The Blood Room by Christina A Hoag

Author:Christina A Hoag [Hoag, Christina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Three Jandals Press

Desi trudged up the stairs to the West LA squad room. It was quiet.

Keisha looked up from her computer. “You look beat.”

“Does it show that much?”

“Yep. You hungry? Stamos left me some moussaka. His mom made it.”

“Greek comfort food?”

“I was just about to take a dinner break. Come on. I’ll give you some.” Keisha stood and led the way into the kitchen, where she opened the fridge, took out a plastic container and slid it into the microwave.

“I’m not hungry, but I’ll sit with you,” Desi said. She poured herself a coffee and sat at the table.

Greek. The whole Greek mythology thing connected to Thanatos was weird. What was up with that? There was something else though, that lurked in the fuzzy recesses of her mind, the edges of which she couldn’t grasp. She was too tired to think so she gave up.

“What are you doing so late here tonight anyway?” Desi said.

“Filling in for Len. He had to take a personal day. Some problem with his daughter.”

“Relapse?”

“Sounded like it.”

Desi shook her head. “Poor Len. He’s spent a fortune on rehabs for that kid.”

Keisha took the moussaka out from the microwave and pulled up a chair. “How’s McNab?”

“He’s actually working out pretty well. It’s cool having a partner again. Forgot what it was like.”

“Don’t get too warm and fuzzy. I get the feeling you need to watch your back with him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was in here cozying up to the LT this morning. I saw him watch her come in and then he made a beeline in right after her.”

Desi sipped her coffee. “The LT seems to have a thing for him.”

“All she cares about is getting clearance rates up and crime numbers down. Remember that.” Keisha got up and fetched a fork from the dish drying rack. “Try it.” She handed the fork to Desi and pushed her plate closer.

Desi sawed off a wedge and tasted the eggplant and meat casserole. “Hey, this is good.”

“Stamos will be thrilled. You should head over to The Shop, unwind a little.”

It sounded like a good idea. “You know I think I’ll do that. I haven’t had a beer for a while.”

“Have one for me, girl.”

The nondescript local cop watering hole lay just around the corner from the station on Santa Monica Boulevard. Its nameless ruddy brick exterior was interrupted by a metal door flanked by two small windows like eyes.

Over the past couple months, taggers had discovered its status as a cop hangout, which had made it a premium graffiti target. As she walked up, Desi noticed they’d been at it again. A jumble of black chicken-scratch tags fringed the wall along the sidewalk, a banner of defiance and rebellion.

She pulled open the door and stepped into an amniotic-warm atmosphere of dim light and a soft Bob Seger tune playing on an old jukebox. Balls clicked on the pool table at the back. A quick survey confirmed that the ten or so patrons were all cops.

Harry Blaze, the bartender

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