Conflict of Interest

Chapter Thirty

Jenn

It had been one of those long days that you know will only be followed by a long night, the kind that always seems to take place in this sticky heat that refuses to go subside even after the sun goes down. I still remember that the only word that could have described the day was monotony, filling out stack after stack of paperwork and sitting at the same desk and staring at the same clock and feeling like I was going to lose my mind if someone didn't call me damn soon saying that someone had been shot.

I guess they'll do that to you in any new job, just stick you with the grunt work until you prove you're better than that. In my case, it was desk detail, and the only way I could think of to prove that I deserved better was to be damn good at paperwork. But still, the question had crossed my mind more than once that day, that same question that had been in my mind since I'd gotten to Green Falls, and it was to wonder why I'd ever accepted the transfer. I wondered, on more than one occasion, what I was doing here, and how, if at all, it had even been worth it.

And then she'd opened the door. Suddenly the question on my mind wasn't "What am I doing here," but "What is she doing here and how can I get her to do it with me?" And then I realized I probably looked a mess, sitting there damn near melting and half asleep after staring at the same arrest follow-up for the past forty five minutes. And then it felt like she was looking at me. And Jesus Christ, why was she looking at me? I wasn't the only one in the room, there were four, five other people in the room, not just me, and why did it look like she was walking towards me, and how did she look so damn put together when it was at least a thousand degrees in here and--

"Carver?"

I swallowed, internally begging myself to make words, any words. "Yes," I said quietly and girlishly and embarrassing myself already in three letters.

"I'm looking for a follow up, from the Chiarenza case, someone should have filed it by now," she said all as one sentence. Her voice was clear and steady, I noticed. It pronounced each word, each letter, each sound, perfectly. I didn't know at that point that she did everything perfectly, and wouldn't for at least several weeks.

"Actually, it's..." I began, then had to sift through all the work I'd been doing since I'd gotten to the precinct that day. "Right here. You...are..."

"The ADA handling the case," she explained, not terribly cordially, but now I was starting to get it if the fancy attire hadn't given it away. She was a lawyer. She naturally wasn't going to be warm and inviting.

"Oh," I said stupidly. "Well, good luck." Damn it, who says shit like that?

"I don't need it," she shrugged. "I need your testimony."

"Oh," I said again. "Okay, um..."

"You have testified in open court before, yes?"

I tried laughing, though her face stayed level. "Yes," I assured her. "Four years in Narcotics."

"Impressive," she said flatly. I felt like it was sarcastic but it was hard to tell. It seemed like everything she said, she said in the same level tone. "And the transfer?"

"You knew I transferred?"

"Detectives don't just appear," she reminded me. "And people talk. And besides, the accent..."

"Accent?"

"What, are you one of those people? You're going to claim that you don't have one?"

I shrugged. "I guess I never noticed."

"So, the transfer?"

"Just wanted a change," I decided to say. "Of scenery, or...something."