, and everyone who had rented it had done their best to destroy it. It had also been the site of a double suicide—something which neither of them had ever bothered to tell their wives.
She walked in, went to the refrigerator and got a beer. Then she flopped down on the couch and took a long drink.
Everything about this place reminded her of Marty. How they experimented on housing repair, arguing every inch of the way about everything, and how somehow it always seemed to work out. At least once a week they would cruise the dumpsters, and that’s where most of the furniture in both apartments came from. Something else they hadn’t told their wives.
She had thought that finding Chris in their bed with another woman had been the all-time low of her life. But seeing Marty splattered by a twelve gauge sawed off shot gun had replaced the image of Chris and Leslie’s indiscretion.
She just kept seeing it, hearing it, and feeling it over and over again. She looked at her wrists, scarred and twisted. It seemed that in her life one horrifying image was always being replaced by another. She leaned her head back and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears.
“Ah, you fucking jerk. I really need you right now. You fucking know better! That whole set up stank. But you’re such a fucking know-it-all idiot, and... What the hell am I going to do without you, Marty?”
She downed the rest of the beer in one swallow. Her shoulder really hurt.
“Like I never did anything stupid. Right! If IAD finds out what I did to that punk in the alley... Well, at best I’m not going to have a job anymore, and then what will I have? Hell, they’ve got me going to a shrink now, so they don’t even think I still have all my marbles. Of course they’re wrong—lots of people talk to dead guys.”
“You’re not ready to go back to work yet,” Captain Fritz said flatly, “physically or emotionally. I was there at the house when you took off your jacket and your partner....”
“Ex-partner,” Mickey corrected.
“Chris told me that you had ripped a stitch out and you refused to go to the doctor. The department shrink says you’re uncooperative and hostile.”
“My divorce was final less than two weeks ago, I just lost the best friend I ever had, I got shot for the first time in my career, and the IAD is breathing down my neck....”
“They’re just going through the motions. You know that.”
“My point is that, yes... I do feel a little hostile and uncooperative. Mostly I don’t feel like telling some tight-ass straight bitch my life’s story.”
“I’ve given your cases to Rosettes and Carey,” the Captain said.
“Including the Slashings?” she asked in disbelief.
“Especially the Slashings,” he said.
“Fuck that, Bob!” She stood up. “Marty and I did all the leg work on those cases. I’m better than all your precious psych profilers, and you know it. I know more about this creep than anyone....”
“When we get him you’ll get credit....”
“I don’t give a fuck about credit!” she spat back.
“This is what I’m talking about, Mickey. You’re always a pain in the ass to deal with, but right now you’re fucking impossible. I know you, Fire. Someone will say the wrong thing, and before you know it, we’ll have another shooting on our hands. I don’t want to see you in this station for another two weeks.”
“What if the Slasher....”
“File it under ‘not your problem’, Derringer, because it’s not your case anymore. Take the time to work on the house. I’m sure Susan could use the help.”
“That all, Captain?”
“Don’t forget your therapy sessions.”
“Fine.” She stomped out of his office.
“How ya doin’, Fire?” one of her co-workers asked with real concern as she walked by.
“Ah! It doesn’t get any better than this.”
Mickey looked down at the water lapping against the pier then at the gun in her hand. She could put the barrel in her mouth, pull the trigger, and pitch forward into the water. Then her body would float out of this town and out of this pointless life.
She put the gun into her mouth, just to see if she could do it. She could, so she took the gun out of her mouth and looked at it.
“What the hell am I hanging around for?” At that moment she didn’t really want an answer to her question. She wanted to blow her brains out and have it over with. To see some end to the pain of her wasted existence. To bring an end to the constant parade of horrors that ran through her mind.
What about Bobby?
“Marty!”
She spun around and saw nothing.
“Marty?” she whispered into the darkness.
Her only answer was the noise of the city behind her—and a reason not to kill herself.