One of Sabrina’s most valued attributes was her
ability to compartmentalize. She could divide herself into sections—mother,
cop, friend, partner—one section rarely bled into another. It was how she had
survived eight-three days of rape and torture. How she'd been able to pull the
trigger and blow her brother's face away when she'd been faced with what he'd
done to her. It was her ability to operate in sections that allowed her to sit
in Mathews’ office next to Michael without totally losing it.
She'd
been called into Mathews' office for what she assumed would be the re-boot of
her weekly reminder of how much he hated her. Before her transfer, he used to
call her in and sit her down; just so he could go over all the ways she wasn't
fit to carry a badge. She was impulsive. Insubordinate. Non-compliant with
department policy... oh, and despite evidence to the contrary, he was convinced
that she'd had a fellow officer murdered a few years ago. He'd warn her that he
was watching her, that one screw up was all he needed to give her the boot.
She'd let him rant at her for a while and when he ran out of steam, she'd thank
him for his time and leave. It was kinda their thing.
Waiting
for the wind-up, she picked her favorite water spot on the wall—the one shaped
like Florida—to the left of his head and started staring. It never came.
Instead he said, “A Fed is on his way up here to stick his nose in the kiddie
murder you and Pigpen picked up today. Try not to embarrass the shit out of me,
will ya?”
A few
knocks sounded behind her, but she didn't bother to turn around. You met one Fed, you met them all. Then
she heard his voice and she couldn't
turn around.
Michael.
Michael was here.
Taking
a deep breath, she turned and held out her hand, formed her mouth into a
courteous smile. “It's nice to meet you, Agent Payne. I'm Inspector Vaughn.”
She looked down at the hand she held out in front of her. As steady as you
please. He took it and gave it a shake while saying something about how nice it
was to meet her. Her eyes touched his for a moment—the quiet gray of them
seemed a bit darker than she remembered but just as beautiful. His face was
calm, passive even. It was a look she remembered well.
The
part of her that wanted to bolt from the room reared its ugly head for just a
moment but she walled it off. Pulling her hand back, she dropped it in to her
lap and looked at her Captain. “Shall I start?” Mathews grunted at her and she
took it as an affirmative. She started talking, filling them both in on the
case and they listened. Michael asked a few questions and she answered him,
surprised at the tremor-free sound of her own voice.
When
finished, she sat back in her seat and let the two of them talk it out. She was
too busy concentrating on keeping herself in her seat to participate in what
they were saying. The creak of Mathews' desk chair drew her attention. He sat
up in his chair and placed his hands, folded, on top of his desk. A sure sign
that he was about to say something that would piss her off.
Instinctively,
she clamped down on her temper in an attempt to cut Mathews’ mouth off at the
pass. Looking at O’Shea, he said, “I feel I should mention that I have deep
reservations concerning Inspector Vaughn's ability to lead an investigation of
this magnitude. Not only is she newly returned from a fifteen-month stint on
SWAT, she's rash and unpredictable.” Mathew looked at her and she saw herself
lunging across the desk to bitch-slap him silly. “Vaughn's been instructed to
provide you with full cooperation and to assist you in all matters of this
investigation,” he said, even though he’d informed her of no such thing. “But
in the interest of transparency, I’ll admit that she’s not the Inspector I’d
have chosen for this assignment. If at any time, you feel like you would prefer
a different liaison, don’t hesitate to say so.”
Never
one to disappoint, Mathews hit every nerve Sabrina had and it took everything
she had to keep her mouth shut. Egotistical,
over-blown, self-important son of a—
“I’ve been fully briefed on what you view as
Inspector Vaughn’s shortcomings, Captain Mathews. I’m also aware that, despite
where she’s been for the past fifteen months, she’s the best investigator
you’ve got.” O’Shea stood, looking down at Mathews with a mix of amusement and
contempt, “As for her being expected to comply—if I wanted someone to follow me
around and lick my shoes, I would’ve asked for a dog. Inspector Vaughn is
expected to speak her mind, ask questions and follow the evidence. If that
leads her in a different direction than the one I’m heading, I’ll welcome and
appreciate any insight she can provide.” O’Shea delivered the last of his
statement directly to her.
Mathews
turned, gave her a look that would've killed her if looks were capable. “Get
out.”
“Yes,
sir,” she said quietly, unable to scrape away the smirk that’d plastered itself
to her face. Easing herself from the chair, she stood and managed to get
through the door without giving voice to the myriad of smartass comments that
were doing the Super Bowl shuffle around her head.
She
started toward the bullpen but pulled up short. Strickland was sitting at his
desk, going over witness statements to make sure they hadn't missed anything
from the canvass. She was about halfway between her desk and Mathews' office
when she pulled up short. Michael was less than twenty yards away. More than a
year, he'd finally come back—but as usual, he hadn't come for her.
On
impulse, she grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair and pulled it on.
Suddenly, this was last place she wanted to be.
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