Pink Ice

I went through his pockets to see if I could locate any identification. His left jeans pocket had forty- seven dollars in bills, wadded up in a ball, and an assortment of change. His right pocket had a handful of small plastic bags, each with a measured amount of a pink crystal, the same pick ice that I'd seen when Rachel and I collared a drug dealer, my first day with her. I felt to the bottom of his pocket and found a key with the number "37"embossed on its bright orange bezel. Probably had stashed his personal belongings in a locker somewhere. I looked at it and then stuffed it in my pocket, figuring I'd do something with it later.

I sent Rachel to retrieve the paramedics while I kept company with the dying man. Less than a minute after she left I heard heavy boots making the old stairway treads groan and the paramedic team with full gear came inside the small, dingy room. The old man was curled on the floor, his head resting on the pillow. He looked peaceful. The peace he had been seeking. But anger welled up in me, filling me with hate of the people that distributed the poison that ended his life.

I clutched those bags of pink poison tightly against my chest as I watched the paramedics positioning his body so they could lift it on the stretcher. I went down the stairs, plumes of dust coming up with each step. This was a shit way to die. I wondered what kind of person would want to profit from this kind of misery.

Rachel came up to me, halfway up the stairs.

"Sarge ..." she said, coming up and then pressing her back against the wall to make way for me coming down.

I pushed by her. I was fighting not to cry, and certainly not in front of her. "Give me a minute." I went outside into the brightly lit street, traffic going by, shading my eyes and wondering why the fuck I chose a career in law enforcement. It was a whole lot different being a police officer in real life then the vigilantes you see in action movies. Watching a man die takes something out of your soul.

I sat in the passenger seat of our car, absentmindedly watching the traffic go by. Rachel finally came back, giving me the space I needed after a gut wrenching experience. She looked at me sympathetically. "You OK?" Her expression was innocent and caring. She was a bit shaken herself, and we both sat in the car, the engine idling, but going nowhere.

Her dark eyes captured me for a moment. I stumbled. "Yeah ... yeah, fine," I finally answered. It wasn't very convincing.

Rachel put her hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry ...". Her hand squeezed my shoulder. I didn't want to, but I felt a shiver. I looked down, catching my breath. I raised my head. I wanted desperately to hug her, and kiss her. I needed her empathy. I realized I needed her.

"I'm good ... I'm good ... let's go." I tried to keep a blank expression on my face. Rachel was good at reading me.

She looked at me in a way that told me that she didn't believe me. She shrugged her shoulders and gripped the wheel, steering the car into traffic. I pulled the small plastic bags out of my pocket and stared at the pink crystals. Pink ice. It had a pleasant pinkish hue, that made it all the more unbelievable to me that people would voluntarily put it in their bodies. I'd already seen more than my share of overdoses, and each of them was its own separate horror show. I stuffed the wrinkled bags back in my pocket. I was going to get that fucker who sold it.

When we got back to the station I opened the top drawer of my desk and took out a plastic bag with a small amount of pink ice we'd confiscated from my last drug bust. I laid it on the table next to the bags I took that day. I held them up to the light. They looked the same. Bingo. It was the same group of people we were after last time.

My first reaction was to run to Steph's office to tell her. It was her group that was pursuing this drug ring, and she'd want to know as possible that the pink ice had resurfaced. Her door was open and the inside was dark. Then I spotted April. She was texting on her phone. She spotted me out of the corner of her eye and put the phone down on her immaculate desk.

I think she rolled her eyes before she looked at me. "Yes?" she asked, acting as if I was taking her away from something important. The Chief's office was dark as well, which told me that April had squat to do and was texting with one of her friends.

"She's not here," she said before I could ask. She had some sort of radar to read thoughts. I held up my hands to ask where.

"Probably the file room in the back. I think she was doing some research on a case." She pointed behind her to the hallway leading to the building's annex. She shook her head and went back to her phone, ignoring me. I made yet another mental note not to fuck with April.

I walked into the "old" portion of the station. When the station outgrew its building footprint, it acquired the adjoining infirmary and converted the patient rooms into offices and file rooms. The building reeked of the 50's, with linoleum floors that probably contained asbestos and painted cinder block walls. There were still florescent overhead light fixtures sputtering overhead. I walked down the dark, dank hallway, spotting a light on in the room at the end the hall. The door was ajar, and I spotted Steph's familiar ass.

She was in a room that formerly was some sort of secure room, maybe where they kept the inventory of drugs. It had an impressive steel door that was wide open. Steph was inside, with her back to me, hunched over a table, going through a banker's box full of files. My shoes were squeaking on the linoleum so she no doubt heard me coming. She turned around and gave me a slow, knowing smile.

"I'd knew you'd find me here." She put down the file she was working on and pointed me to sit in the folding chair that was open against the front wall. I sat carefully on it, excited to convey my find.

"Really? The pink shit is back? It's been six months since we've seen that on the street." Steph stopped going through her papers and turned her folding chair to face me. "Looks like I've got some work to do."

"I thought you'd be interested. These folks have been a slippery bunch to tackle ... kind of like a greased pig. They are staying one step ahead of us. So far, all we've got is Chuck Hightower, and he ain't talking. Apparently whoever is calling the shots is powerful enough that Chuck is willing to do his time than rat out his employers." Chuck was an officer in Steph's division, and aside from being a major asshole, was also in the pocket of the meth dealer who was distributing this pink ice. We busted him, but the trail went cold after him.

Satisfied that I had alerted Steph, I went back to the lunchroom where Rachel was waiting for me. She was finishing the leftover pasta she'd brought from home.

"That smells good," I commented, the enticing aroma of a homemade Bolognese filling the small kitchen area.

"Want some?" she said, extending a forkful of pasta in my direction.

I'm never one to shy away from good food. I opened my mouth and she put the fork inside, allowing me to pull it off her fork with my lips. It was divine.

"Where'd you learn to make this?" I didn't even know that Rachel was a good cook.

"My grandmother. She's from the old country, a small town outside Bologna. Taught me how to make gnocchi too."

This was a well-kept secret. She'd been riding with me in a patrol car for a year. You would think you would know something like this. But then again, my ex-husband didn't know that I was gay. "Are they as good as your Bolognese?"

"Better."

"I'll have you know that before I became an alcoholic I was a foodie."

"Really?"

"Really. My younger brother is the head chef at La Toque." It was the only ritzy French restaurant in town. "We go out together and critique other restaurants."

Rachel rubbed her temples with her hands as if she had a headache. "So you, who are living in a seedy motel and drinking vodka out of plastic cups, are a food connoisseur?" She was rightfully incredulous.

"I'll have you know I've dined at the best restaurants in Cincinnati." I sat up straight in the cheap molded plastic chair that outfitted our break room.

She laughed and flipped her hair. It was adorable. "OK Max, you win. I'll invite you over sometime and make gnocchi for you. Fair enough?"

It really wasn't my intention to wangle a dinner invitation from her. But it sounded better than fast food and an occasional visit to Nicky's diner. "Done. We'll pick a day. Now let's get to work."

* * *

It was late afternoon. A hot sunny day. Just a few annoying domestic violence calls to occupy the afternoon. We were cruising down one of the main drags in our sector when Rachel spotted a parked car that had its back passenger window broken. It was a late model German sedan with heavily tinted windows. There were pebbles of glass scattered across the sidewalk. This area was rife with break-ins like this. Rachel, now an accomplished pro behind the wheel, cut into the vacant space in front of it, pulling us to within six inches of the curb.

"Looks like someone smashed the window to grab whatever was in the back seat," she said as she eased our car into the parking space. I had kind of figured that out for myself.

"Rach, why don't you take this one." I picked up the burrito I got at the food truck we frequented in the neighborhood and took a bite. Carnitas. My favorite. It was still warm. I glanced out the window and saw Rachel inspecting the vehicle. She took out her flashlight and shined it in the backseat. She waved to me to come over. "Shit," I muttered. I reluctantly put the burrito back in its aluminum foil wrapper and got out. I walked over, crunching my shoes on the remnants of the shattered window.

"Hey... look." She aimed the beam of her flashlight through the broken window and under the front passenger seat. We could see the muzzle of a handgun.

"That's probable cause," she said. I nodded.

She reached her arm through the broken window, careful to avoid the remaining bits stuck in the window frame, and unlocked the back door. She put on disposable plastic gloves and reached under the back seat while I had my back to her to make sure no one approached us.

"Got it!" she said excitedly. She pulled out a handgun and a small brown paper bag. She put the bag on the back seat and opened it. It contained a business card for a pawn shop on the other side of town with a phone number scrawled on the back. It also contained a plastic bag taped shut with duct tape. Inside was a large quantity of pink ice. I couldn't give a shit about the gun, but the pink ice ... it was the same pink ice I'd seen twice before. This was a larger quantity -- a quantity that would hurt whoever was in the business of selling it.

This was a break Steph had been awaiting for the past year. I stuffed the business card in the evidence bag along with the drugs and the gun and hustled back to the car, taking a position to cover her. Rachel shut the back door of the black sedan and shuffled back to our car, getting into the passenger seat. We pulled down the street, barely within sight of the damaged car. We decided to stake out the car for a few hours, but the car went untouched while we were there, and eventually surrendered our position to our back-ups. We went back to the station to sign in our car and change. I was in a hurry to get to Steph's place. I was going to surprise her for the first anniversary of us being together.

She thought I was going to my monthly AA meeting. The first Tuesday of every month. I'd gotten back on the wagon after I hooked up with Steph, and I wanted to celebrate us. I was given a hall pass for attending the meeting and wanted to surprise her with dinner. There was a Chinese restaurant not far from her house that we both went to about once a week. I had ordered take-out, knowing that Steph usually skips dinner and snacks when I'm not home for dinner.

I was starting to change when I realized I had left the evidence bag with Rachel, telling her that I would get it from her before I changed. I found her in the lunchroom having some sort of sugary soft drink while two male officers sitting at the next table were openly ogling her.

"Rach." I pointed to the evidence bag sitting in front of her. She picked up the bag and handed it to me.

I glared at the officers at the next table, just long enough to tell them to keep their paws off my partner. They went back to their coffee and whatever they were talking about before Rachel sat down. I carried the bag to the evidence room to log in the contraband.

When I got to the evidence room, the on duty officer carefully handled and catalogued the contents. It was the first time I had a chance to look at the business card. I took a picture of the front and back and also the gun. Someone else was already running a trace to see if it was registered. I did a double take on the phone number scribbled hastily on the back of the business card. It was a number I didn't recognize. Probably a burner phone. I was eager to discuss my find with Steph. I figured since I'd be seeing her shortly I waited to tell her in person instead of calling her.

* * *

Steph's car was in the driveway. She must have gotten home early. I parked mine behind hers on the driveway and walked in the front door without knocking. I'd been there at least a hundred times and formality was long gone. I stayed the night more times than I could count and her house was really my home. The motel was more for appearances, even though our relationship was common knowledge at the station house.

I went into the kitchen and saw Steph seated at the kitchen table She was clearly startled at my early appearance. Her flyaway blonde hair was half covering her face.

"Max!" She shuffled a number of papers into her briefcase and palmed a cell phone that I didn't recognize. She dropped the phone into her briefcase. She seemed flustered and tried to quickly regain her composure. "I wasn't expecting you home so early. What happened with your AA meeting?"

I held out my arms with two brown paper bags full of food. "I went to China Pavilion. Got all your favorites." I started unloading the bags on the table, arranging the takeout containers in the middle. I went to the silverware drawer and grabbed chopsticks and serving spoons and then the dish drawer for two plates.

"Dig in." I could smell the food all the way home and was already opening cardboard containers and spooning food on my plate. Steph seemed to have regained her composure and joined me.

"So what were you working on?" I asked, making idle chit chat but really wondering.

"Oh nothing ... just office paperwork." Steph started eating Mongolian beef, keeping her head down and apparently concentrating on her food. My bullshit meter went off. Steph never did office "paperwork" at home. Much of it was too sensitive to take out of the office, and Steph hated working from home. Something else was going on.

A cell phone in her soft briefcase started ringing. It was a ringtone I didn't recognize.

"Oh ... sorry ... got to take this." She took her briefcase and went out the kitchen door to the backyard. I could see her talking on the cell phone she earlier dropped into her briefcase. She walked to the far end of the backyard, but even there I could see through the window that she was having an animated discussion. The conversation went on for a few minutes before she returned.

"Informant," she said, returning to her dinner.

Right, I thought. Something didn't seem to mesh. I'd known Steph too long.

We finished the dinner. She seemed to brighten up at the good food and light conversation. If she was anxious about something, she was good at hiding it. At the end of the meal I volunteered to clean up.

Steph pulled a bottle of scotch out of a kitchen cabinet and grabbed a highball glass. She picked up her briefcase and wandered into the living room while I put the leftovers in the refrigerator. By the time I cleared the table and went to find her she had already finished her first drink and was pouring herself a second. Ironic, I thought, given that I skipped an AA meeting to be with her. Drinking usually made her horny, and aggressive, and that evening was no exception.

We talked about something trivial that was going on at the station while Steph refreshed her drink once again. Her eyes were becoming glassy as they fixated on my chest. Steph always had a thing for my tits, and before I knew it she was on top of me, tugging my blouse open and unfastening the front clasp on my bra. I was used to rough foreplay with her, and her mouth was already on one of my nipples, biting it hard enough to make me want to pull away, while her hand had already slid into my pants.

"Hey ..." I said, beginning to object.

"Shut up," she replied, cutting me off. Her fingers went inside me, though I wasn't wet yet. I was all for sex, but this wasn't sex, it was something else. She clearly was upset and I wasn't having any of that.

"We're done," I said, pushing her off me. She was drunk enough that she didn't fight back. Instead she grabbed the bottle and glass and went to the bedroom. She left the briefcase behind, but I resisted the urge to open it. Instead, I turned on the television and watched some inane show until I fell asleep on the sofa.

* * *

My internal alarm clock went off at 5 a.m. That was the time I usually got up. I liked the morning, getting to the station early, and having a leisurely cup or two of coffee before I started my shift. Steph was passed out in the bedroom, snoring. Something wasn't quite right, that was for sure. Drinking during the week and being so sexually aggressive that I had to push her away were two flashing red lights that something was wrong.

Maybe it had something to do with her son. She had been married quite a while ago and had a special needs son who was kept in private care facility about an hour's drive from her house. She usually spent Saturday with him, but had never invited me to tag along. From the pictures she showed me he was a handsome young man, but he was in a wheelchair and his limbs seemed immobile. She said something about a car accident, but was vague about the details. Whatever she discussed in the backyard the previous evening had set her off.

I pulled the covers up over her nude body and used my hand to brush a few stray hairs off her face. She looked lovely to me, even in her inebriated state. I wondered what was troubling her. I loved playing games with her, but last night her roughness was more than an act, it was bottled up frustration and anger. I didn't appreciate being on the receiving end of something she didn't want to talk about.

* * *

The next couple days were uncomfortable. And I mean awkward. The day after our little encounter we didn't see each other until dinner, and that went by without so much as a word exchanged. I was fuming about her drunken behavior and she wasn't willing to tell me what was going on. I wanted to ask her, but held back, trying to let her share it with me instead of prying it out. I'm not sure I would have been able to anyway. Even though I could be a hard ass, I didn't hold a candle to Steph.

The deep freeze ended a few days later. I was still staying at her place and I went to bed first. I would lie on the left side every night, with my butt facing Steph's side. I was just starting to get to sleep when I felt her firm hands on my right leg, the fingers finding the sore hamstring that always seems to be hurting. I remember letting out a long, low moan as she pressed the sore muscle enough to bring that sweet pain, releasing the tension. Steph could be incredibly sweet when she wanted to be. The massage continued until I felt into a deep, relaxed sleep, the kind you get after great sex.