Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(4)

“Yes, boss.”

“And you’re a Black woman. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”

“Well, how could it.”

Griffin nodded. “Ah, there it is.”

“Boss?”

“The steel, Foster. You’re down but not out.” She closed Foster’s file and stood. Foster stood too. Griffin held out her hand for a shake. “Welcome, Harriet. Just promise me you won’t suffer in silence. If you need help, ask for it. No dishonor. If I find you in my lot with your brains shot out, I will literally walk to the ME’s office and beat your dead body to a bloody pulp. Got it?”

Foster’s heart raced as she beat the image back, but she met Griffin’s gaze without a flinch. “Understood.”

“Good. I paired you with Jim Lonergan. Full disclosure: he’s an asshole, but he’s serviceable. Don’t take his crap. He’ll give it, guaranteed. Ignore what you can; challenge the rest. You’ve dealt with assholes before?”

Foster managed to grin. “Everywhere I’ve worked.”

“Then you’re ahead of the game. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll find you someone else. Now get out there and catch me some killers.”

Dismissed, Foster stood outside Griffin’s door, her eyes sweeping over the office with the strange cops milling around it. She could do this. She knew how to be a cop. Glynnis’s loss hadn’t stripped that away.

“Symansky.”

She jumped, startled by the stumpy white guy who’d shot out of nowhere. He held out a hand, grinning. “Al.” He looked like Bela Lugosi in a loud plaid blazer and a tie that cried Father’s Day 1985. “Welcome aboard.”

“Harriet Foster,” she said, going in for the shake. “Thanks.”

He pointed to a desk at the back of the room. “You’re over there with Mr. Personality. Try not to kill him. He ain’t worth the time you’ll do.”

Foster shook her head. Yet another warning about Lonergan. “Is he that bad?”

Symansky’s bushy gray brows lifted. “Decent. No finesse. Part of the team, though.” He winked. “Hang in there.”

The desk was a piece of garbage facing another piece of garbage just like it. City issue. A metal, dinged-up block with half the drawer pulls loose, a desk shared by hundreds of cops over hundreds of hours of round-the-clock shifts. It was beaten down, dirty, with decades of coffee rings on its surface, foul words etched into the raggedy blotter with crude sketches of penises. Foster knew she’d find wads of old chewing gum tacked to the underside of the chair if she bothered to check.

Underwhelmed right out of the gate, she glanced over at the broad, doughy white man sitting at the other desk, leaning back in a squeaky roller chair, assessing her through squinty brown eyes. Lonergan. She scanned his desk, but there was nothing on it but paperwork, a half-eaten stromboli, and a chipped Bears mug with coffee in it. A breakfast of champions.

Lonergan’s eyes never wavered as he sucked on a toothpick, the short, pointed piece of wood toggling up and down like a seesaw between dry, thin lips.

“You’re Foster,” he said. “Boss told me we’d be partnering up. Jim Lonergan.”

Foster nodded, then ran a finger along the top of the desk. It came back sticky. She wiped her hand against her pant leg.

“They’re all slobs on third watch,” Lonergan explained. “You’ll get used to it.” He stood and stretched. “Welcome to the nuthouse. Let me show you around.” He pointed at the sticky desk. “That’s you.” He flung his arms wide. “This is us. End of tour.” He sat back down and worked the toothpick some more.

Griffin and Symansky had been right. Asshole. Foster pulled out her slouchy chair and dropped her bag into the seat. “Thanks.”

“Now we’ll transition to the get-to-know-you portion of our program. You married?”

Foster checked the desk drawers to see where she could eventually stow her stuff. “No,” she answered absently. She looked around the office, noting the significant distance between her and Lonergan’s desks and the hub of activity half a room away. She’d gotten the new-kid spot next to the blowhard no one wanted to sit next to. Great.

“Ever?” Lonergan pressed.

Foster stared at him and then decided to answer, hoping to shut his line of questioning down. “Once.” She figured that would do it. Her frosty tone alone would have signaled to a normal person that more intimate details were off the table.

“Gay?”

Foster looked up, giving him another good, long sweep. The man with the twenty questions, her new partner, didn’t look like he was going to be an easy fit, not like Glynnis. She hadn’t yet cleared off her workspace, and already she wanted someone better than him.

“No, but would that matter to you?”

“Nah. I live and let live.”

“Then why ask?”

“Just trying to get a bead on you. See what I’m working with. Got kids?”

Foster let a moment go. “Maybe we can ease into the personal details over time.” She opened the top drawer on the desk, peeking inside. “Or not.”

Lonergan plucked the toothpick from his mouth and chucked it into the trash basket beside his desk. “Suit yourself. But know this: I move fast, and I’m an old-school cop. Keep up, and we’ll get along great.”