#deshelved

Weaver kicked the weapon out of range and pulled his badge out of his jacket pocket, “What’s your name, boy?” Weaver felt him literally quake under the hand that clutched his shoulder. “We could do this here or at the station and I’m telling you it’ll be easier here.” The kid was so catatonic with fear he swayed on his feet. “Fine, station it is, let’s go,” Weaver shoved him down the sidewalk, scooping up the punk’s bookbag and knife as they went.

The kid walked the two blocks to police headquarters staring off into the distance in complete silence. “Sit,” Weaver pushed him into the wooden chair outside his office. The kid unzipped his sweatshirt, revealing a preppy collared shirt underneath. Geeky wardrobe for a prospective criminal. No wonder he was trying to get in with the cool crowd.  

Weaver leaned on a desk and crossed his arms, “What were you doing outside the library?” The kid hung his head and swallowed hard but said nothing. Weaver wasn’t unschooled in uncooperative teens. Given enough time and energy, he’d make him talk. And give up his little friends who put him up to it too. 

There was a commotion at the front of the station and in strode Lacey, looking like a commotion herself in a miniscule black dress and red leather jacket. She dashed straight past the drunks getting booked and the office secretary who called after her and headed directly for his office. He did not need this right now, he was about to lay into this hoodlum. If she was in the midst of another crisis, it would have to wait. Weaver met her halfway, holding up his hands when she tried to get around him, "Not now, Lacey."

"Yes, now," she demanded.  

He sighed and caught the eye of the first unoccupied officer he saw, "I’m escorting Miss French out of the building.” He pointed to the dejected boy sitting outside his office, “Search the kid’s bookbag for ID and call his mother."

"I AM his mother!" she snapped, pushing past Weaver and squatting at the feet of her son. "Are you alright?" she asked softly and swept his hair off his forehead, inspected him like she was looking for injuries.

Next to each other, there was no denying they were mother and son. They shared the same auburn hair, thin upper lip, and eye shape. But there was someone else present as well in the boy’s dark brown eyes, sharper nose, thicker eyebrows, bigger ears, and the slight curl at the ends of his hair that his mother lacked.

Now that she was stooped down, Weaver could see a gray section emerging from Lacey’s roots that she'd been covering with dye but was starting to grow out he'd never noticed before. It suggested her age whereas nothing else about Lacey suggested responsibility or motherhood. For a long moment Weaver was fixated on what it would look like if she allowed it to grow out into one long streak and how much he’d like to wrap his fingers around it.

She rose, her entire body taught with outrage, “What happened? I got a call saying they saw my son getting hauled in by a cop.”

Weaver forced away any warm thoughts of Lacey, since they only made him fuzzy. She wasn’t a fantasy. Right now she was the mother of a hooligan. “I caught him breaking into the library. Getting the boy involved in the family business?”

“My son would do no such thing!” He’d seen a lot of Lacey over the years, including bar fights and petty crime. He’d seen her indignant, drunk, blasé, flirtatious, and violent. But he’d never witnessed her with this particular fire in her eyes. It was protective, with a little bit of fear and a lot of worry. Lacey the tipsy pool hall girl he knew well. This new Lacey, this...mother, this other person that was shining through, he didn’t know how to deal with. She extended her hand to her son, "Come on, we're going home." The boy looked wary but put his hands on the armrests.

"He's not released," Weaver growled. The kid didn’t move from his chair.

She gaped, "You're going to lock up a twelve year old boy?"

"I need to contact the library and see if they want to press charges."

The boy’s head snapped up at that. If the kid was despondent before, he was devastated now.

"They won't press charges, they know him. He's a good kid," Lacey insisted.  

"Then what’s he doing sittin' in my precinct?" he scoffed. His eyes narrowed, “And where do you think he learned such criminal behavior?”

She glared right back, “You’ve got some nerve talking about criminal behavior...Detective,” she spat. “Look at you, playing the perfect cop. You think I don’t know about you, about what you do, how you…”

“The book drop was locked!” the boy blurted out.

“What?” they both exclaimed in unison so it sounded like a yell and the boy recoiled.

He slowly reached into the bookbag at his feet drawing out a tomb that made a thunk when he placed it on the desk. Based on the cover it was some fantasy novel.

The story came tumbling out, “I stayed up all night to finish it. It was due yesterday but the library was closed and the outside book drop was locked!” He looked at Weaver, “It’s supposed to be unlocked after hours,” he pleaded. “If it’s not in the book drop by the time the library opens, we’ll get fined and we don’t have the money…” he trailed off, looking at the floor.

“Oh, Gid,” Lacey knelt down again in front of her son, his eyes watering. "Gideon," she pronounced so he’d look at her, "I worry about money, you don't. I'll pay all the late fees in the world for you. I’ve always taken care of us and I would have taken care of this." The boy was crying in earnest now and Lacey pulled him into a tight hug. "Come on," they broke apart and she held out her hand to Gideon again.

Gideon looked to Weaver, who leveled a finger at him, "Just this once."

The boy nodded obediently and stood. He was already taller than his mother.

"Lacey," Weaver spoke as they brushed past him.

“Meet you outside,” she told Gideon before turning to Weaver. "Just because I'm a fuckup doesn't mean that's what I want for him. I do what I can for him because I want better for him. I can and will do better for him,” her voice broke at the end. Tears had sprung to her eyes and she gave him a watery smile, “I just realized I can’t do this. I can’t always protect him.”

Weaver had seen too much to argue with that. “Where’s the boy’s father?” he probed.  

She wiped her eyes, "Not in the picture."

“What kind of crowd is the kid caught up in?” Weaver offered.  

“No crowd. He reads!” They both snickered. “He’s smarter than I am.”

“I doubt that.” She looked up at him, eyes searching. Weaver cleared his throat, “Just keep him out of my precinct.” Then added, “Both of you stay out.”  

She laughed as she turned to leave, looking back over her shoulder, a glint in her eye, “Now we both know that’s not really what you want.”

“For me?” Weaver bristled. He’d finished his paperwork earlier in the evening and had been waiting for Rogers to come back from the field with his report.  

The cop shrugged, “She said she’d only talk to you.” He took a few steps into the room and offered Weaver the folder.

Weaver left his spot by the window. She? Could be anyone. Possibly Roni, the local bar owner, with another complaint about being harassed by Victoria Belfry. Not that he’d do anything about it, but Roni tended to bring a bottle of MacCutcheon with her when she asked for favors and the supply in his lower right-hand desk drawer was running low. 

“Alright,” Weaver sighed, taking the folder without looking at it, “bring her in.” He walked back behind his desk, tossing the folder on top and adjusting the shirt sleeves he’d rolled up his forearms. 

Several pairs of footsteps, including a pair of high heels approached his door. He looked up and a woman stumbled around the corner, two officers on either side, one gripping her upper arm. She wrenched her arm out of his grasp, “I told you, I know my way.” She rubbed where the officer had held her, “Bloody hell.”  

Weaver knew everyone in Hyperion Heights. He had files on half of them. And he knew her. Lacey French.

“Miss French.”

She turned those laser blues eyes off the officers she was glowering at and onto him. Her glare instantly faded into a slow smirk. Pleasure radiated down his spine, or was it the whiskey finally kicking in?

“Detective,” she purred, looking at him from under heavy lashes and slinking into his office.  

He’d always known her to favor small blue clothes and today’s number was no exception. She must know they would bring out the blue in her eyes and throw men to their knees. They often did fall at her feet. Usually because she put them there using her wiles or her knee. Either way you felt it in your groin. Her auburn hair was piled high on her head, as usual. All the better not to hide the plunging neckline of her sleeveless blouse and the black lace bra that peeked out.

Didn’t she have a coat? It was winter for god’s sake. “Does Miss French have a coat?” he barked at the officers. 

She glanced back playfully at the cops who were still darkening his doorway, “We, ah, kind of left the bar in a hurry, didn’t we boys?” she winked at them. Weaver’s frown deepened, and they scurried away.     

“Is that so?” he glanced down at the file in front of him, flipping it open to the newest entry. He raised his eyebrows, and the whiskey landed in his stomach like lead, “Solicitation for prostitution?” He knew her rap sheet by heart. He’s kept her file on his desk a little too long and stared a little too hard at her mug shot. Shoplifting, disorderly conduct, illegal gambling. All repeat misdemeanors that Weaver personally kept from becoming felonies. But this was a new one. His eyes skipped up and down the paper, looking for the ‘John’ who was brought in with her. He’d find the man and kill him.

Lacey rolled her eyes, “He wishes.” She flounced into the chair opposite his desk, making herself at home. Realizing this was going to take a while, Weaver sat down. This is exactly what he didn’t want. Lacey French in his office. Her visits generally didn’t end with her leaving. They continued in his head, long after she’d sashayed out. “Keith owes me $200 from pool and didn’t want to pay. I went outside to talk to some people, he calls the cops on me for ‘prostitution,’ and I requested you.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, “Now how about you open that right bottom drawer. I know that’s where you keep the whiskey.” 

How she knew the contents of his desk drawers would be a conversation for another day.

Weaver perused the case file, “Well, Keith’s case is flimsy.” Just then one of the officers thrust his head back in the office, proffering Lacey’s coat.   

She popped out of her chair, “Oh, thank you, Charles!,” apparently she was on a first name basis with the squad. The move gave Weaver an uninhibited view of her black bra strap from the open back of her top. He remembered a blue sequined mini dress that was equally scarce in the back.

“Do you own a piece of clothing with a back?” he ground out. It came out harsher than he meant it, and out loud.

She spun on her heels, hand to her cheek, as if he’d slapped her. Was she angry? Offended? Then a mischievous smile spread across her lips and her pinky finger slid to her mouth. She was pleased. Like she was finally seeing the real him. He’d revealed himself. She’d been baiting him for years and finally he let his guard down and fell for it. She was delighted and now he was the one in trouble. She sauntered back over to his desk, caressing its edges.

“I like to feel it when my back is up against a wall.” She paused. Then looked straight into his eyes. “Literally or figuratively.”  

The air hung heavy between them. He needed to get her out of his office. Now. He had the gist of the charges. The rest he could sort out later. He cleared his throat and stood up, “C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

“No,” she yelped, straightening. At his surprise, she recovered quickly, “I mean,” her spine relaxed again and her voice returned to its normal slow drawl, “I have something I gotta do. Besides, I don’t let guys walk me to the door unless they at least buy me a drink first,” she finished smoothly. He didn’t know if that last bit was a shutdown or a suggestion. While he preferred the latter, he felt safer with the former.  

He watched as she cinched a little black trench coat around her waist and traipsed off on her heels, out of his office and out of the station. 

His eyes narrowed. What was this errand she had to run? Was she headed back to the pool hall to exact revenge on Keith? He had to know. For the case. When he reached his car, she was a block ahead of him, so he coasted a distance behind her with his lights off. She couldn’t be going far, walking in the freezing rain. Unless somebody was picking her up that she didn’t want him to know about? She bypassed the brightly lit stores, heading towards the shadier part of town. She ducked into a sketchy bodega that he knew kept odd hours. What was she buying? Drugs? Had he been protecting a real criminal while he’d thought she was a petty thief? Roughly three minutes later, she emerged.

Ice cream. She’d bought ice cream. He could see it through the cheap plastic bags she carried, one in each hand. At least three quarts of it. Why would she buy all that ice cream? He didn’t need to be a detective to deduce that it wasn’t all for her. Obviously, she was going to share it but with who? A boyfriend? She didn’t have a husband. He knew that from the police database.

She adjusted on her heels before continuing down the sidewalk until she disappeared into a doorway. Weaver glanced up. There was a light already on in an upstairs apartment. Someone was waiting for her. The boyfriend, surely. Weaver lingered. One shadow appeared and crossed the room. Soon after another joined it behind the closed curtains. Maybe a roommate. Weaver gunned the engine. Maybe it was better not to know. He peeled off. Maybe ignorance was bliss.