| "A Sense of Some Kind" | ||
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June 12, 2008 8 PM forward Dinner was good, surprisingly. She didn't strike me as a cook. Or even someone that could boil water for that matter. She looked like she would Go and that was my explicit interest in her. Go meaning sex, of course. Some women just ooozed Go out of their pores. Call me a prick, whatever, but what would you do if you were divorced over a year and haven't gotten laid since before the official proceedings? I have needs too, you know. And my former wife didn't give a shit about my needs near the end. The end being two years by the way for anyone who's keeping track. This girl looks like a Goer, I ask her out, and here we are, finishing up some pasta she made with sauce from a jar. Not bad. Beats the shit out of what I planned on having had this not come up. She's sipping a beer, she really likes her beer, but I'm not drinking. I've got to work tonight. I think I work every night. In fact, except for these couple hours, I can't remember the last time I hadn't worked late at night. I need a vacation. Maybe the Caribbean, or the Gulf, or maybe just fucking the brains out of the hot blonde in front of me. Sorry about that, that was kind of crude. But I am male and I can only be expected to remain dignified around this sort of beauty for so long without slipping into some Neanderthal-like, primal thinking process. I took psychology and I know the boundaries of these sorts of things. She just smiles at me with those pretty blue eyes of hers. They work perfectly with her blonde hair. It's cut short, which usually doesn't appeal to me, I like the long hair, the kind that can be tied up into a knot, or a bun, or whatever the fuck they call it nowadays, and let loose in a heated embrace. But her hair is nice, short, but nice anyway. And the body? Let's just say - none of YOU would throw her out of bed. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. Tell me that isn't my beeper. 'That's your beeper' she says to me with a small sad smile. Yeah, I know it's my beeper because karma, or God, or Ying and Yang has it out for me. I'm being punished somehow for something. No way I can just have a nice dinner, a little touchy feely going on, is there? Nope. Sorry Nick but you're being punished and I'm not going to tell you why. Hey, thanks karma, I fucking owe you one. I smile apologetically and use her phone to call into the office. They've got something on my guy! Great! Instantly, and believe me, only work can do this, I forget about banging the blonde who just cooked me dinner and was about to slip into something more comfy, and grab my gun, badge, and suit jacket. She looks disappointed but I promise her we'll do dinner tomorrow and I'll take her out, or cook if she really wants. She looks at me a little brighter. Hope. Yeah, that's what I gave her, hope. An empty promise. Something to hold her over until the next empty promise. That is just one of the thousands, maybe millions, of empty promises I've made over the years. The others being to my former wife. Probably why she left me. I practically bounce down the stairs I'm so excited. Something on my guy! This is great! I speed down to the precinct and immediately head to the artists room. See, I had nothing on this guy I'm tailing. The case gets dropped on my desk a month ago with nothing to go on. I was so desperate for any lead, anything, I actually sucked up my pride and went to the sketch artist's office to try and get help. I gave him the couple pics I had of my guy for him to draw. You'd be surprised how difficult it can be to photograph someone who really doesn't want to be photographed. But how my guy knew I don't know. I might never. It's kind of creepy in a way, like the guy has some kind of sixth sense. Not like the movie that he can see dead people, because I'm certainly not dead, but a sense of some kind that he knows he's being tailed. Or maybe he's just on edge because whatever he's doing is certainly slim shady (that means devious and most likely illegal). Maybe I'm just over reacting to the whole case. 'I've got six guys,' the artist says to me handing over 6 sheets of paper. Each one has a picture of a man that resembles my guy and a small bio. I go through each of them carefully looking for my guy. There's two that might be him but I don't think so. He's distinctive enough looking that none of the mugshots match. I put the papers back on his desk thoroughly disappointed. 'None of them,' I tell him. He shrugs. That kind of pisses me off. Then he reaches for the papers and looks through them himself. 'I'll tell you what,' he says. 'I'm gonna try another variation, put it through a couple databases that aren't, you know, here?' I nod my understanding. It seems the sketch artist does some slim shady things of his own. But I don't want to ask, nor do I want to know, I just want my guy ID'd. 'Maybe we'll find this guy. It's kind of intriguing to me we don't know who he is after this long.' 'Tell me about it' I answer him. 'It's killing my catch the bad guy ratio.' The sketch artist laughs and I immediately change my opinion about him and I'm no longer pissed. Maybe my guy will be found. I check my watch, almost nine. Fuck it, since I'm here... I go up to my office, well, my cubicle and start going through some more paperwork. Some on this case, some on my other cases, but paperwork is paperwork. Most people think it sucks, but it's necessary to get it done completely and accurately. I often go back to my old cases or pull files from other detectives to go through their notes to get a feel for where they were coming from or what instincts led them to solving the case. You'd be surprised what some people write down in these notes. So, they're important, and I do my best to keep mine accurate and legible. I'm anal like that sometimes. The phone on my desks startles me as it rings loudly. I immediately start hitting the volume button to turn it down. Of course tomorrow morning when the office is filled I'll curse at myself when I can't hear the damn thing. 'Detective Tarnes,' I answer the phone. 'It's Burnette,' the voice on the other side announces. I roll my eyes in an automated reflex to the man's voice. I hate this prick. 'What do you want?' I ask making myself sound bored and nonchalant with his phone call. 'I'm down on 23rd, beating it, and I see your guy. I thought maybe you'd like to get off your lazy detective ass and trail your own guy. I've got things to do.' 'Go fuck yourself up your own ass' I mumbled hanging up the phone. I don't need to ask him where my guy is, he's at the bar he's been going to since I've been tailing him. God, that Burnette's a little prick. I check my watch, almost 11 pm, right on time. Return |
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