12 Lying in Wait by J A Jance

Author:J A Jance [Jance, J A]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

16

After my interview with June Miller ended, I escorted her as far as the elevator lobby. Leaving her there, I jogged down the stairway to the fifth floor.

“See me,” said the yellow Post-it note pasted at eye level on the doorway to my cubicle. It was signed with the scrawled initials of Captain L. Powell.

See me, I thought, heading for the Homicide Squad’s command post. Words to live by.

Years ago, that kind of summons would have struck terror in my heart, especially if I knew that the reason behind it was a screwup of my own making. But things have changed since then. The truth is, I no longer need this job. I work because I want to. That kind of economic freedom does put a slightly different spin on things when the boss comes around chewing ass.

When I first heard Johnny Paycheck sing his trademark song “Take This Job and Shove It,” it seemed like an impossible dream. It’s reality now—for me anyway. Anne Corley’s generous legacy made that possible. And now that I have a choice, I find it’s a whole lot easier to be forgiving of Captain Powell’s occasional foibles, to say nothing of my own.

On the fifth floor, we refer to Captain Powell’s fully windowed interior office as “the fishbowl.” I went straight there, carrying the still-smoldering Post-it with me. I could see from outside that the captain was busy on the phone, so I meandered over to the desk where Sergeant Watkins had assumed his usual position.

“Did Sue Danielson find you?” Watty asked. “She was by looking for you a few minutes ago. I told her Chuck Grayson said you were around—upstairs somewhere—but I couldn’t be any more specific than that.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

Watty shook his head. “Last thing I heard, I think she was headed downstairs to the crime lab.”

I nodded in the direction of the Fishbowl. “What’s he want?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Watty answered.

Since Sergeant Watkins is Captain Powell’s right-hand man, that seemed unlikely, but I didn’t argue the point.

About that time, Captain Powell put down the phone. Then he sat there frowning with his hands steepled under his chin, staring at the molded black plastic instrument as though it had just delivered news of the end of the world. The grim set to his jaw boded ill for my coming interview, but I figured I could just as well get it over with. As I started toward the Fishbowl’s perpetually open door, Watty gave me a cheery thumbs-up sign.

As a high school student, I earned spending money by hawking popcorn and sodas in Ballard’s now-defunct Baghdad Theater. Watty’s gesture reminded me of some of those old gladiator films. There was always a scene in the dusty amphitheater when the doomed gladiators clapped themselves on their armored chests and announced ever-so-solemnly, “We who are about to die salute you.”

Watty and I are about the same age, and most likely he grew up watching the same movies I did. I took heart from his raised thumb.

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