Pink Ice

* * *

I was feeling better about Steph. Her manner eased up, and the tension between us faded away. I was hoping she'd be around more. I was spending too much time with Lanny in the off hours. She would routinely clock an extra two to four hours every day, which left me with a fair amount of free time. Lanny's outside interests tended towards sports, so I usually sat at a bar with him drinking beers and watching a Reds game. It was fun, but nothing meaningful to me. I wanted to see more of her.

We got our chance on a Monday, when we both took the day off. No social commitments, so we spent the entire day together. She was still being tight lipped about what was troubling her, but my curiosity got the better of me and during breakfast I asked her how her son was doing. I never brought up her personal life, and we usually gave each other a lot of space.

She seemed annoyed at my question. "He's fine," she said curtly.

I pressed further, even though I probably shouldn't have. "Are you sure everything's OK?"

She gave me a cold stare. "It's all fine," she snapped.

* * *

It was about 5:30 a.m. when I made my way to the station. It was going to be hot and humid that day, probably in the 90's, but there was still a welcome chill in the air. I rolled down my windows and let the cool air rush in, clearing my head. I planned to have a heart to heart with Steph that night to see what was eating at her.

I was usually alone in the locker room at that early hour, but to my surprise Rachel was already there, buttoning up her shirt.

"Hey Rach, whatcha doing here so early?"

"Nothing much. Wanted to work out before our shift and left a little something for you for breakfast." She finished buttoning her shirt. I tried not to look at her but couldn't help sneaking a peek at her young, firm body.

I opened my locker and on the top shelf was a small aluminum foil wrapped package. I held it out for Rachel to see. "Is this the treat?"

"Uh huh."

I unwrapped the top of it. Freshly baked coffee cake. The odor of cinnamon got me thinking about a cup of coffee. "Thanks Rach!" I put it on the top shelf so I could get dressed. I noticed the key I found in the homeless man's pocket. I looked at it again -- just the number "37" with no other markings on the orange plastic bezel.

"Looks like a locker key at the bus station," Rachel said, giving me her unsolicited opinion.

"Now that you mention it ...". I pocketed the key, reminding myself that we needed to stop by the bus station to see if the key fit the lockers. Maybe there was some indication of who that person was and maybe information on how to notify his next of kin.

I went to the break room and made a fresh pot of coffee and poured myself a cup. I unwrapped the coffee cake and broke off my first piece. Delicious ... another pleasant surprise from my partner.

I spent a good part of the day finishing reports that had been languishing on my desk. Steph came in later, though we didn't really talk to each other. Her door was closed most of the day. Lanny complained to me that they hadn't made any headway on their investigation as to the source of the pink ice. Even though we found a promising lead in the BMW with the large stash under the back seat, the driver never came back and the car came back as stolen. Another frustrating dead end.

At the end of the day when I was undressing I noticed the key in my pocket. "Fuck," I uttered at my poor memory.

"What?" Rachel had just finished changing and was hefting her small duffel bag.

I showed her the key. "Oh yeah, I guess we forgot," she said.

"Want to go with me now?"

"Sure."

We both drove to the bus station, intending to split up and go home once we found the locker. The bus station was located not far from my motel, which should tell you what a shitty neighborhood it was. Litter was liberally strewn on the street in front of it. A homeless person was sleeping on a bench inside the station. Rachel wandered to the back where there were a couple banks of lockers and sure enough, the keys in the unused lockers were a bright orange, just like the one I had in my pocket. I fished the key out of my pocket and slid it into the lock for number 37. The key turned and I held the spring loaded door open. Rachel reached in a pulled out a plastic shopping bag and dropped it on the floor.

"Look here. He must be a Bearcat." I pulled out a well-loved University of Cincinnati grey hoodie. There was a small brown paper bag, and in it were a handful of dog eared photographs. Most of kid's birthdays and a few family portraits. Must have been the man's family. There were a number of other odds and ends not worth mentioning and an empty envelope with a return address on a street in one of the nicer neighborhoods in Cincinnati. Might be his family's address. I folded the envelope into thirds and stuffed it into my pocket. Worth a follow-up. At the bottom of the bag was a book of matches and a burner cell phone. Inside the matchbook was scrawled "M.B." with a phone number. I powered up the phone. The call history had been erased. I pocketed both of them.

"Here Rach." I tossed her the bag. "If we can find his family, we can return these few things to them. They'd probably appreciate knowing what happened to him. We can also check with the coroner. They may have been able to make an ID from his dental records and fingerprints."

"OK," she said, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "I'll let you know what I find out."

* * *

I was sitting at my desk finishing the paperwork I'd started the previous day. Bullshit reports and performance reviews. I'd rather be at the dentist. My desk phone rang and I practically jumped for it, looking for any reason to distract me from this drudgery.

"Max." It was Rachel.

"Yeah, what's up?" I answered.

"You sitting down?"

"Yep." This was going to be good.

"The guy that we found ... his name is Roland Amundsen. He's got a PhD. in Chemistry."

"The derelict?"

"Yeah ... there's more. The pink ice we found on him? It's a solid match to the stuff we found last year during that bust."

The wheels started turning in my head. "Was he using his own stuff?"

"Could be. It certainly is a coincidence if he's not connected to that pink ice."

Now I was intrigued. "Did you have a chance to contact his family?"

"Not yet. I'm still checking on his next of kin. I've got a couple leads. One from the university he attended and another from the address on the envelope you found. No one was home when I went there."

"Make it a priority and give me a call when you know something."

"You've got it."

My paperwork was forgotten. I called Lanny and asked him to come to my office.

Minutes later his hulking frame was in my doorway.

"What's up Sarge?" He was apparently finishing a hot dog when he was speaking to me. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Typical Lanny.

"I need a favor."

"You've got it." Lanny didn't even have to know what I wanted. Even though he was a goofball he was someone I could always count on. He did save my life once.

I handed him the matchbook and cell phone I found in Roland's locker. Roland was a pretty big guy, so maybe Lanny would sound like him. "Your name is Roland Amundsen. You're strung out and you're trying to score some pink ice. I think M.B. is his drug dealer."

"Sure." He dialed the number. He held the phone out so we could both hear. Someone picked up on the third ring.

"What's up Rol?" said a husky male voice. He must have recognized Roland's number from his caller ID. "Haven't heard from you in a while."

That's because he's dead, but M.B. didn't that.

"Need to score some pink ice." Lanny was good. He didn't sound like a cop.

"I told you that shit's no good for you."

Great. A compassionate drug dealer.

"Look ... do you have the shit or not?"

"Be cool Rol. I've got it. Usual place?"

"What?"

"You know. On the corner where you hang. In an hour." M.B. was good. If for some reason he wasn't talking to Roland he wasn't giving anything away. But I knew where. It would be near the boarded up tenement where we found him. I changed into street clothes and drove over to the boarded up rowhouse, waiting in my car across the street from the corner where I figured he'd be showing up.

I waited for about ten minutes before I spotted a man with his hands in his pockets, probably six foot, too good dressed to be from this neighborhood, approaching the corner and looking in all directions, likely for Roland. I texted Lanny to call his phone with what we had discussed. I think the conversation went something like this:

"What's up Rol? Where are you?" the man asked, still scanning his surroundings.

"Saw some cops cruising in the area. I thought I'd lay low for a bit. I'll call you later?" Lanny said.

"Sure ... sure," he answered.

I saw him pocket his phone and make a U-turn towards his car. I followed him from a distance, hoping he wouldn't spot me. I hit "1" on my speed dial.

"Officer Tompkins speaking."

"Rachel ... I need you now."

* * *

I sat at the kitchen table and waited. Small sounds in the house ... the refrigerator running ... the dishwasher finishing its cycle ... seemed loud to me. I waited for the sound of Steph's car pulling into the driveway. I thought about the bottle of Jack Daniels that Steph kept in her desk drawer. I was nursing a soft drink and drumming my fingers on my leg.

Finally, I heard a car door slam, and moments later Steph came in through the kitchen door. She was wearing her uniform and carrying a briefcase and a bag of takeout food from our favorite Chinese restaurant. Her mood was upbeat.

"Hey babe," she said, seeing me seated at the table. She put down the bag in front of me. Delicious smells emanated from within. I would usually have attacked the food as soon as it hit the table. Instead, I sat there with my arms folded.

Steph must have sensed the cold greeting. "OK, what is it Max?"

Instead of answering, I showed her the screen of my phone with a picture of her and M.B. when he was handing her an envelope filled with money. I handed her the phone. She looked at the picture, unblinking. Her face became ashen.

"Where did you get this?" Her hand slid off the table to her holstered gun.

"Rachel took it."

"Rachel?"

"Look Steph ... it's over."

She pulled her weapon out of her holster. "It's not over until I say it's over."

I pushed my chair back. Steph was trapped and angry, but I thought I knew her enough that she wouldn't blow my head off. I tried to talk her down. "Look ... I know you're supporting your son. I know it's expensive. But this isn't the way."

Her hand started trembling. I took the gun out of her hand and placed it on the table in front of her. She wasn't going to be a threat anymore.

"Steph ... Chief has already got the picture and a statement from Rachel and me."

"I'm so sorry ...". She dropped to her knees and put her head in my lap, sobbing. "Please ... help me."

I felt awful. She was the woman I loved, despite her flaws. But she was beyond the point of redemption, and with her career in law enforcement, she knew better than most that she was accountable for her actions. I wasn't going to stand in the way of justice, not when the pink ice that she was complicit in distributing had ruined many real lives ... lives such as Roland Amundsen's.

"I can't," I said in a voice tinged with regret and sorrow.

She bowed her head, no doubt in shame. "I know. But I thought I'd ask ... you know ... for old time's sake."

"I feel for your son, Steph, I really do, but there's no pity in my heart for you."

* * *

Six Months Later

People were filing out of the packed courtroom. I was already in the hallway, in my dress blues, watching a gaggle of reporters sitting on wooden benches busy typing stories of Steph's trial on their laptops. Steph's arrest, and the arrest of the drug ring leaders and the seizure of a major quantity of crystal meth created a media sensation that carried through to the trial. Rachel came up to me and put her arm around me.

"It had to be done," she said, offering me some measure of comfort.

"I know it did, but it didn't make it any easier." I was certain my testimony at the trial was the final nail in her coffin. The judge had just given the jury its final instructions, but we all knew what the verdict would be.

In the months since Steph's arrest, Rachel had been nothing but supportive. I'd always tried to keep her at arm's length since she was my partner, but after I moved back to my "temporary" quarters at the motel on the edge of town I also needed a change of scenery, so I requested a transfer to a field office about five miles from the central station where I'd partnered with Rachel. Rachel was heartbroken at my transfer, but understood. It was just too hard to hang around the old digs, walking by Steph's old office, now reassigned to someone else. Her shadow would likely never leave, so it was up to me to leave instead. Rachel and I still stayed in close touch, occasionally a lunch or a dinner at Nicky's diner, but the sting of Steph's betrayal always hung like a sword of Damocles over Rachel and me. My hope was that with a verdict in Steph's trial, this nightmare would be behind me.

"Come by my house. We'll have a bite to eat together. I'll throw a couple steaks on the grill." It was an innocent invitation from her, but somehow her eyes said differently. She took my hand in hers, perhaps as a comforting gesture, but I felt something more.

Ordinarily I would have declined. She was more than ten years younger than me, and our close working relationship would have stood between us. But with the relief of Steph's trial in my rear view mirror, and the severing of our working relationship, I decided to accept her offer.

The wait was shorter than the lawyers expected. Two hours after the jury went into deliberations they came back with a verdict. A wave of raised voices in the hallway rose to a crescendo as news of the verdict swept through the crowd waiting outside the courtroom. The bailiff unlocked the courtroom door and the lawyers and spectators streamed back into the empty courtroom. I took a place in the back, next to Rachel, on a folding chair. As the jury door opened, my hand instinctively went to hers, gripping it tightly as each of the jurors assumed their assigned seats. I was so busy thinking about my testimony that I hadn't focused on how I'd feel if Steph was found guilty. I felt terrified.

Steph was brought in, wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles linking her wrists and ankles. The accompanying officer leaned over to unlock the cuffs. Steph rubbed her wrists and then turned back to the crowd, looking for and finding me in the back. Her eyes were hollow, sullen, the life in them gone. I gave her a weak smile. Her eyes stayed with me a moment, then went forward, her back rounded and her shoulders slumped. I squeezed Rachel's hand harder.

The bailiff opened the door to the judge's chambers and the judge, a woman probably in her 40's, directed everyone to be seated. She waved to the bailiff to retrieve the verdict from the jury foreman. All eyes in the courtroom followed the uniformed officer as he made the slow, deliberate journey from the jury box to the judge's outstretched hand. My heart was racing as the judge unfolded the jury form.

She looked at it, then at the foreman, and finally at Steph.

"Will the defendant please rise?" she directed. Steph struggled to her feet, her legs wobbly. She rested her hands on the counsel's desk to steady herself.

"As to count one, conspiracy to distribute a controlled substance, methamphetamine, in a quantity exceeding sixteen ounces, the jury finds you guilty ...".

Steph fell to her knees, sobbing. A murmur went through the crowd. The judge's voice faded to the background as my eyes stayed focused on Steph, watching the final collapse of her world, and mine as well. Rachel drew me closer, holding me, as I began to cry. My head cleared enough to hear the judge's final words after Steph was found guilty on her three charges.

"And the defendant will be remanded to the county jail. Counsel, I'll want sentencing memos from each of you, with sentencing to occur on ...".

The court clerk, seated at a desk below the judge's bench, staring at her computer monitor, said "July 14, 9 a.m.".

"July 14, at 9 a.m." continued the judge.

"Court is in recess."

The courtroom turned into pandemonium as Steph started screaming and fighting with the officer as he attempted to reattach her cuffs.

"No ... no ... I won't go," she screamed. She looked for me as the officer held her flailing arms behind her back.

"Max ... Max!" she cried.

I couldn't take it. Rachel could see my distress, and took me by the arm and led me out, my back turned to Steph, pleading, "Max!"

* * *

A Week Later

Someone was pounding on my door. The curtains to my motel room were drawn shut. My throat was parched. I opened my eyes, still feeling the effects of the fifth of cheap whiskey that I finished right before I passed out. The empty bottle was lying sideways on the bed, still another swallow left in it. While the pounding continued I sat up and drained the last few drops from the bottle. The familiar stinging sensation and glowing warmth washed over me, allowing me another few seconds of peace before Steph's voice again rang in my ears.

"Max! Max!" I heard from outside the door. It wasn't Steph's voice ... it was Rachel's.

"Max ... open the fucking door!"

I really didn't want to get up, but Rachel's insistent pounding made going back to sleep impossible. I dragged myself out of bed and unchained the door, then opened it a crack.

"Hello?" I asked, seeing Rachel dressed up, with make-up on. She looked as good as I looked bad.

"Max ... where the fuck have you been? I've been worried about you." She pushed her way in, and looked at the empty whiskey bottle on the bed and the overflowing waste basket of empty whiskey and beer bottles. I was holding onto the door so I wouldn't fall over. She leaned forward to smell my breath.

"You're absolutely skunked!" she said. She knew I was a recovering alcoholic, and hadn't had a drink in months. "Oh Max ... this isn't the way to deal with Steph."

"I'm sorry," I offered. As an alcoholic, I'd offered that apology more times than I could count. It never though deterred me from that next drink.

"Max ... you were supposed to be at my house three hours ago ... remember? ... dinner?"

"Oh yeah, dinner, " I mumbled. I forgot about her dinner invitation. I think I forgot everything after the eighth shot. A blissful numbness. I'd hurt people much worse than I just hurt Rachel.

I plopped myself on the bed. I was a mess. I was still wearing my uniform from my shift that day, though the blouse was heavily wrinkled and stained and there was a large wet spot on my pants where I spilled whiskey when the bottle slipped from my lips.

"Max ... let me help you out of these disgusting clothes." I wasn't in any shape to resist. She helped me take off my clothes and pushed me nude, into the shower. She didn't wait for the water to warm, so the first minute or two was freezing.

"Fucking shit!" I screamed, as the icy cold water made goosebumps pop up on my skin.

"You'll thank me for this," she said, hopefully, using her hands to push against me so I wouldn't get out.

"No I won't. I fucking hate you," I said. Her clothes were getting wet as the spray splashed off of me and onto her. Her blouse was almost transparent, and it was clear her nipples were pressing hard against the lacy cups of her bra. Long suppressed feelings for Rachel started to surface. Was it wrong to feel this way ... this soon after Steph's fall from grace?