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"I called 911 on his burner phone. By the time I got through, he was gone." No, not gone. Dead. Use the proper terminology, Casey. Don't sugar-coat it.
"What did you tell the operator?"
"Dispatcher," I say, correcting her automatically. "I said I heard a shot, and I raced over to see two men fleeing the scene. One had a gun. I gave descriptions roughly matching two of the guys who beat me. I said I was going to follow them to get a closer look. She told me not to, of course, but I was already hanging up."
"You thought it through."
Her tone should be at least vaguely accusatory. Instead, it's almost admiring. She's been abused in some way. Bullied. Harassed. Maybe even assaulted. She's fantasized about doing exactly what I did, to whoever hurt her.
I can't even take credit for "thinking it through." A situation presented itself, and I reacted. One therapist explained it as an extreme response to the primal fight-or-flight instinct. Mine apparently lacks the flight portion.
"What did you do with the gun?" she asks.
"I wiped it down and threw it in the river. It was never found."
"Have you ever pulled the file? As a cop?"
She doesn't even bother to say "police officer" now. All formality gone.
"No, that could flag an alert," I say. "It didn't happen here anyway."
>
"Was the boy's family really connected? Like capital F family?"
She says it as if this is an episode of The Sopranos.
"I guess so," I say, which is a lie. I know so. The Saratoris aren't major players, but Blaine's grandfather, Leo, is definitely part of the Montreal organized crime scene.
"Don't you worry they'll find out and come for revenge?"
Every day of my life, I think, but all I grant her is a shrug.
"Biggest therapist fail ever." I down a shot of tequila two days later, my first chance to have a drink after work with Diana. "I might as well have confided in that chick over there." I point at a vacant-eyed girl in the corner. Hooker. Crack addict. If she's old enough to be in a bar, I'll turn in my badge.
"Remind me again why you put yourself through that," Diana says. "Oh, right. You're a sadist."
"Masochist," I say. "Also, possibly, a sadist, but in this situation, it's masochism."
She rolls her eyes and shifts on her stool. She's already sitting on the edge, as if placing her ass--even fully clothed--on the surface might result in lethal contamination. At least she's stopped cleaning her glass with an antiseptic wipe before drinking from it.
Another shift has her sliding off the stool, and she does a little stutter-jump to get back on, tugging down her miniskirt as she does. One of the guys across the bar is checking her out. Or he's checking out her hair, blond with bright pink tips. He squints, as if suspecting he's had too much to drink. They don't see a lot of pink hair in here.
"So how was work?" I ask. Diana is in accounting. Her exact title seems to change by the month, as she flits about, not climbing the corporate ladder, but jumping from rung to rung, testing them all for size.
"We're not going to talk about your therapy session?"
"We just did."
I down my second shot of tequila. The bartender glances over and jerks his thumb at the soda fountain. It's not a hint. Kurt knows I have a two-shot limit. I nod, and he starts filling a glass.
"So work...?" I prod Diana.
Her lips purse, and that tells me that's not a good question. Not today. I just hope it doesn't mean she'd been demoted again. Lately, Diana's career hopes seem to all be downward ... and not by choice.
"Is work ... okay?" I venture.
"Work is work." She gulps her drink and there's an uncharacteristic note of bitterness in her voice.
