Max Pemberton - Police Detective

Blondie

soppingwetpanties

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.

A physical therapist's office seemed like a cross between a gym and a hospital, brightly colored elastic bands, foam rollers, yoga mats and balancing balls, all in a clinically sterile environment with white walls, linoleum floors, replete with a plastic human skeleton hanging in the corner for demonstrations. I was sitting in a guest chair biding my time while my sidekick Ginny Hamilton was completing her assessment for fitness to return to active field duty. She'd spent the better part of the year behind a desk, and I thought either she or I would kill the other if she didn't get her legs exercised in the field.

Ginny was a linebacker in a woman's body - tall, heavily muscled, and agile. She'd hurt her knee in college playing rugby and tore her ACL running to save my life, using her Mosberg 500 pump action shotgun, point blank, to blow the head off of Frisco St. Fleur right before he was going to do the same to me.

The therapist, a handsome brunette, mid-30's I guessed, cheekbones high, lips painted with the softest trace of coral. Her body was trim in a fitted white jacket, her long legs moving with the grace of a confident woman, probably a long distance runner. For a moment I tried to imagine what she'd look like in bed with me and then cursed myself for the thought. Max, always on the prowl, even in a rehab clinic.

Ginny whooped like a school girl when she was handed her completion certificate - sort of a "get out of jail free" card.

"You hear that Max? First call on patrol... I'm on it!" Ginny crowed.

The therapist gave me a smile, eyes seemingly on me longer than necessary, or maybe it was my imagination working overdrive. She'd treated a number of officers at our station and had undoubtedly heard stories about my unconventional exploits both out in the field and in the bedroom. Was she really interested in getting on Max's crazy train?

"Don't let her wreck all my good work in the first week," she admonished me, giving me a wink. It wasn't my imagination after all.

"Thank you," said Ginny, giving the therapist a big hug.

The brunette reached across her desk for a holder with her business cards, retrieving one and then scribbling something on the back.

"Please take this... in case you need to get in touch with me," she said to me.

I took the card and looked at the front:

Pike Physical Therapy and Sports Rehabilitation

Lauren Pike, DPT, OCS

Board Certified Orthopedic Clinical Specialist

2351 Clifton Avenue, Suite 207

Cincinnati, OH 45220

Office (513) 555-0146

Cell (513) 555-2535

www.pikept.com

Then I flipped the card over to read what she'd written:

Like you I don't respect guardrails - call me

Looks like I wasn't the only one on the prowl. And apparently there something deeper - and darker - hidden underneath that buttoned down wrapper, and I suspected I'd be the one to find out.

* * *

The drive back to the station consisted of a torrent of Ginny's chatter - months of pent up energy discharging itself in my ear - arrests she'd make, corners she'd work, brass she'd prove wrong, including Paul Muenster, our boss, the head of Vice and a royal prick. The truth was I was glad she had the fire in her belly after endless hours moping around the station. Even if it meant cleaning up after her storm.

Ginny peeled off to finish her reinstatement paperwork and I went to find my partner, Lanny Woodford. The station's break room was alive with the low thrum of vending machines and the sour tang of day-old coffee left to bake on a warmer. Lanny was there as expected and in a jovial mood. He'd purchased a book of magic tricks, and had a young female cadet leaning forward, eyes fixed on his hands. He gave the cards a lazy shuffle, then fanned them across the table.

"And the ace is... here!" he said with a grin, producing the card from behind his ear. The cadet gasped. Lanny laughed.

"How'd you do that?" she asked breathlessly. She was young and attractive and entirely Lanny's type, athletic in build and goofy.

He turned his head and saw me and his face changed from stupid Lanny to alert Lanny. I learned since he became my partner that the airhead act was just that, an act. I'd trained him to be a street smart cop and being a big lug, he was a presence where size mattered in the rough and tumble West End.

He looked at me and the cadet stepped back to give me room. She'd no doubt heard that our team had taken down Frisco, the leader of the Haitian Kings. Lanny blew the chest out of Frisco's lieutenant and Ginny took off the top of Frisco's head with a shotgun. We were real police.

"What's up boss?" he asked me.

"Ginny got her medical clearance today. Just a firearms test and a couple of other procedures to check off and then she's back on the team."

"That's great," Lanny said. "She was so bored in the office she was bugging me to death."

"Me too," I said, "so we're going to put the full court press on to get her reinstated."

"Amen to that," he said.

"By the way, have you heard the news?" Lanny asked me. He had no idea it would mean anything to me.

"News?"

"Muenster was just named head of Homicide. He's sliding into Campos's chair. After the Frisco screw-up he tossed her under the bus and walked away clean. Cold, even for that rat bastard."

That sounded like Muenster. He'd always had a taste for knives in the back.

"Yeah," I chimed in, "Muenster threw Irene Campos under the bus and got a promotion, Ginny got a medal and I got an autographed photo from the Mayor of her shaking Muenster's hand with me standing in the background."

But Lanny wasn't done.

"And they hired a new person to head Vice."

The air stilled. That was big news.

"Who is it goddammit?" I asked.

"Some woman from Columbus... goes by the name of Blondie..."

The word hit me like a slap in the face. Blondie.

"You're joking," I said.

"Not joking. Heard it twice this morning. Catherine something..."

"Catherine Hale?" I asked, still incredulous.

"That sounds right," Lanny confirmed.

The name hollowed me out. Catherine Hale. Blondie.

And just like that, twenty years melted away and I was a fresh faced cadet at the Academy with Catherine as one of my classmates. I was a sexually bi-curious young woman who was intensely attracted to the tall, ambitious blonde. We had a fling then, quick and hot, and I thought under the radar from the mostly homophobic cadets.

But someone got wind of our relationship, maybe catching us holding hands or slipping out of the dorm late together. Catherine and I were in the corridor outside the mess hall, the rumor mill boiling, cadets staring. Someone muttered "dyke" under their breath at the two of us, and Catherine turned to them with a smile that cut like a blade.

"Don't be absurd," she said, crisp and bright enough for everyone to hear.

"I'm not a rug muncher, and I'm not her type," she said, looking at me.

Laughter, low and mean, rolled down the hall. I stood there frozen, shocked to be thrown in ice cold water while she walked off with her head held high, ambition intact. We didn't speak to each other after that. Never. I heard she'd chosen the safe road, married a man who was some big shot bank executive and put in her time with Columbus PD. I never thought I'd hear her name again.

And now she was back in my life as my new boss.

I almost wished for Paul Muenster. Almost.

* * *

I spent the rest of the day squiring Ginny around the various departments, pulling in favors and jawboning reluctant paper pushers to get her back to active duty. I was going to get it done if it killed me, which it almost did.

The last step was the gun range and Ginny's proficiency test. It was late afternoon before we got there. I was worried about Ginny. I knew she was a good shot but the long layoff and all the administrative bullshit we went through that day had to have taken its toll.

The range was on the edge of town in Evendale, in an old industrial park, behind a rusty chain link fence and warning signs that had bullet holes in them. Inside the ancient white cinder block building the air carried a sharp acrid tang of cordite and machine oil, a smell as familiar to me as hot coffee. Ginny followed me down the corridor, her step tentative like a rookie who'd just been handed a shield.

Sergeant Mike Rourke ran the place like his own private fiefdom. He was a big Irishman, close-cropped gray hair and forearms like timber beams. He was a year behind me at the Academy and his ear was always tuned to the scuttlebutt that floated through the barracks. We usually gave each other a hard time, and this visit was no exception.

"Maxie! To what do I owe the honor of your presence?" his voice deep and booming amid the chatter of gunfire.

I pulled Ginny forward. "Have to get this girl qualified so she can go back on active duty."

Mike did a full body scan on Ginny, his baby blue eyes soaking in the image of a tall, muscular woman.

"If I was twenty years younger..." he started.

"... she'd still tell you to fuck off," I said, cutting him off.

Mike grinned. "She a lesbo like you?"

I got up to him close, close enough to smell his bad aftershave.

"No Mike, but she likes guys with dicks that are bigger than her little finger."

He chuckled. "Same Maxie. Dirty mouth. Big tits. Too bad you play for the wrong team. Otherwise we would have hooked up."

I kissed him on the cheek. "Can't stop you from dreaming."

"So you hear the news?" he asked.

"Blondie?" I answered. Station gossip traveled like greased lightning. Apparently I was the last to know.

"Yeah. Whole departments buzzing. Folks are saying maybe the two of you will patch things up, huh?"

"Not likely," I answered instantly. "Now how about we get this gal qualified?"

Mike left to get the paperwork, leaving Ginny and me at the counter.

"What was that all about?" she asked me, as shots rang out in the background.

"Later," I said.

* * *

Fifty rounds, fifteen yards, paper silhouette target, department issue Glock 19. First ten: five controlled pairs, center mass. Then head box shots after a combat reload, time ticking loud in the background. Kneeling position for the next strings, three rounds apiece. The final, six rounds in ten seconds, rapid fire.

I stood behind the line, arms crossed, protective ear muffs in place, watching her settle into it. Ginny had been a royal pain in the ass through months of rehab, sulking, snapping, wanting back on the street before her body was ready. But now she was calm. Textbook stance. Two-hand grip high on the frame, elbows firm, front sight steady.

The first pair cracked downrange, paper fluttering. Dead center. Each shot after that perfect, then a smooth reload, snapping off headshots clean as though she'd never left the job. By the time she laid down the final string, brass glinting around her boots, the sergeant was whistling low.

"Perfect score," he said, stapling the target back up on the board for us to see. "All center mass, every round accounted for. Hell, I've seen the SWAT boys throw flyers under less pressure. She's good to go, Max."

Ginny beamed. For once she didn't look like a sulky kid sister, but a cop, fit for service.

* * *

On the ride back to the station, silence stretched as the miles went by. She sat angled toward me, eyes sharp, finally breaking the uncomfortable quiet.

"So," she said at last, "what this all about with Blondie?"

I kept my eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but there was no ducking it. She'd hear about it sooner or later. Better it came directly from me.

"We came up through the Academy together and hooked up briefly, not officially, and we thought completely under the radar. But someone must have seen us together because rumors started flying. Only Catherine didn't see it as some harmless chatter. She saw it as a career-ender."

Ginny leaned with her elbow on the door listening. "And what did she do?"

"She cut me off cold," I said. "Vehement denials. Told anyone who'd listen there was nothing between us, and left me hanging out to dry. Made me look like the one chasing shadows. I don't blame her for wanting to protect her badge... back then the brass didn't exactly hand out commendations for that kind of thing... but it hurt. It hurt bad. It felt like a betrayal from someone I trusted and had feelings for."

Traffic slowed near Norwood, brake lights glowing across all three lanes. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel absentmindedly, the pain of a hurt long ago leaking into my fingertips.

"Have never spoken since graduation. Heard she got married to some rich banker in Columbus. Rose up through the ranks of Columbus PD. I have no idea why she ended up here."

"So when the sergeant joked about you patching it up..."

"It was Mike being Mike, just stirring the pot. Knew it'd get a rise out of me."

I kept my eyes locked on the road, but inside I could feel the old ache twisting, the memory of Catherine, her long wavy blonde hair, large expressive blue eyes, full busted with a classic hourglass figure, and the hours spent discovering the joys of love of another woman. Mike had simply ripped the band aid off a wound that never fully healed.

* * *

Ginny was bouncing around the station like a newborn deer, showing off her completion certificate to anyone who would look. I was happy for her but my mind was on other things, namely the woman who I was mad about twenty years ago who parachuted into my life from Columbus. Catherine Hale. Blondie. Names I hadn't heard in years. My new boss. Why here? Why me?

Maybe fortunately for me my angst was drowned in paperwork. The last hour of my shift was spent in my office dealing with bureaucratic bullshit - my inbox. Property room receipts, evidence log transfers, and a complaint review that had nothing to do with me but needed my signature because I was the last detective standing around. By the time I wrestled the paperwork into something resembling order, the squad room was empty and the wall clock ticked past eight.

Shift finally over, I went to the duty desk and signed out for the day. The duty desk sergeant was Walt Kubiak. He'd been glued to that chair for the last two decades and knew all the comings and goings at the station. He was broad in the middle, thinning gray hair slicked back, readers perched low on his nose over a crossword puzzle.

I slid my Glock across the counter, muzzle pointed safe, badge beside it.

"Evening, Sarge."

He peered over the rims of his glasses. "Evening Max. Long day?"

"You could say that," I said. Then I leaned on the counter, voice low. "You wouldn't happen to have heard when Hale is starting in Vice, would you?"

A knowing smirk appeared on his face, telling me he not only knew the date, but also the history between Catherine and me.

"You mean your buddy Blondie? Tomorrow. Eight sharp."

My face must have registered surprise.

"You gonna be all right, Max?" he asked me.

I took a deep breath. Tomorrow.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I said, although I clearly wasn't.

Kubiak leaned back in her chair, steepling his fingers and looking at me instead of his crossword puzzles.

"You know, all the chickens come home to roost eventually," he said, a not so subtle reference to Catherine's imminent arrival.

I gave him a dry smile. "Thank God I'm a fox."

The sergeant barked a laugh, shook his head, and then lowered his eyes to his crossword puzzle.

"That you are Max. That's why you're still standing."

* * *

I shouldered my bag and walked out into the damp evening. A slight drizzle was evident from the parking lot lights in their usual jaundiced glow, my Civic hunched where I left it, tired yet ever loyal. By the time I turned off the main drag toward the Royal Palms, my hands had unclenched some. Still, the ache was still there since Kubiak's backhanded dig sat like a pit in my stomach.

The Palms looked like it always did, an old painted lady with peeling paint and flaking concrete. My room wasn't much better, an amalgam of crumpled fast food wrappers, dirty clothes and empty vodka bottles. I dropped my bag on a chair, peeled off my jacket, and for a breath considered calling it a night.

Of course I didn't. By force of habit, and the nagging thoughts of Catherine's appearance the following morning told me I wouldn't be falling asleep anytime soon without the help of a vodka transfusion. So one last errand, a small ritual that separated the hours of work from the hours of off-duty.

* * *

It was only a five minute drive to the nearby liquor store, open all night, and the whole time over I was thinking about Catherine. She must have gotten divorced and wanted to make a clean break. That seemed to be the only plausible reason she'd move to Cincinnati. God, twenty years had passed. I wondered what I'd say to her when I saw her again. I wondered if she'd make me fall in love with her again. I needed a drink, or two or three, badly. It was the only way I knew to slow my mind down.

I pulled off the main drag and into the liquor store's parking lot, a broad expanse of cracked asphalt marked with faded white lines. The store was a standalone structure with only a few scattered cars in the parking lot. Eddie the Pimp was a regular there, and his shiny black Escalade was parked in its usual spot on the left side of the parking lot, next to the white outdoor ice machine, the door secured with a rusty padlock. The bass from the subwoofer in Eddie's ride was rattling the front picture window of the liquor store and two working girls were leaning against the hood, smoking cigarettes and trading gossip in their miniskirts and ultra-high heels.

Eddie popped out of the driver's side, his wavy jet black hair catching a colorful sheen from the ancient neon sign. The joint in his hand glowed like a hot coal, smoke drifting lazily around his face that still had the smoothness of youth, eyes heavy lidded, half amused, half predatory, a tailored black leather jacket worn open with a white tee underneath.

"Detective Pemberton," he said as he approached me, arms open. "I've gotta thank you for dealing with my buddy Derek LeMay," he said, giving me a hug.

"That was some badass shit," he said with admiration in his voice. "Pushing that weasel's face in dogshit. Reminds me never to fuck with you."

"No one fucks with me, Eddie," I said.

He smirked. "Does that include Lieutenant Catherine Hale? Or should I say Blondie?"

My shoulders sank.

"Ah fuck, does everyone know? How'd you find out?"

"Now Max, in my line of business I need to know who's running your team."

That was true. "So how long have you known?" I asked him.

"Maybe a week."

"A week? I just found out today," I said, sounding incredulous, but not really surprised.

"Just come to me if you want to know what's going on in your department."

"C'mon, Eddie. Who's your source?"

He put his arms over the shoulders of his two girls. "Max, all I can say is... never underestimate the power of pussy."

"You'll tell me," I said.

"When I need to," Eddie said. "It's just not now."

He took a big puff off his joint, letting out a huge plume of smoke.

"Have a nice evening Officer Max."

* * *

The door chime sounded when I stepped inside, the cool night air giving way to the stale odor of spilled beer and the low hum of refrigerators. Nigel was at his usual spot behind the counter giving me a toothsome grin, his long, lanky body hunched forward with his hands resting on the cash register. I was about to make a wisecrack about his Cincinnati Reds t-shirt when I saw her.