Knox
HE WONDERS EXACTLY when it was that the police became the enemy.
Sitting at a large round table with eleven of his fellow officers, Knox Helmer listens as Senator Tom Hagan presents his case for the Metropolitan Police Department’s committed efforts to be at peace with its community.
“These are trying times we live in,” Senator Hagan asserts, his blue-blood inspection skirting the crowd of officers before him. “The efforts of the police departments in our country have never been under more scrutiny. I realize the tremendous pressure you are under when a situation calls for a quick-thinking response. Many times, your decision will result in life or death. Unfortunately, your jobs require that you think beyond the present moment.”
Dawson Healy leans in close to Knox and says in a low voice, “You mean the part where we’re dead?”
Knox tips his head in acknowledgment of the question, wondering if the senator would expect them to carry out a military mission with their hands tied behind their backs.
“We in public service,” the Senator continues, “must be aware of our role to set an example for our citizens.”
“I guess that example includes the armed security who walked his ass in here. And anyway, I thought our role was to serve and protect,” Dawson says now in a less-concealed tone.
“Restraint must serve as the hallmark of your every action,” the senator continues.
“Does that include when we have a gun pointed at our heads?” Dawson asks in a voice loud enough that the other officers at the table give him looks that say, “Cool it.”
Knox’s own blood pressure has started to inch upward. He runs a finger between the collar of his shirt and his neck, wondering why the hook of tonight’s invitation had been Appreciation Dinner when it should have read Political Correctness Lecture. He decides a bathroom break is in order and leaves the table to weave his way to the back entrance of the hotel’s conference room. He’s just stepped into the hallway when the door swings open behind him. Dawson Healy has followed him out.
“Screw that,” he says, reaching inside his jacket pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. “Join me outside?”
“Sure,” Knox says following him across the carpeted floor to a glass door that leads out to a balcony. He lights up, offers Knox one.
“Thanks. I’m good,” he says, leaning against the railing to stare out at the lights of downtown Washington, DC.
“When the hell did the good guys become the bad guys?” Dawson asks, pulling in another drag from his cigarette and then expelling the smoke from his lungs on an angry whoosh.
“Damned if I know,” Knox says under his breath.
Another drag on the cigarette is followed by, “I’d like to see Senator Priss Pot in his Armani suit make a life-and-death decision with a Glock pointed at his chest. Guess he’d do a quick calculation of the guy’s likelihood of having experienced social injustice versus the chance that the bullet will hit within the protection of his vest. He could probably discount the fact that the prick will just go ahead and aim for his forehead.”
“He’d probably piss the suit,” Knox says, even as he realizes there’s little to be gained from indulging in a bitch fest with Healy.
The two of them have worked enough crime scenes together for him to know that Healy is old school. Translation: the general public deserves to live with the reasonable expectation of being able to go to a nightclub on a Saturday night without hiding out in the bathroom to escape the guy intent on killing as many people as he can before someone can shoot him. Or to go to a country music festival without becoming target practice for a psycho.
“You got that right,” Healy says. “This shit is upping the likelihood that we’re gonna end up giving our lives to the cause. I see guys making calls every single day that aren’t based on what we were trained to do. They’re making a decision based on whether or not the perp’s girlfriend is going to plaster her cell phone video all over Facebook with an edit that makes it look like we created the situation. I swear it’s like somebody turned the world upside down, gave it a good shake, and nothing makes a damn lick of sense anymore.”
The door behind them opens, and a tall blonde in a designer-obvious black dress that shows off notable cleavage steps outside. “Either of you have a light?” she asks in a silky voice.
Healy pulls his from his shirt pocket, holds it out with a raised eyebrow. “You really smoke, or are you as enthralled with the speech as the two of us?”
She takes the lighter, pulls a cigarette from between her breasts and lights up. She draws in a long drag, as if she’s been waiting for the fix before saying, “There’s your first answer. As for the second, not exactly enthralled, but he’s my husband so I make the effort.”
Healy looks as if a spotlight has just hit him square between the eyes. “Oh. Well. Come to think of it, I should probably do the same. See you inside, Knox.”
“I should get back in too,” Knox says to the senator’s wife, starting for the door.
“Stay for a minute,” she calls after him.
It would have been the moment to keep walking. He knows it instantly. And he has no idea what makes him turn around. The cleavage. Or the fact that she belongs to the windbag who thought it his place to tell an entire room full of cops how to do their jobs.
Whatever the reason, he does turn around. And walk back. Leans against the wall that offers its view of the city and says, “Smoking’s bad for you.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Why do you keep doing it?”
“I have a very short list of things I like to do that might not be so good for me.”
Knox has a built-in alarm system for risky situations. It’s going off like a sonic boom in his ear. Which in no way explains why he continues with, “Such as?”
“Run with traffic instead of facing it.”
“Check.”
“I have a tendency to fall asleep in the bathtub with a book.”
“Living on the line.”
“Oh, and there’s one more.”
He looks at her then, feeling the physical pull between them. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“I like edgy men.”
He stares at her for several seconds and then, “That the category you’re putting me in?”
She shrugs her narrow shoulders. “I’m guessing I’m right. I noticed you in the conference room. You were sitting at the table across from mine.”
He props an elbow against the wall, looking at her intently now. “And you followed me out here?”
“Does that bother you or impress you?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
She takes a step closer, puts the cigarette out on the wall next to them. “I’d enjoy having the opportunity to help you make up your mind.”
“What if he comes looking for you?” Knox asks, holding her gaze with something closer to curiosity than interest at the moment.
“He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if he were interested enough in my whereabouts to come looking for me, I wouldn’t be out here trying to seduce you.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” he asks, his eyes falling to the fullness of her lower lip.
“Awkwardly, and obviously not very well, but yes.”
“Maybe you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
They study each other for several long moments before she places her hand over the zipper of his suit pants, and then concedes, “Maybe I don’t.”
There was little point in denying it, so he doesn’t.
“We could leave,” she suggests.
“And go where?”
“I have a place.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
She holds his look then, as if acknowledging the next play is his.
He removes her hand from the front of his pants, holds it for a moment in clear indecision. She pins his gaze, as if she knows he is wavering.
He laces their fingers together. She smiles and says, “Follow me.”
At the door, she drops his hand, and they walk through the lobby, two people simply going in the same direction. Until they reach the taxi. He opens the door, and she slides in, giving the driver the address.
He hesitates, and there is a moment when they both recognize it as an opportunity to change their minds. “By the way, I’m Savannah.”
“Knox,” he says.
“Come,” she says.
His life has already included a very long string of turning point moments. He realizes this could be one of them. But he also has ample evidence of the fact that doing the right thing doesn’t guarantee a good outcome. He’s all but sure it doesn’t make any difference at all. And without giving himself time to reconsider, he gets in, and the taxi speeds off down the city street.