My eyes took turns between my two friends. Shosh, with a finger pressed to her lips, was frantically shushing me, whereas Judy was patiently waiting for an answer. “N—no.”
“I won’t tell a soul about them if you do,” my new friend reassured me.
Shosh violently shushed once more then broke out into, “If she tells anybody, that’s it, they’re pumping you full of drugs and then your head’s gonna be even more fucked up than it already is.”
“I promise, Andy,” added Judy.
I swallowed. My heart buzzed like a hummingbird, and I found myself needing to slow down my breathing, in, out, in, out…
“I’m a drug dealer. Discretion is the foundation of my business.”
I looked to Shosh, who was doing the same breathing exercise I was, and struggling just the same. “Shosh?” I pleaded on an exhale.
“Is Shosh a friend of yours?”
“No—” The word ejected from my mouth with a higher-than-expected velocity. “—I mean, yes, Shosh is my best friend. Was. My mother. But she died 13 years ago.”
“Is your deceased mother here, with you?”
“(I need—need a—)” I gasped; I took a deep breath and held it, released it. “(I need a few seconds to gather myself into one piece.)”
“Take your time, Andy.” I continued trying to do my breathing exercise. “Is this a bad time and place to be asking these questions?”
In. “There has never been—” Out, and in. “—and never will be—” Out, and in. “—a good time or place.”
“I’m sorry. This subject is your business and no-one else’s. Forget I asked.”
I was finally able to assert total control of my lungs. “Thank you.”
“You know where to find me if you’re ever ready to share.”
I nodded, too horrified by the fact someone caught me talking to my hallucination of my dead mother to thank her for being open and supportive and polite and sensitive as I let my most secret cat out of its highly classified bag.
We returned to eating; as I finished my burrito, I asked, “How much do you make?”
“200.”
“Oh. Wow. Why are you living in such a shitty apartment complex?”
“Because I’m saving up for my retirement. I have a 401K.”
I leaned forward and whispered, “Isn’t the IRS going to catch on?”
“As long as I give them a plausible gross income and proportionate contribution at the end of the tax year, they don’t care.”
“But you don’t get your money from legitimate sources.”
“They don’t care where my money comes from, as long as I give them an honest number and explicitly assert my Fifth Amendment right to avoid self-incrimination by not disclosing the precise nature of my work in line A of the Schedule C that I attach to my 1040. I’m honest enough with them, I give them the records and money I’m legally obligated to give them, and they leave me alone.”
“It’s that simple?”
“Mm-hm. Well, in theory it is. I can only know for certain either way if it turns out it isn’t that simple—in other words, if they audit me.”
“Huh.”
We chatted about nothing the whole way home—a deliberate choice on my part, as I wanted to take advantage of the car ride to clear my mind for a few minutes. As soon as we were seated on my couch, she laid her arm across my back and rested her wrist on my shoulder. I looked into her eyes and wondered, “Do you wear contacts?”
Caught off-guard, she replied, “Y—yeah. Why?”
“Your eyes have such a vivid color.”
“You think they’re fake.”
“I’m not assuming that, I’m just… wondering if maybe they might be… enhanced.”
She spread one pair of eyelids and extracted a lens. The hue was real.
“I’ve never seen that kind of brown before. Your irises look like they’re made of honey.”
“If the color was fake, would you have thought less of me?”
“No. Peter Falk had a whole glass eye, and I think it made him more attractive, if anything. His face had character.”
She smiled and popped the lens back in. “Your attraction to that man in spite of your lesbianism is fascinating.”
“Thank you.” She leaned in and kissed me. We locked lips until an itch began to spread in my brain, at first a quiet little tingle that I tried to ignore as she cupped my breast, gradually growing into a throbbing, torturous ache that grabbed every ounce of my attention when I wanted instead to focus on the hand she was snaking down my jeans— “Judy, I… need…”
“What’s wrong?”
“(I’d… rather not say,)” I muttered, feeling a swelling shame.
“You don’t need to be ashamed. I’m into some sick shit myself. I won’t judge you for what gets you off. Go ahead. Ask.”
“Hmm… Ah, screw it, fine. I can’t do this right now. I’ve been away from the case too long, and it’s bugging me. Driving me nuts.”
She giggled. “You really are a detective if you’d turn down sex with the woman you ‘can’t stop thinking about’.”
“Yes, you’re a regular femme fatale, and I won’t fall for your tricks.” She snorted with all the daintiness of a puppy sneezing, though with a little more bass. “Do you have a pencil and paper?”
“I have a tablet and stylus.”
“I prefer analog.”
“Alright, picky-picky…” She left and came back with what I needed.
The itch was quickly scratched as I started writing down social justice organizations with presences in Santa Virginia, and when I ran out of additions, I tapped into Judy’s mind for more. The list was 36 items long, and included the likes of Our Color Does Not Fade, the Santa Virginia Sex Workers Guild, Abolish Modern Slavery, Santa Virginians for Sane Drug Policy, Palestina Libre, Convicts’ Rights Now, and SVPDefund. The last entry, the Anti-Gentrification League, almost didn’t fit into the first column on the page, so I nearly left it out. “Alright. If there are any others that didn’t come to mind, they were probably too small for him to have substantial involvement.”
“Maybe. What now?”
“The fun part: we write down these guys’ enemies.”
The list I produced included the various white supremacist groups such as the Virgin Saint Purity Militia, racism-skirting fascists like the Loud Loyalists, and fundamentalist groups such as the Family Values Crisis Center.
“You forgot the police.”
“Oh. Right.” I jotted down ‘SVPD’, and, for the sake of thoroughness, included the Police Benevolent Association of the City of Santa Virginia. Counting everyone except potential lone wolves, Alex had 53 different opponents crammed onto the page, in 2 columns. “Is that everyone?”
“As far as I can think.”
“The next question is: out of all of these, which ones have a modus operandi compatible with what we know about the kidnapping?”
“Um. All of them?”
“Not the fundamentalists. They have specific kinds of targets they go after, and Alex doesn’t fall into any of their categories, plus I’ve never heard of them kidnapping anybody, so I’d say they probably aren’t responsible.
“White supremacist terrorists in the past decade or two have evolved towards being lone wolves radicalized online to engage in ‘hard’ or mass-casualty attacks with the intention of garnering media attention and resulting dissemination of their values and manifestos to the general public as well as further radicalization of—and thus further attacks by—other white supremacists. In this day and age they rarely kidnap except to kill, and the ones who do kidnap—the old-fashioned ones—usually leave bodies somewhere out of the way but still public enough that it’ll be discovered, to serve as an example—so we can mark white supremacist terrorists as ‘low likelihood’.
“Loud Loyalists… I could see a rogue Loyalist kidnapping someone, but they typically commit crimes in full view of every pair of eyes and every camera they can catch the attention of—they want to be seen hurting the people they hate, they want to be filmed, and they want that video to be spread all over the Internet, all over the media, everywhere—but at the same time they want to have a certain amount of political legitimacy, so they generally avoid anything worse than aggravated assault or property damage… except when they drive cars into protestors. This is the least doubtful so far, but still… not a strong case. Low-to-moderate likelihood.
“Moving onto the least likely of all, the sworn enemies of the Anti-Gentrification League, real estate developers and landlords…” I shook my head. “I’m not wasting our time analyzing those jackoffs, they aren’t violent, they don’t kidnap people. There’s no chance it was these people.”
Judy snorted.
“Did you find that… funny?”
“No, not at all. I agree a hundred percent, it definitely wasn’t property developers. You’re very educated about our enemies.”
“It takes one to know one—I was one, and I will be one again.”
“Consider yourself an undercover antifascist.”
“I guess…”
I weighed the ‘for’s and ‘against’s of the rest of the opposition groups for a while, but none of those seemed as plausible as what we had discussed thus far.
Then Judy cleared her throat.
“Hmm?”
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?”
“Who?” She tapped a particularly troublesome entry in our list of adversaries. ((Police.)) “Oh… Well, if they wanted to confine him, they woulda just planted some heroin or crack in his backpack and thrown him in jail for a month or so, and bury the body cam footage. They wouldn’t even have to conceal the fact that he was illegally detained.”
“What if they wanted to… kill him?”
“If they wanted to kill him… Well, they could… (Hm.)” ((Christ, the possibilities are endless.)) “Okay, they might accomplish that in any number of ways, and I couldn’t tell you which particular method they would prefer.”
“So you know the modus for all the groups except the police.”
“Um. Yes. They’re a, uh… wildcard.”
“It’s not the police,” insisted Shosh.
“We can’t say that. As much as I hate to say it, we don’t know that it isn’t the police. We can’t eliminate them.”
“Can’t say that… they’re a wild card? Ohhhh. Are you talking to… me?” asked Judy gingerly.
“Um.” ((Am I always this obvious?)) “I plead the Fifth.”
“So you take the defense lawyer’s advice to heart?”
“Yeah, sure. Never talk to the police, never let them into your home, never consent to a search, never discuss your case with anybody besides your lawyer, etcetera.”
She nodded. “And never admit to talking to your invisible friend.”
My face puckered. “Now you’re mocking me.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Please, forget what I said.”
I sighed.
“You were saying something about the police doing it?”
“Thank you for changing the subject. Out of all our suspects, the police would have the greatest desire to bury a murder—and the broadest array of means to do so. And if I had to boil down the possibilities, I would say that their modus is simply ‘whatever gets the job done quickest and cleanest, and leaves behind the least evidence possible’. Not because they’re smart enough to realize that simplicity is usually the most pragmatic policy, but because most of them lack the creativity to orchestrate a conspiracy with any real sophistication.”
“Well, considering the crime was simple enough that we were able to pick up their scent within hours of starting the investigation, I think it’s pretty fucking clear who did it.”
A part of me clung to my blue pride, torn and faded as it was, to the SVPD motto of ‘To Honor and Guard the People’, to the idea that Justice can be pursued in an organized and publicly accountable manner, to the belief that the governments of my city, of my state, and of my country were more good than evil. A foolish part of me insisted, “No. We don’t know for certain… yet. First of all, leaving behind blood stains, soiled clothes, and fingerprints in a sex work establishment is messy. Second, this chart is only meant to guide us in allocating our time and resources to various theories, not to determine right off the bat who did it. We need more evidence before we can come to a conclusion.”
“If you say so.”
“One last thing to consider: we might be able to get an idea of the strength of a group’s motive by estimating how consistently he’s been a thorn in their side. Then we can rank them and hopefully get a clearer picture.”
“I couldn’t tell you how long he’s been involved with any of these groups—except maybe the SWG—and I can tell this is the kind of research that takes more time than we have.”
“Ugh. You’re right. I’ll have to scrap or at least postpone the question. But… the kidnapping happened in sex worker territory, so now I’m wondering if there’s a connection.”
“Oh! That’s a very interesting idea, Detective! Please, go on.”
“Alright. Do you know if he’s been involved for very long with the guild?”
“Hmm. It’s only been about a year—yeah, I remember now, it was the fourth of July. He made this big speech about how conservatives say this country was founded on freedom but they’ve imposed their Christofascist beliefs on everybody else and taken away our freedom of bodily autonomy via the justice system, then he laid out a plan for how the SWG would act to fix that. It was pretty inspiring, but my memory of the plan itself is fuzzy. I was distracted that day. I was… hoping to see someone.”
“Thanks, and I hope you get to see this person eventually. I might have the Intel Squad look into his other groups to get a better picture of his involvement.”
“I think it would be better if you kept your Intel Squad out of other people’s business.”
I pursed my lips and nodded. “Yeah. Point taken. I’ll ask around on my own and keep anything I find off the record unless I’m given permission to put it on the record.”
“Good luck with that. I need to head home now. I’ll leave you to it.” She stood up.
“You’re leaving?”
“I need to pack tomorrow’s deliveries.”
“Oh. Alright.”
As the door closed behind her, the chill of loneliness tainted the air.
“Shosh?”
No response. Which was just as well, I was still ashamed of being caught talking to her, twice in one day.
I tried to think of where to go from there, but, having no evidence to establish affiliations, came up with nothing. Just as I was about to give up for the day and pull Helga from my safe for her long-overdue monthly cleaning, there came a knock on the door—and from its distinct rhythm, the same as that fateful night we met, I knew that Judy was back. Before I could tell her that I was glad to see her again, before I had opened the door all the way, she told me, “I realized, while I was packaging products, that you don’t have any clothing befitting a detective.”
I took a good look at my closet. ((Nothing but uniforms. Detectives wear nice outfits. Except for the clever ones pretending to be buffoons—but who says I have to look frumpy to be underestimated? I’m a tiny woman, I just need to bat my eyelashes and throw a few ‘like’s into my speech and evil-doers will assume I’m vapid and infantile, and lower their guard accordingly.))
“Wanna go shopping?”
((Perfect. Being image-conscious, and thus ‘vain’, will make my ‘dumb short bitch’ routine all the more effective.)) “I would love that.” She flinched, but I thought nothing of it. I grabbed my keys and we gassed away to Rochelle’s Department Store.
We didn’t talk about the case on the drive or while shopping, only about which pants and shirts and jackets were most flattering on my body (Judy fixated somewhat on my hips, to my simultaneous discomfort and satisfaction), and I latched onto one coat in particular, which almost could have been inspired (if I may stretch the meaning of the word ‘inspired’) by the one worn year-round, rain or shine, by Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD Homicide Squad—in its bold lapel; in its massive buttons; and, to a lesser extent, in its voluminous pockets. This one was, however, navy blue, which contrasted nicely with my hair. It was the last one on the rack, and it fit me perfectly; with my new clothes, I no longer looked like a self-loathing slob.
Outside the changing rooms I struck a pose for Judy. She smiled… then—sending a buzz across the surface of my skull—whispered into my ear, “Wanna go in the changing room so I can ruin that beautiful outfit by tearing it off of your beautiful body before making love to you?”
I turned my back on her. ((‘Beautiful body’! I’m not beaut—)) I glanced past the door, up at the mirror inside the changing room. ((But look at the way my ass curves in the mirror, and the way my E cups are begging to burst out of my shirt, and the way this coat makes my hair shine like fire, and—the way… my face… my cheeks… my nose… my chin… all come together… so… harmoniously…))
“Well?”
((I’m not beautiful. Every time he sees me he tells me I’m—she’s told me I’m beautiful, but I’m not. But… my reflection…)) I approached the mirror, slowly, one step at a time, until I was right before it, and touched the glass. ((I’m not supposed to be beautiful. But my reflection is so—so hot. I want to caress your cheeks, I want to run my fingers through your hair, I want to brush my lips against yours, I want to tear your clothes off and—))
((Oh. My. God. I’m… hot.))
Judy followed me in, closed the door behind us, and kissed me on the neck, forcing a moan from my chest. “Whadaya say?”
“(Kiss me again,)” I whispered. She obliged, and I made my horny noise. ((I don’t think we should…)) I caught a whiff of her as I turned my face to whisper back, and that lovely scent turned me on a dime. ((Well, maybe we can try it, but…)) I swallowed. “How loud would you say my… moaning… is? Will we be caught?”
“Good point. If we’re gonna do it in the store… with how loud you are, we might as well host an orgy on the sales floor.”
“Ah.” ((Would people care if we did it in the middle of the racks and shelves and registers? Probably. And we would be kicked out. Probably before we have the chance to finish.))
(((But sex. Sex is good. I want sex. I really want sex. I want to fuck her.)))
((But what good is sex if you’re interrupted before you can be satisfied?)) “I would rather not risk our fun coming to a premature end if we’re caught.”
“Another good point.”
I sniffed her armpit. (((Columbian Kush.))) “There aren’t any rules against kissing in public, though.”
“Well, technically you’re righ—(ah!)”
I stood on my tippy-toes, pulled her head down and licked her neck, and she moaned.
She held me at arm’s length. “Okay, wow, maybe… let’s get a raincheck for that PDA.”
“Aw.”
We brought my new wardrobe to the counter, and the cashier rang me up while I chatted with Judy.
And then… “Cash or credit, Miss?”
I stared in disbelief at the total on the display. ((2,541 dollars… Why… is… number… big?)) “I think there’s been a… a mix-up. I think I grabbed the wrong…” I checked the price tags for every item, ((30, 43, 35, 72, 140…)) “I just need a second.” ((54, 25, 95…)) And then got to the navy coat with the big buttons and the big pockets: ((1,910 dollars. Christ on the cross. Why the hell is this so expensive?)) Then I noticed the designer label. ((Adrison. No wonder. This coat isn’t meant for poor losers like me. I’m not supposed to buy clothes this nice, upper-class garments that we proletarians are only allowed to admire and pine for from a distance, never to wear ourselves except when trying them on in the store while imagining how lovely life would be if we could afford to pay for nice things.))
I pursed my lips and, still staring at the tag, pictured everyone in the store staring at me, judging me for my poverty and mulling a guilty verdict for the crime of daring to dream…
Even Judy waited in my imagination for me to put my money where my heart was. She liked money and she liked nice things, so it wasn’t hard to picture her shaking her head and leaving behind the pathetic woman unwilling to make a wise investment.
That I was hesitating was bad enough; I was also holding up the line, inconveniencing people who knew damn well I had no right to be patronizing this store with such a pathetic checking balance. Judy had gone through all the trouble of helping me pick out and try on these beautiful clothes, carefully scrutinizing each garment for its ability to match my face, figure, and function; and now I was doubting the purchase, on the verge of throwing away all her hard work.
I couldn’t stand these thoughts, I needed to belong, I needed to deserve these clothes, I needed to reassure Judy her labor wouldn’t go to waste—so I withdrew my emergency credit cards from my purse… and prayed that their spending limits would add up to at least 2,541 bucks.