The Number

I'm excited to submit this story for Lit's inaugural Crime & Punishment 2023 Story Event
. It stands alone, like most of my stories... but also like most of my stories, it's connected to two other ones I've written, in this case "Playing It By Ear" and "The Girl In The Green Dress." You don't need to have read those to appreciate this one, but you might want to.

Enjoy!

* * *

It was not a great fucking day.

I ignored the faculty advisor when he tried to shake my hand as I left. He'd said thanks, and my harsh "just doing my job, good citizen!" glare had not kept him from sticking his hand hopefully out. I stalked on over to my car, belatedly realizing he'd probably been hoping to flirt with me, even fuck me: as I well knew, a lot of guys get turned on by female police officers.

Well. He could go fuck his hand. I had a date.

An important one, too: a chat with my mentor about some mental-health issues I couldn't possibly talk to my shrink about. I'd become uneasy about my job lately, and today's detail had been just the latest in what seemed to have turned into an uninterrupted downward plunge from the dizzying heights of the Detective Division back to the streets.

Or, worse, back to Vice again.

I was not stupid. I knew what it meant when a detective started getting assigned to details for the local high school Key Club, doing good-natured crowd control for their car wash fundraiser. Lieutenant Jaeckel had been pretty nice about it, considering how pissed he was at me: "You can wear the polo shirt and cargo pants, if you want. No vest or tie." He'd smiled, smarmy, expecting me to kneel down and suck his dick in gratitude, like choosing me for a detail when my partner DiMaggio was out solving real crimes was some kind of favor.

Well. He could go fuck his hand, too.

I fumed as I started the car, the worst of the Division's plainclothes units, the one the techs swapped parts with to keep the other cars running better. I wasn't going to be late meeting Krasnov, thank God; he and I both detested lateness. But it would be close, and I didn't need him pissed at me. Alex Krasnov, I sometimes felt, was my only real friend in the world, as fucked-up as that was. The man had given me a career and my very first orgasm, and I still felt I owed him.

My phone buzzed as I pulled out, and a glance at the number chilled me. I knew That Number. Usually it texted, but right now it was calling, patiently waiting for me to pick up.

But it could go fuck itself.

At length, my phone quit shaking. I waited a couple seconds, but the thing stayed silent. So no voicemail this time. Shit. I needed this date.

I oozed along the Shore Road heading out of Seaborne, dying to flash my lights and siren, begging to lay waste to all this traffic as I blazed forward on my business, so much more important than the rest of the peons... but no. I was in trouble these days, and I needed to watch myself. A citizen complaint would get me landed back in Vice, probably, and I glumly realized I'd probably get into even more trouble down there.

The cars bumped along, my annoyance growing as I shoved myself past as many of them as I could, but eventually I found myself stuck behind a motherfucker in a red SUV. And it only took me three or four minutes to figure out how he was causing this godawful mess.

"Fucking yielder," I seethed to myself, trying in vain to get the window down. I could feel sweat in my armpits and the AC didn't work in this car, and the last thing I wanted was to sit down across from Alex all scruffy-looking. I thought about honking, but the mockery I'd get from Jaeckel if I got written up stopped me.

Still. The Red SUV needed to be chastened.

Because he was a Yielder, the worst form of life on the modern highway, the asshole that ultimately caused 95% of traffic tie-ups and almost 72% of collisions, the moron who did not understand his obligation to keep moving forward in traffic, lest the whole house of cards come crashing down.

The last straw was a smooth, oblivious stop he made so that some old ladies could pull out of one of the parallel spots near State Street Gazebo. The dumb bitches hadn't even opened their car doors when he yielded for them, still bent over their trunk with their flabby ancient asses jiggling from inside bathing suits out of style since 1989, and as the cars honked behind me I realized something really did need to be done.

I needed to become the chastener.

I hit my siren, giving two sharp blasts, my blues winking out from the front grille. "Move your car, sir," I ordered through my loudspeaker, visualizing the relief in the drivers behind me... and realizing how their smiles would curdle now.

Because Red SUV refused to budge.

I hopped back on my 'speaker. "You're blocking traffic, sir. Move. Your. Car."

He replied by putting his hazard flashers on.

I don't even remember making the decision to get out of the car, my wrath brimming over as I marched along the lane-line with the oncoming traffic slowing down to gawk. Great, I fumed, now he's slowing down the other lane, too, and I raised my shades onto my forehead as I reached his window, glaring inside like an angel of death. "Open the window!" I demanded, rapping a knuckle on the smoked glass. "Now!"

The blast of AC that flew out into my face as the window slid smoothly down was enough to stir my hair in its inadequate ponytail. "Yes?" The man was an asshole, clearly, the kind of well-meaning citizen who would never understand the damage his goodwill was doing.

"Look, I know you're trying to be nice by yielding to everyone," I began, "but it really is messing up traffic behind you."

He smiled, one of those entitled little smirks that comes from more money than I would ever get paid. "It's my right-of-way," he pointed out, "and I can give it up if I want. Right?"

"Well, sure," I sighed, arching an eyebrow, "but doing that infringes on the rights of everyone else using the road. It causes accidents. Road rage. Heightened insurance premiums." I nodded sideways. "Just move on, sir. The whole road system depends on people not yielding."

"Are you going to ticket me, officer?" His voice had a slight, nasal drop of hostility in it now.

"I always like to think tickets shouldn't be necessary," I replied quietly, staring into his dark eyes. The guy was pretty hot, I allowed, but annoying. And maybe a lawyer. "Is a ticket necessary?"

It better not, I reminded myself: I had no real reason to write him one, but that hope flew away when he smiled pleasantly and opened his mouth again. "If you're not going to ticket me, then fuck off. Okay?"

My skin crawled, fingers automatically flexing toward my gun as I let my slow grin answer him. "I can see a ticket will be necessary," I hissed, my voice a soft menace as his eyes rolled. "See that fire lane up ahead? Pull in there. Now. I'll be right with you." I strode back to my car without looking back, my mind red with rage, already sorting through the possible offenses I could jot down.

And that's why I was late for my meeting with Alex, my lips finally curving into what felt like my first genuine grin in weeks as I caught sight of him through the diner's big picture window. "Hi there," I burbled, walking straight to his table. I could feel my face flushing.

"You're late, Detective Lindberg," he pointed out, his face sour as I kissed him hello. He tasted like coffee. "I should bend you over my knee and smack the shit out of you."

"Maybe you should," I nodded, slipping into the booth across from him. We'd tried to have a relationship under my ex-husband's nose, Alex and I, after he'd first taken me unexpectedly on the job. And even though we still hooked up about twice a year, he wasn't really responsible for plugging my pussy. We'd never been as hot as that first time, but he knew every inch of my body. So that always made me blush around him. "Been awhile since we got into that kind of shit."

He smiled, mobile lips in a square face, his nimble fingers toying with his coffee cup. "You're never late."

"I wrote an asshole a ticket." I made a face. "He'll appeal it, and it'll get knocked back. And I'll get in even more trouble than I'm in," I sighed.

"More than you're in?" He leaned in with one eyebrow arching high. "What's on your mind, Julie?" He waved toward the waitress, who stared hard at me as she approached. "Another coffee, please."

"Black," I added as she walked away, but she just sniffed. "Bitch."

"You're a cop," he pointed out mildly, "and a lot of people don't like cops." He was in civvies, I noticed, his hair long again.

"You undercover again?" I blushed more deeply as I asked. It was how we'd met.

"Getting there." He slurped. "Drug guys. Bad dudes. I'm not taking the lead this time, though; we've got a young hotshot on his way up. I'm sorta the mentor." We smiled at each other. "I guess a lot of people see me that way."

"I see you in a lot of ways," I blurted. I'd never been able to guard myself around him. I resisted the urge to reach out and take his hand. "I miss you sometimes."

"I'm a phone call away." He shrugged and, quite casually, undressed me with his eyes. I shivered. "Always, for you." I wondered whether he was hard, but shook that off as my coffee arrived. "Thanks," he said, for me.

"Yeah." The waitress slunk away, headed for richer tippers.

"Tell me," he pressed quietly, waiting until he had my eyes captured in his. "What's on your mind? Why'd you want to meet?" The ghost of a smile appeared. "What kind of trouble you in this time?"

I looked out the window for a long moment at the sun-bleached finish of my shitty Division car, pondering. Wondering whether I could possibly put any kind of spin on this. "I have a big case," I admitted at last, "and my snitch is gone. Poof. Vanished."

He nodded, showing no surprise. "If snitches were dependable people, they wouldn't be snitches. Not your fault, Julie. Where was he last seen?"

"County," I snorted, shaking my head. I dragged my eyes back to him. "He was in jail. They let him out because I asked them to."

He went very still. "No wonder you're in trouble. Can you find him?"

"He's got a cellmate. From years ago. I'm tracking that guy down." When Alex did nothing but nod, I felt I had to fill the pause. "He got ROR because I vouched for him. He'd been delivering me good shit for months. Guy named Tony Massacoli." Tony had been fucking me too, pretty adequately. He'd been good for those inevitable nights when I just wanted to denigrate someone, to make them feel like shit while sating my own lust. What pissed me off was that that had probably been one of the reasons I'd told them to cut him loose. My nails tapped nervously on the thick diner mug. "I didn't figure he'd bounce."

"Did he have a reason to?"

I smiled wearily. "Everyone does. This guy... well, he'd gotten used by some bitch who stole some restaurant money and then ran a guy over. Traci, her name is. He was the manager of the restaurant, she was a waitress. I had him on the hook for embezzlement, probably. Obstruction, definitely. Accessory. On top of a dropped armed robbery charge he'd had hanging over his head for years."

"Do I know his lawyer?"

"Probably not. She's local, and you're a statie. Pringle? Leah, I think her name is?" He shook his head slowly. "Yeah. I don't think she was in on it. I think he left with the bitch who stole the money."

"And ran the guy over?" He sipped. "Who was the guy she ran over?"

"Nobody. A dealer I was trying to put away when all this started; obviously, she closed that case." We smiled at each other, two little predators in the big dangerous world. It was never all that bad when suspects died, though it did sometimes lead to questions. "But she took off. We grabbed my snitch for damage control, but I raked him over the coals and I was sure he didn't know where she went." I stared out at the parking lot again, brooding.

I still believed I'd been right. Tony was not smart enough to lie that convincingly, not to me. She must have reached out to him. "The girl. Who ran the dealer over. Is she connected?"

I'd thought about that angle. The Kystros family sometimes recruited from restaurants, but she didn't seem like the type. "Don't believe so."

"Is she hot?"

"Oh, hell yes." I took a stinging sip of the coffee, wondering whether the waitress had peed in it. "Part-time stripper." I thought about The Number. The unanswered phone call from my car. The unleft voicemail.

"He was fucking her, then."

"Better not have been," I snarled softly, meeting his eyes unwillingly this time. If Tony couldn't lie to me, I couldn't lie to Alex. "He was fucking me too, sometimes."

Alex nodded for a long moment, staring. "That's a shit sandwich," he admitted, "but not an insurmountable one. If this guy's dumb enough to get himself involved with shady shit just for some pussy, then also fuck a cop, he's dumb enough to get caught again." He cocked his head at me. "You're ready to cover your tracks? With him?"

"I'll make sure he doesn't do real time, I guess," I shrugged, "but if he claims I'd been doing him? All I have to do is deny it. There's no evidence, and they'll believe me before him." I took another sip, suddenly in doubt. "Well. They should."

"They will." He sighed heavily. "Even in this day and age, if there's nothing on video? They don't do anything." He hesitated, rubbing his bristly chin.

"What?" I was not in the mood to read his mind. I'd never minded telling Alex the truth, about anything. "Ask. I'll spill."

He puckered his lips. "You shouldn't be sleeping with your CIs, Jules," he told me quietly.

"I shouldn't have let my undercover partner fuck me either, Alex," I snapped back at him, knowing it was unfair.

He took it, though, because we both knew he was right. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned in. "Remember when we met? You were on vice? Talking about how sex was a commodity?" I swallowed.

That had been a lifetime ago.

"It still is, kind of. For you." It was a question, but Alex had a way of asking in a way that suggested he already knew the answer. "Meaningless."

"Not always meaningless," I muttered, holding his eyes viciously. Challenging him. But he didn't look away. "But yes. Often."

"Who else are you fucking, Julie?"

I knew my face was scarlet. "Okay," I managed after a deep breath, "a lot of people. What about it?"

"Anyone at work?"

I shrugged. "You know how it is, being a woman on the job. Trying to get ahead."

He stared at me for another long moment. I felt obscurely like I was on the stand. "Is this a problem, Julie?"

I smiled without any amusement at all. "My therapist says I'm a sex addict," I confessed, "but he said that just after he came in my pussy, so he might not have been unbiased about it." A long sigh told me he wasn't all that amused, but I still got that wry smile out of him. The waitress came by and refilled our coffees, glaring at both of us now. "It's just fucking, Alex. It's not emotional." I scanned the restaurant, catching what I was looking for. "That dude at the counter. In the suit." He glanced over. "I could fuck him. A hundred percent."

His eyebrow rose. "You probably could, but what's your point? Why him?"

I curled a contemptuous lip at the man. "I caught him checking out the waitress. What are men thinking about when they check out women, Alex?"

"Sex," he shrugged.

"So. That waitress is not his wife." I shrugged, the logic clear in my head, tested by a few dissolute years of random dick. "I'm not his wife, either. If he's thinking about sex with her, he'll think about sex with me." I tossed back my hair, still kinked with the braids I'd worn on the detail. "Want me to show you? Five bucks says I can get him to do me in the bathroom here." He stared at me in a way that made me feel both cheap and strong, my head sinking. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize." He sighed heavily. "Shit, Julie, if I'd have known what was going on?" He glanced around. "Want to come over to my place tonight?"

I rolled my eyes. "You live seventy miles away and I've got a shift tonight." And every night: I'd been getting all the worst hours lately. "A month ago I could have gone off the radio and come over there, and nobody would have asked any questions. Now?" I shook my head. "They're watching me."

"Sure they're watching you." He cocked his head, his expression sliding into that one you use when you're trying to get a suspect to confess. "I mean, you know the score. You're twenty-nine and already a Detective Three. You've done nothing but superb work all this time." He smiled reasonably. "There are people in your department who've been waiting for you to fuck up."

"I get it, Alex," I sighed.

"So. If you need to talk." He sat back, the booth creaking. He looked somewhat guiltily at his watch. "I should go soon. My dispatch doesn't know I'm here."

"Been there, done that." I smiled. "I appreciate you coming all the way out here. It does help me to talk about it, and you're who I talk about it with."

That got a rare Alex Krasnov smile, the kind which made me wet. "Anytime. I'd stay longer, only see, my date was late."

I shrugged. "Want a blow job for the road?"

His smile grew.

* * *

The desk sergeant's head perked up the moment I walked in. "You're late."

"Fuck you, LaFratta." I almost spilled my coffee as I laid it on the counter, already on fumes after a useless nap that afternoon. I was facing an all-nighter and then a shift up in Division tomorrow. So I yawned and tugged at my uniform. I hated wearing blues. I'd spent too long in plain clothes to be comfortable again in a gunbelt, I reflected. But the Captain had said all the desk sergeants needed to be in full bells and whistles. And as a Detective-3, I was technically a sergeant.

Which meant they could put me on the desk if they wanted to fuck with me..

All night long.

He laughed. "Cheer up, Lindberg. It's not Friday, so the bars shouldn't be busy. You'll probably be able to doze all night." He said all this to my chest, the lech. LaFratta was probably the most perverted man I'd ever met, and I hadn't even fucked him. "Or I can stay back and bend you over," he mumbled hopefully.

"No way, shithead." I sniffed. "I have standards." I thought we'd made out once at a party, but it had been dark and boozy and I'd never been all that sure it was him. These things can be hard to confirm. I'd been a PO1 back then, and him a new sergeant, plus being the union rep, so it wasn't like it would have been all that unusual for him to assume he could have me.

Hell. I'd still been married back then, and happily. No way would I have made a big stink about some sticky grappling at a holiday party, and he'd have known all that.

He nodded. "Quiet afternoon." He punched up the evening log, the incidents scrolling along his laptop. "You'll need to keep an eye on the drunk tank. Sully brought in a couple of kids from the Roadhouse, and you know how he gets." I nodded ruefully, the two of us rolling our eyes. Officer Sullivan had a habit of arresting people who did not need to be arrested, and they usually got upset about that. "They'll be pissy."

"Fuck 'em," I shrugged. Sure, Sully had probably grabbed them a little prematurely, but he was still a cop. So he got the benefit of the doubt.

"Well. You probably shouldn't," he leered, "unless you bash the cameras out first." He was talking to my crotch now. "They'd love to pump you, though, probably," he winked, "just like that snitch of yours who ran off."

"You can shove that up your ass, you fucking dickcheese," I seethed, but of course he was already laughing. LaFratta was a guy who liked getting a rise out of people.