Simplicity
AUTHOR: Kristin.
DISCLAIMER: Most Characters belong to ABC and the talented writers of NYPD Blue.
FEEDBACK: To Kristin
It was her day off. Diane found herself sitting in Union station, studying a small key in her hand. She turned it over and over, like a worry stone, and chanted the number on it to herself in a mantra of indecision, "Two thirteen...two thirteen."
The loud but garbled announcements that came over the antiquated PA system did nothing to break her concentration. In fact, the constant drone of noises only served to make her more isolated. Crowds passed and people sat down next to her. When they got up to leave, and others took their places, she was oblivious. Her focus had entirely narrowed to the tiny piece of metal in the palm of her hand, and the text of a letter just opened this morning.
Why she finally read Harry's letter she'll never know.
For months it sat in a drawer near the couch like the telltale heart from Poe's maudlin story. Today, without thinking, she had simply awakened early and sat down with her coffee to read the paper, when an overwhelming urge caused her to open the drawer. The minute she broke the seal and removed the paper she caught a faint trace of his scent. The Aramis he always wore had permeated the letter somehow, maybe by intent. And just as her blood began to rise the key dropped out of the corner of the envelope and onto her lap, catching her eye with it's dull glint.
"What the..." she whispered, taking up the key and quickly determining that it fit something small like a suitcase or locker. Her pulse picked up in tempo as she closed her fist around the small gift from Harry. Placing her coffee carefully on the side table, she shakily held the letter and read;
Dear Diane,
It's been said that life is like a superhighway, with bewildering cloverleaf exits on which a man is liable to find himself speeding back in the direction he came. By attempting to navigate this superhighway while driving drunk, I've damaged others, including you. I apologize for that, but I won't regret involving you.
As I cannot repair the past, I can only make amends by offering what I can to help you untangle what you do not yet know. You have assumed the worse about me all along, no doubt, and I suppose for good reason. What is irritating about love is that it is a crime that requires an accomplice. If I have appeared to take delight in taunts and games, I must now confess, it has all been a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim.
If the whole story would bring you any additional peace of mind, Diane, I am willing to give it to you. This key opens a locker with the corresponding number at Union station. If questions still haunt your dreams, and the IAB is still threatening, then this may suffice.
In truth, I have always been yours,
Harry
The letter was refolded and neatly tucked into her pocket, but she had read it five, maybe six times before leaving for the station. Now, as she sat on the bench with the key in her hand, she imagined his distinctive voice in the words. There was no one to question her dreamlike gaze here. No concerned interruptions from Danny, or unruly suspects being dragged into the coffee room by Andy. So, Diane let herself drift into a strange reverie of meditation, savoring Harry's letter like a guilty pleasure and struggling to understand what he was trying to say.
It was the twelfth gong of the clock that finally broke through her spell. All of the voices and sounds of busy people going somewhere suddenly rushed in on her. She bit her lip and strained to see through the undulating masses of people toward the bank of lockers on the other side of the great room. Having no luck, Diane rose and made her way across the expanse.
The lockers were numbered, but the layout seemed to have no rhyme or reason. Walking back and forth and leaning down to read the small face plates, Diane searched for two thirteen. She managed to trace a pattern of numbers to one ninety-nine, but the next row started in the three hundreds and a very unladylike expletive shot out before she had a chance to swallow it.
"Can I help you, ma'am?" a tall, station attendant offered as he peeked from around the corner.
"I half expect to find a minotaur in this labyrinth you've got here," she replied coarsely. Holding up her key to his eye level she added, "Does this number exist here, because I can't find it."
He squinted, and rubbed his jaw with his hand as he read her key, and then made a small noise which Diane took as a sign of recognition. "This way if you please," he said as he turned away from her.
She followed him to a row of new lockers in one of the main halls, directly across from an aromatic and colorful flower stand. Bending down with obvious dedication to duty, he located her number and placed the key in the lock.
"NO!" she shouted, startling him. 'I, uh...need a few moments."
He looked at her dubiously. Diane tried to cover her nervous excitement by flipping out her badge. "It's police business. I'm not sure exactly what's in there. You may want to stand clear."
He slowly removed his hand from the key, still lodged in the lock, and crept backwards. She nodded and moved in, opening the locker with deliberate caution. She sighed dramatically as she glanced inside and turned back to the very nervous attendant saying, "Looks all right. Nothing but a few papers. Thanks for your help."
He smiled broadly and gave her a little satisfied wave, "Tsk! Just doin' my job. Glad to be of help." Diane watched and waved as he moved on, then thrust her hands into the locker to retrieve the single, manila envelope.
There was no hesitating this time, Harry strode silently but purposefully into the head office of the Narcotics Division. His hair was trimmed, and he had on a crisp, white shirt with a favorite royal blue tie, over the pinstripe gray of his tailored slacks. The suit jacket hung over his shoulder, and he used his free hand to knock four times on the glass door of Lieutenant Powell.
"Come," was all Powell ever said in response to a knock.
Harry gently closed the door behind him, tossed his jacket on the chair, and stood before his former boss. Powell was in his fifties and stubbornly forging through to retirement; a no-nonsense cop who was a master at bending the rules to favor the good guys. His dyed hairline was in full retreat, but he was still athletic and fit. He cleared his throat, but said nothing.
The two eyed eachother for a few tense moments, and Powell leaned back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap. "You look like a man who's just washed a whole sh*t load of crap out of his hair."
"Everybody needs a shower now and then."
"Don't tell me, Denby. You think that you can just waltz back in here and report for duty like some sort of misunderstood Eagle Scout, just because Don Kirkendall can no longer hang you out to dry?"
Harry smiled and sat down gracefully across from the Lieutenant, mirroring his posture with folded hands. "No, no I don't, because, as you know, Don Kirkendall never had a thing on me. My hiatus was simply brought on by a little too much Scotch and not enough judgment. A glaring moral defect, to which I have humbly testified before dozens of fellow drunks, but no crime."
"You are one slick son-of-a bitch, you know that?" Powell shook his head.
"Tell me what I want to know. Tell me if I'm employed."
"And what use are you to me or this particular Department with you being on IAB's ten most wanted list?"
"I kept quiet and my connections are still intact. You know and I know that it'll take years for any new probie to come up with what I've got on the streets." He leaned forward and lowered his penetrating eyes, "Trust, in our line of police work, is a valuable and hard won commodity."
Powell laughed as he stood up to fill his briefcase with files from his desk, "Trust...god, Harry, you use that word as if you know what it means."
"I do now, Boss. Believe me, I know exactly what it means."
Struck by the surprising sincerity in Harry's expression, Powell paused to consider him before closing his briefcase. "Come back in a couple of days. I need to talk with a few people. But I'm warning you, your fifteen minutes of fame didn't sit well around here. You made the entire department look bad and forgiveness is in short measure these days. We can't take another round of bad PR, and they'll be watching you closer than Maartens."
"May God defend me from my friends; I can defend myself from my enemies."
"Who are you quoting this time?"
"Voltaire."
"Ah," was all Powell said as he passed Harry on his way out.
Continued in Part 3.
