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CHAPTER TWENTY
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FALCO
I gave Hicks the Reader’s Digest version of the events that occurred the evening before as we drove to Home Depot. She listened intently and quietly, without interruption, something I had not seen her do in the short time I’d known her.
When I was winding down my story, I could see her shaking her head.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Men are so damn gullible,” she said.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Let me play it back for you. A girl you haven’t seen in twenty years, who happens to be homeless now, is currently living in your apartment, eating your food and running around town with your debit card and your PIN number,” she said. “Do I have that right?”
“Well . . . yeah, but . . .”
“And all this special attention because she was your first fuck?” she interrupted.
“It’s more complicated than that,” I said.
“How can someone with such movie star looks and a body like The Rock, be so naïve? Did it ever occur to you that she’s playing you?”
“Well . . . no . . .”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, scoffing. “You’re such an idiot, Falco.”
“She’s not like that,” I insisted.
“Yeah, whatever,” she replied. “You think with your dick, and I should know. I’ve had it in my mouth.”
“You’re full of it, Hicks. I didn’t tell you what happened so you could shit on her.”
“You know what, we’re done with this conversation,” she said. “You’re a big boy now. Take your lumps when they come. We’re here anyway. Follow my lead.”
She pulled the cruiser up to the front. We both got out and went inside the giant store. She saw the ‘Home Appliances’ sign and motioned for me to follow.
Hicks looked around the department, spotted a young woman among the seven or so employees running around and nodded to me. The woman she spotted was short, bottom heavy and looked unmistakably skanky. Hicks approached her with me close behind.
“Are you Suzanne Littleton?” she asked.
“Yes, I am, why?” she asked, her eyes flashing toward my badge. Her eyes lit up in fear. Everyone, employees and customers alike, had already begun to take notice of two of Nashville’s finest in the home appliance section of Home Depot. Even without our uniforms, the badges and guns on our belts stuck out like a beacon.
“We’re investigating a domestic disturbance involving a Mr. and Mrs. Bob Miller,” Hicks said. “Your name came up. That’s why we’re here.”
Suzanne noticed her fellow employees staring at her and beginning to gather around, albeit at a safe distance. She was clearly humiliated. She lowered her head and pulled her hair behind her ear, nervously, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Do you think you could keep your voice down.”
“Mrs. Miller is claiming that you are having an affair with her husband,” Hicks said, loudly enough for several employees and a number of customers to hear.
“Officer Hicks,” I said. “Maybe there is a storage room or someplace we can speak with Suzanne more privately.”
“That’s alright, Falco,” she replied. “We won’t be long.”
She turned back to Suzanne, “Well, Ms. Littleton?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeated.
“Ms. Littleton, Mrs. Miller has copies of your Facebook messages to Mr. Miller,” Hicks said. “It made for interesting reading. Ms. Littleton, do you like to pee on men? Do you get off on that?”
I heard several employees gasp and a few of them snickered. Ms. Littleton’s face turned beet red. She was immeasurably humiliated. Hicks had crossed the line in a major way. Through the corner of my eye I saw an employee speaking to an older, very tall, very large black man, undoubtedly the department supervisor. He looked our way as the employee was speaking to him. He wore an angry expression.
“Officer,” I said, stepping between her and Suzanne, “I’ll take it from here. I need you to go back to the squad car.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be sleeping with married men,” Hicks said to Suzanne, one final salvo.
“Now, Hicks,” I repeated, sternly, looking into her eyes, unwaveringly. The large black man was heading our way, now.
Hicks flashed me an angry look, then backed off. She glared at Suzanne one last time then turned and left.
Suzanne buried her face in her hands and started to cry.
“What is going on here?” the large black man asked, crossly. His name badge read Franklin Jones, Supervisor.
“I am here as part of an investigation, Mr. Jones,” I said. “We are only asking questions.”
“Can’t you see you’ve upset her?” Jones barked. “This woman is in my employ and on duty. Unless you have a warrant, you have no right disrupting her work. Do you have a warrant?”
“No, sir,” I replied. “As I was saying, we are just asking ques . . .”
“You’re not even in uniform, Officer . . . . uh?”
“Falco,” I replied. “Officer John Falco.”
“Well, I will be taking this matter up with your supervisor,” Jones snapped. “Now, please leave.”
I sighed and handed Suzanne a card, “Ms. Littleton, if you can think of any information regarding this case, please call me.”
She took the card. Her hands were quaking.
Back in the car, I let Hicks have it . . . with both barrels, metaphorically speaking.
“What the fuck were you thinking, Hicks?” I barked.
“Mary Miller does not deserve to lose everything in her life because of that twisted pee-bloated skank,” she fired back.
“That is not your concern,” I declared.
“I’ll give you ten to one odds that she never sleeps with Mr. Miller again,” she said. “I did my job.”
“You did not do your job. You crossed the line. You are an officer of the law. You handled the situation at the Miller’s house by the book. You followed procedure. She is being processed through the system. It’s out of your hands now.”
She glared at me. I met her gaze with one of my own. After several seconds, I saw the fire begin to die down.
“Let’s go get that cup of coffee,” she said.
I nodded, “I’m driving.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting in Starbucks, in two of their leather reading chairs, sipping latte’s. The place was nearly empty. Hicks seemed to have calmed.
“You feeling better?” I asked.
Hicks sat back and exhaled loudly, “Yeah, I am. You were right. I’m sorry I put you in an awkward position.”
“You have an anger management problem, Hicks,” I said. “You need to deal with it.”
“I know,” she admitted. “I’m out of control.”
“Damn right you’re out of control,” I snapped. “Look, Hicks. I think you’re a great cop, and I’ve not met anyone I’d rather have at my side when the shit hits the fan, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to follow you around and clean up your messes just because you can’t keep your temper in check. This whole bull-in-a-China-shop shit has to stop.”
“I’ve never let any man speak to me that way before,” she said.
“Maybe you need to listen every now and then.”
“You’re right,” she said, nearly flooring me with her mea culpa. “You’re right about all of it. I should go back and talk with the manager and apologize.”
“It would only make it worse. He needs to cool down. The manager has my name,” I told her. “If he calls, I’ll take the call . . . and the heat.”
“You’d do that?” she asked. “Why?”
“Because you already have one pending abuse of power case against you, Hicks,” he replied. “I can take the heat on this easier than you. We’re partners. That’s what partners do.”
She looked at me with the oddest stare. The wheels were turning in her head, I could tell, and it seemed to go deeper than the event which had just transpired.
After we finished our coffee, we went back to the station, and I filled out my report, including both the visit to the Miller house and the visit to Suzanne Littleton and Home Depot. I did what I could to soften the language but knew full well there were witnesses who would have overheard Hicks verbally bombarding the appliance sales lady. It was my hope that the supervisor would not follow through with his threat, but if he did, I was preparing what I’d say to Captain Paulson.
I looked at my watch. It was already past three o’clock. I wondered what Irina was doing. I thought about what Hicks had said and wondered, was I really being an idiot? Was Irina playing me?
As I drove home I wondered if she’d even be there. Did she steal stuff from my apartment? Would she max out my card and take off?
And if she did, would I follow her?