Culture Shock Part 7

What the heck was he going to do all day? He felt totally lost and out of his element. Normally, he and Mike would be cruising, looking for clues anything to help solve the mystery. He glanced around at four walls that seemed to be closing in on him and rolled his eyes. Lifting his feet off the floor, he spun the chair in a circle and wished he was ten-years old again and on a real merry-go-round instead of the one created by his current predicament.

Alex watched the clock until quitting time came, then walked around and collected the dozens of paper airplanes he'd made and flown across the room in the last few hours. Cynthia's job didn't require much interaction with her peers. He hadn't seen a single soul except for the spectacled fellow who earlier waltzed in and plopped a stack of papers on her desk. Alex had managed a smile, even when his heart seized in his throat at the thought of being asked something that proved his ignorance. A friendly nod, and the man left her office.

At Cynthia's request, Alex found her briefcase in the file cabinet and stuffed those papers, the yellow folders and a computer disk inside. He'd made it through the first day. He'd been bored as h.e.l.l, but he'd pulled it off.

Tomorrow, he'd bring a crossword puzzle to help pa.s.s time. As he cleared the clutter, he wondered how he would have explained the fleet of planes all over the floor.

With case and jacket in hand, he opened the door and peered into the hallway. The coast was clear so he hurried out of the building and back toward the BART station, remembering to take dainty steps as he went. His calf began to ache halfway there.

Cynthia stood outside the police department for the longest time, trying to garner the needed nerve to enter. All the instructions Alex had given her were jumbled in her mind: Mike, Mich.e.l.le, safety on gun. She raised her eyes. "Oh, help me, dear G.o.d."

Finally, she built up enough courage to open the door. Locker room...down the hall...double doors.

Grateful the hallway was empty, she took time to look around. The tile floors could have been borrowed from The Cairns--old, worn, and dark brown from the fifties. No one had fully turned on the overhead lights yet. Staggered ceiling bulbs provided enough illumination to see the display of portraits decorating the hallway: the current Chief of Police and his predecessors. They all looked way too stern. As she perused the gallery, a question popped into her mind. Had Alex failed to mention there was a rule against smiling?

She found the double doors and opened them. Voices sounded inside. Steeling herself, she rounded the corner to the lockers. The room smelled of damp air and deodorant.

Trying to hide the fact she was searching for number thirty-two, she approached two men. A horrible thought crossed her mind. Alex hadn't told her how to recognize Mike. How in the world would she pull this off?

"Hey, Alex! How's it going?" The tall, good-looking one with blond hair addressed her.

Cynthia sighted-in on the man's chest. Thank G.o.d, he wore a name tag, Stuart Jensen. She a.s.sumed what she hoped was a manly stance with one thumb hooked in her waistband and the other scratching Alex's gut. "Fine. Thanks, Jensen," she said with relief enough to ease the tension in her shoulders. She straightened them, then turned and nodded at the other fellow. They went about gathering their own belongings and Cynthia faced Alex's locker and released a long breath. She opened it and stifled a gasp. What a mess! How he found anything was beyond her. A loud sigh escaped her.

Jensen looked in her direction. "Something wrong, Alex?"

Cynthia tensed. "Nah just tired." She quickly stuck her head in the locker and rummaged through the contents. She reminded herself to calm down, take things slow and think like a guy. The first two things were easy, the last proved the most challenging. Hopefully nerves wouldn't be her undoing.

She pulled a s.h.i.+rt from its hanger. Did Alex leave on his tee-s.h.i.+rt or remove it? She didn't have a clue. The last time she'd worn an unders.h.i.+rt, she'd been ten. She stole a glance around the locker-room for a hint, but those nearby were past that point of dress. What the heck! She steeled herself and removed her tee, then pushed her arms through the long sleeves of his uniform s.h.i.+rt. After adjusting the collar, her fingers fumbled with the b.u.t.tons, both on the cuffs and the s.h.i.+rtfront. She'd forgotten that men's b.u.t.tons were on the opposite side.

Pulling a pair of trousers from the locker, she cringed at the idea of dropping her Levi's. A little voice in her head said, "It's okay. You're Alex, remember? They see you do this every day. Just do it!"

Cynthia quickly switched pants, zipped the fly and fastened Alex's belt around her waist. Having no experience whatsoever with tying a tie, she gave thanks for the clip-on she found. The leather stays around the belt and holster were a challenge for her nervous fingers, and when she reached for the gun, she froze for a moment. She hated firearms mostly because she feared them.

She opened and closed her fist, flexing her fingers until she gathered the courage to grasp the weapon. Her hand grazed the cold steel. This wasn't the time to act like a sissy.

She bit her lower lip and locked her fingers around the weapon's stock. With a shaking hand, she gingerly held it to examine the lock. If it wasn't on, she most likely would shoot herself, but just as Alex had explained, the little lever was in place.

Feeling a little like John Wayne, she jammed the gun into its holster. Whoa there, pilgrim. She almost laughed at her mental imitation, and decided not to go for his swagger.

The added weight of the nine-millimeter on her hip felt strange. She adjusted her belt and tried to forget the gun was there.

"What's up, Alex?" A voice behind her asked.

Bracing herself, she turned and gazed into the most gorgeous blue eyes. Her voice caught in her throat as she browsed the rest of the tanned face, dark hair and a dazzling smile. He was nearly as good-looking as Alex or rather her at the moment. Caught in the absurdity, she found herself at a loss for words. The strain of the silence begged for her answer. She turned her face back to the locker. "Nothing going on with me," she choked out.

"How's it hangin', Mikey?" Thank goodness the fellow across the way identified the handsome stranger.

So, this was Mike? She'd have to spend the day with this gorgeous creature. Things didn't appear as bad as she expected. She hoped her smile wasn't as broad she thought it might be.

Reality slapped her upside the head. This definitely wasn't the time to go all moon eyed over Alex's partner. How weird would that be? Mike would be having second thoughts about his pal's s.e.xuality. Why couldn't she have gotten stuck with someone more...more, well ugly?

Within a few minutes, the locker room was filled with the sounds of clanking metal doors, raucous laughter and the aroma of two-dozen different aftershaves. Trying to remain inconspicuous, she s.h.i.+fted her gaze from side to side, trying to place names with bodies.

Mike opened the locker next door. It was hard not to stare as he disrobed. He had a magnificent body. Although she kept reminding herself to think manly thoughts, her eyes strayed to the muscular legs slipping into his uniform pants.

"So, Alex, did you boink her this weekend?" His voice caused her to jump.

Taken off-guard, her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"Well, aren't we proper today? C'mon...tell me. Did you see any action with your new squeeze?"

Of all the nerve! Alex must have told Mike about her. She struggled not to show her appall.

"I pretty much think that's none of your business. Besides we have work to do." She rested her hand on the b.u.t.t of Alex's gun and tried to look tough. "Are there any new leads on the case?"

Mike stared into the mirror on his locker door and adjusted his tie. "Nothing yet. Maybe when we go into roll call, the Captain will have an update."

Her heart hammered. Roll call? Alex didn't mention roll call. Her mind sorted through the menu of TV cop shows she'd watched. Most always started out with everyone meeting in one room for directions and updates for the day. Nothing to it. She could handle roll call, no problem. A large exhalation fluttered her lips. If roll call was such a breeze, then why were her palms soaking wet?

Drifting back from the ozone, she realized Mike was staring at her. She returned his piercing gaze. "What?"

"Are you okay, man? You're acting a little strange."

If only he knew. "Sure. I'm fine," she lied. "Let's go." Following others, she filed out the double doors.

"Hey, Alex," Mike called out.

"Yeah?"

"You gonna change your shoes?"

Cynthia looked down, and stifled a gasp. Instead of putting on Alex's work boots, she had forgotten to change out of his tennis shoes.

"Uh...man, I don't know where my head is this morning." She raced back to the locker to change. G.o.d, if she couldn't even manage something as simple as switching her footwear, how in the h.e.l.l was she going to remember all the other jumbled information in her head?

Chapter Eight.

Cynthia dragged herself up the stairs. Too tired to dig for keys, she knocked on her own apartment door. Alex answered, looking as frazzled as she felt. Would she ever get used to looking at herself through his eyes? She hoped not. There had to be a logical solution to their problem. They had only to find it, that, and the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Brus.h.i.+ng by him, she made a beeline for the bathroom.

She returned, zipping her pants, plopped down in her shabby armchair and allowed the stresses of the day to dissipate. Her shoulders sagged and her arms hung down the sides like spaghetti. "What a day!" She exclaimed. "We have to find a way to fix this. I don't think I can bluff my way through another eight hours or hold my bladder for so long."

"You mean you didn't go to the bathroom all day?"

"There is no way I'm going in a public men's room. I've managed to peek inside before. You guys don't have any privacy at all. Urinals! That's why men have no problem peeing on walls and fences. I'll not use a porcelain wall hanging. It's bad enough having to hang out in your locker room!"

"What about using a stall?"

"Are you kidding me? What about flus.h.i.+ng is so darn hard for you guys? Plus those who couldn't find a free urinal peed all over the seats and the floor. Yuk, I'd rather wait until I get home or explode."

"Well, your job was no picnic for me either," he said, hands on hips. "I doubt if I'm going to get away with calling all your female friends, 'Sweetie', for much longer."

"Sweetie?"

"I have a bad time remembering names. I know you told me, but I couldn't remember who was who. The men were easy. All you have to do is nod at them."

Too tired to rehash names, Cynthia let the topic pa.s.s. "Other than that, how did it go?"

"Actually, I appreciated that you have your own office. I just closed the door and pretended to be busy all day. n.o.body bothered me. Can you do that anytime you want?"

"Yes, because I usually am busy all day. But I wouldn't trade my job for yours if you gave me a million dollars."

"Why? What happened?"

"I had no idea how many men you work with. They're lewd, crude and obnoxious." She straightened and glared at him. "And ... how dare you discuss our personal life with Mike!"

He looked at her sheepishly. "What do you mean?"

"Don't act like you don't know." She waggled a finger in his direction. "Let's see...I believe he said something like...did you boink her yet?" Her voice raised an octave. "I was totally embarra.s.sed. How could you?"

"Ah, Cyn. I didn't share details with him. That's just Mike. He makes something s.e.xual out of everything. I only told him I met a nice woman in my apartment building, and he ran with it."

"Well...if I thought..." Something about the look on his face convinced her. At least she thought she recognized sincerity in her own eyes.

"I didn't. I promise."

"Okay. I guess I believe you."

"So, did anyone notice...you know, that things were a little strange?" he asked.

"I tried to be as macho as I could, and I think I pulled it off. Mike probably thinks you had a really bad hangover or something, but other than that, we just reviewed case notes and followed up on a few leads."

"What kind of leads?"

"Nothing new to point to an ident.i.ty, but another body was found. Same thing...just like you told me about the others. One hand on her chest and the other holding a doll wrapped in a blue towel." A s.h.i.+ver ran up her spine at the thought of a corpse and she sat up straight. "They won't make me look at an actual dead body will they? I had to glimpse the pictures today and that was bad enough. I almost gagged."

"Oh, that would have made me look good!" Alex rolled his eyes.

"Well, relax, I didn't. But, will they? Make me look at a dead body, I mean?"

"Not usually. Unless you're the one who finds it or requests to attend an autopsy."

"Whoa." She shuddered with exaggeration. "There is no way I'm going to ask to watch someone be sliced and diced. Who would ask for that a.s.signment?"

"So, tell me," he quickly switched to another topic, "were there any other clues or witnesses?"

She leaned back in the chair. "No! A restaurant owner found her behind his establishment. He went out to empty the trash and there she was ... curled up next to the dumpster. Other than the corpse, he didn't see, or hear, anything unusual."

"No clues?"

"Nothing more than the doll and towel. I guess this one was killed the same way as the first two."

"Strangled?"

"Yes. Deep marks around her throat."

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I want to catch the son of a b.i.t.c.h who's doing this."

Thinking about the poor woman gave Cynthia the creeps. The hairs on the back of Alex's neck stood on end. She needed to change the subject. "Did you bring home the yellow folder like I asked?"

He motioned to the counter. "Yes, it's in your briefcase with the disk you wanted."

"Good. After dinner, I'll work on it and you can take the finished project back tomorrow."

"What if they give me something else to do?" he asked, clasping fingers together.

"Just act like you know what you're doing, and do the same thing you did today. If someone asks you something you don't know, feign a headache or something. I don't know." Annoyance showed in her tone. "You can always slip away and call me. I have your cell phone, you know."

"Oh, really?" His voice smacked with sarcasm. "And just how are you going to answer any questions with Mike attached to your hip?"

"I didn't think about that," she admitted.

"I guess stepping into the men's bathroom is out of the question?" he said, picking at her long fingernails.

"Stop! You're going to mess up my manicure."

"Oh dear, that might bring the world to an end. I'd better be careful."

She fingered the remote and considered throwing it at his head, but blacking her own eye wouldn't ease the anger and frustration that simmered beneath the surface-like a volcano ready to erupt.

Dinner was over, and Cynthia stood to take her plate to the sink. She noticed the full container in the corner. "Time to empty the trash."

"I'll take care of it. You do the dishes." He carried his own place setting to the counter.

"How n.o.ble of you," she said, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her mouth into a smirk. "Even in my body, you still think like a man. A woman's place is in the kitchen."

"That isn't it," he insisted. "I'm just used to taking out the trash. I eat on paper plates so I don't have dirty dishes. Do you want to take out the trash?"