Hate at First Sight

"You love him, don't you?" No, that's not what I expected. While I goggled at her and spluttered, she smiled this serene smile at me.

"It's okay. He talked about you a lot, you know. He always said you loved him, and you'd figure it out someday. I guess now you have." She looked away from me, and collected herself. When she turned back toward me, she was friendly, but all business.

"I'm so glad to have met you, Livingston. I'm glad to think we'll be working together on this, and Talbot will be pleased, too."

"I'll pass along your information and tell you what my contact says. I'm sure he'll be interested. I'll be in touch," I said.

"Thanks again, Livingston. I'll look forward to hearing from you." It was a standard professional sentence, but I could see that she really meant it, and not just for the case. Damn it, why do the people I try to hate always like me?

We stood, shook hands (no, Talbot's girlfriend was NOT going to get a hug from me, no matter how smart and beautiful and kind she was) and parted. Shake hands, come out fighting, and may the best girl win, I thought, as long as it's me.

I was pretty sure Jopie would be interested in Monica's news, but he called me before I had a chance to call him. We met in a squalid little interrogation room at the jail where Bandini was being held.

"Why here? Don't you guys record every conversation that goes on in here, whether you tell the sucker or not?"

"Yeah. That's how I can make sure this one isn't recorded." Well, I guess that made sense.

Jopie had found a witness who saw the car from which Talbot had been dumped on the courthouse steps. He traced the car back to a guy named Silvio, who was some kind of boss in the same outfit as Bandini. Jopie had one of his guys take what he called an unobtrusive little look at the inside of the car. It had been cleaned recently, but they had missed a spot. A blood spot that matched Talbot's.

I was ecstatic. We were finally getting somewhere! Jopie set me straight.

"For a hotshot lawyer you're pretty dumb. If Silvio were your client, you'd tear that to rags, wouldn't you?" I had to admit he was right.

"Listen to me. This ain't some football game where you cheer for every first down. Every time you think you're getting somewhere, you stop and look around, cause all you've done is increase the odds they're gonna do something nasty to you. Believe me, I know." He looked away to hide the sudden pain in his eyes, and then glared at me.

"The only time you get to cheer is when they're dead. And even then, you better be looking out for their replacement, 'cause they're sure as hell looking out for you."

I felt like a scolded kindergartener, but I knew he was right. Then I remembered Monica's message.

"You remember my firm defended Bandini last time, and some people thought there was some funny business about how we were paid? This accountant, Monica Bennet, traced the payments. She thinks they were laundered."

"Monica Bennet? Who's she? How'd she meet you?"

"She's an accountant at this investment bank. I met her ... well, I met her in Talbot's room."

"She his girlfriend?" I couldn't bring myself to say it; I just nodded. For a moment, I thought I saw a flash of pity in Jopie's eyes. I must have imagined it.

"What firm?"

"Latham & Revere."

"Oh, shit."

"What?"

"Shut up, I'm thinking." Which he did for a few long minutes.

"How long has she been there?"

"I don't know, about a year, maybe."

"She blonde?"

"Yes, how did you..."

"Shut up." I did.

"All right, what neither of you know is that Latham & Revere," he pronounced the name with undisguised bitterness, "is a wholly owned subsidiary of our buddy Silvio's crew. They thought they were hiring a dumb blonde who would say the right things to the Feds and not ask questions. She's on their radar twice: at L&R and for being McCoy's girlfriend. You tell her... no, wait, when she calls you, tell her to keep her head way, way down. I'll try to arrange some protection for her, but I can't do anything inside L&R." He thought another minute.

"What do you think of her, Brookes?" He saw the look on my face. "No, not that. Has she got brains? Courage?"

"Brains, definitely. Courage? Don't know yet."

"Fair enough. Stay in touch with her if you can do it quietly. Don't talk with her about anything in McCoy's hospital room. Act like... like normal women. Hell, I don't know. Just remember his room, and probably his entire floor, are monitored. Okay?"

I told him how we'd met at the library; he approved. I felt an irrational glow at having done something that pleased him.

Monica called me two days later. We met at the student union at the local college. She was good: you'd have thought we were a young prof and an underclassman discussing research.

I passed along Jopie's concern. "I'd been wondering about that," she nodded. "It fits with what I've found so far."

"I haven't traced any payments all the way back; I don't think I can do that without asking questions. I've seen enough to know it's definitely money laundering, and I have six names of people I know are in the chain." She handed me a piece of paper. I read it, or tried to read it.

"What is this, some kind of code?"

She smiled. "Sort of. I wanted to make it a little harder for them to figure out what I'm up to, so all my notes are in old church Slavonic. My great grandfather was an Orthodox monk, if you must know. Here, I'll transliterate them for you." She quickly wrote the six names in good old ordinary American.

I had to admit, that was smart.

"There's one more thing. Two of the payments I've traced ended up in politics. Our crime-fighting DA is running his campaign with money funneled through L&R."

I told Jopie about it the next day. His reaction surprised me.

"Well, that's that," he said philosophically.

"What?" I seemed to say that a lot around him.

"The attack on McCoy will never be prosecuted now," he explained. "I'll never go for the small fry, unless I can make them sing, and the DA won't touch Silvio."

"What do we do now?" Jopie thought for a moment.

"How are you with RICO?" RICO is the Federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations act, a sort of hate crimes act against mobsters. I told him I hadn't studied it in a few years, but it wouldn't take me long to get it back under my fingers.

"Here's what we do. You and Bennet are going to build the money laundering case. You know the law; you tell her what financial stuff you need. She gets it for you, and you pass it to me. I'll take care of chain of custody and all that."

"Why can't she meet directly with you?"

"We want her to survive." He paused and let me think about it. "Strike one, they're keeping their eye on everyone in internal audit who they think might be honest. Strike two, she's McCoy's girlfriend. Meeting me would be strike three, and she's out. Understood?" I nodded.

"Anything you need that isn't about the money, contact me. When we've got enough, we'll wrap it all up in a nice neat package and put a pretty little bow on it, and drop it on the Federal Prosecutor's doorstep in the middle of the night, and walk away."

"Why do we walk away?"

"We get off their radar, or rather you and Bennet do, and we all live longer. Especially her." He thought a moment.

"One more thing. Tomorrow, you go talk to the ADA, and you open a nice long complicated negotiation about how you're going to plead Bandini."

"WHAT? Why would I do that?"

"Brookes, please try to get this. You're on these people's radar now, just like I am, just like Bennet is. This is not a good thing. You can't get off it as long as you're on the Bandini case. So you try to act like you're not going to cause them any trouble, and you hope they believe it and ignore you."

He stood up. "Follow me, there's some stuff you'll want in my desk."

I followed him to a dark corner of the squad room. It made Talbot's cubicle in the PD's office look like a partner's office by comparison.

"Hey, don't turn up your dainty little nose. I worked fifteen years to get this corner office." Well, he was right, it was in a corner. That's about all that could be said for it.

I looked around while he pulled files out of a drawer. There was one picture on his desk, of a younger Jopie with a stunning dark-haired woman, slightly taller than he was.

"Who's that?" I asked, when he had finished pulling files.

"My ex." He spoke bitterly. If he was still that upset at her, why was her picture on his desk?

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah." He turned from me and busied himself with the files. Realizing he'd been rude, he pointed me to a chair, and sat down. He didn't look at me; he told his story without emotion, staring off into the distance like a middle-schooler reciting in class.

"Silvio came to my house one afternoon. He knew I wouldn't be there. He just knocked on the door. She opened it a little, he forced his way in. He brought three guys. Two to hold her, one to run the video camera. She was terrified, begging and pleading with him not to hurt her.

"'No, I won't hurt you this time,' he said with this smarmy grin. 'This ain't about you. It's about your husband. I have a message for him.' He pulled out a knife. Silvio loves knives. Slowly, deliberately, he proceeded to cut every stitch of clothing off her body. One button at a time. He never touched her, and didn't touch her clothes except with the knife. It took more than ten minutes. When he finished, she was just standing there quivering while the two goons held her up.

"He took his knife, put it between her breasts. The point just touching the skin. 'Message time,' he says. He cut the letter S right into the skin between her breasts. Not deep, barely enough to draw blood, and leave a scar."

I shuddered. "Jesus, Jopie, I'm so sorry."

He shrugged. "He examined his handiwork and put his knife away. She was about to faint. 'Don't forget to give hubby my message,' he said. She did faint then; the goons laid her down on the floor. 'On second thought,' he said turning to the camera, 'I'll deliver it myself.'"

"The recording was delivered to me right here, in the squad room. Of course, I went straight home, and took her to the ER. Two weeks later, I came home to a note. She had left; she couldn't handle the danger. She loved me and respected me and wished me well, but she couldn't handle... and I couldn't protect her..." He stopped. I saw his shoulders shaking.

I couldn't help it. I put my arms around him and pulled him into me, and he cried into my shoulder. I meant to kiss the top of his head; I swear that's all I meant, like my Dad does to me. The next thing I knew, we were kissing. For real. Deep tongue, the whole works. He kissed my eyes, he kissed my chin, he nibbled on my lips, and he even kissed my nose. I was no less voracious than he was. My pulse raced, my breathing was shallow, I could feel my nipples erecting, trying to push their way toward him through the fabric of my bra. My hands were behind his head, running through what little hair he had, caressing him; I didn't remember telling them to do that. I could smell my arousal. His fingers were buried in my hair as his strong hands held me in place while he ravished my face. Time stopped.

He pushed my face away from his, ever so gently. "Thank you," was all he said. I couldn't speak. My legs had turned to jelly and my heart was still galloping madly; I had to use my hands on his desk to push myself up. I nodded at him, and set off on wobbly legs for the exit sign. I forgot about the files.

It was one confused girl who came home to my apartment that night. The idea that I loved Talbot was taking some getting used to, but I was making progress. Then there was Monica. She loved Talbot, that was clear, and she was worthy of him, too. I was the competition she never wanted. Why did she like me, and why, as hard as I tried to hate her, couldn't I? I know Mom said I couldn't hate her, but she's Mom; she's supposed to say things like that. What if she was right, though? What became of the protective covering that the scared little girl who still sometimes lived in my skin so desperately needed? "Just be yourself," Mom had said. How did I even do that? I got nowhere with that, so I found something else to think about.

"Something else" was worse. I had kissed a cop. I mean, really kissed him. While I was in love with Talbot. I didn't even have the excuse that he was good looking, or charming, or anything. How on earth had that happened? I didn't love Jopie. I wasn't sure I even liked him. In so many ways, he was the stereotypical cop I'd always hated. Something about him connected with me, though. It went deeper than his story, horrible as that was. I began to think he lived inside a hard shell just like I did, and my trivial question about a picture on his desk had gotten through his shell and revealed his profound loneliness. Whatever it was, I knew, and I knew he knew, he could have had a lot more from me than he took. I was ready to do something we'd both have regretted; he, this stereotypical Polish Joe of a cop, had the self-control to stop before it could happen.

My brain ached. I'm not good at introspection, and I avoid it whenever I can, but the day's events seemed to leave me no choice. I was just thinking that I could do without any more days like this, when the doorbell rang. I was surprised to notice it was almost 10 pm. I looked out the peephole to see a uniformed police officer holding up his ID. I opened the door, leaving the chain on.

"Ms. Livingston Brookes?"

The guy looked about 16; I found myself wondering if he'd started shaving yet. The ID was genuine, though, so I said "Yes?"

He handed me a small plain envelope with my name handwritten on it. Then he reached down and picked up a slender glass vase containing a single flower: the most beautiful white rose I'd ever seen. He handed it to me.

"You have been served." My jaw fell open. Mr. Junior Officer smiled and winked at me, then closed my door for me.

I tore open the envelope.

"Livingston," I read.

"Thank you. You will never know how much I needed what you gave me. Be assured it will never be repeated, but will be treasured and gratefully remembered for the rest of my life." It was signed with his full name: Joseph Przybylowicz. My eyes began to sting with tears. That settled it. I needed my mother.

I could tell she had been asleep, but she never said a word of reproach. She's like that. I told her everything: Talbot, Monica, Jopie, the whole mess.

"What do I do now?" I wailed.

"You do exactly what we talked about. Be yourself." I thought about that for a moment.

"How?"

I heard Mom's familiar chuckle. "You'll know. Don't over-think it, Livingston. You're an amazing, wonderful person. Your Dad and I have known that since you were three, and that scared little girl bravely walked across that room into our arms. Now, everyone who gets to know you falls in love with you. One of these days, you'll realize that." She had that "Mama knows" tone in her voice. She always did know, too. Have I mentioned she's awesome?

"Mom, what does a single white rose mean?"

"It means innocence, Livingston." I tried to think about that, but my brain had closed down for the time being, and we said goodnight.

I decided to take my medicine first thing next morning. I went to the DA's office, requested a meeting with Mr. Devin Williams, and prepared to plead my client, but take my own sweet time doing it. I understood the objective: string them along, make them think I wasn't a threat, until we were ready to drop an anvil on their head, figuratively, of course. When I thought about what they'd done to Talbot and Jopie, though, I wouldn't have minded someone doing it literally. That didn't make the smug expression on Mr. Williams' face, or his remark about my coming to my senses, easier to take.

I called Jopie and asked to see him, partly because I wanted some good news and hoped he had some, and partly to reconnect with him after the day before. I struck out on both counts. The hard shell was back in place; yesterday might as well not have happened. He didn't have any good news, and he was sore about that, too. When our brief conference ended, I wasn't sure whether to cry or tell him off. Usually when we finished, he just turned his back and walked away. Today he looked at me a little funny, and held out his hand. Grumpily, I shook his hand, and then he stalked off. Something was in my hand: a single rose petal, slightly crumpled, but pure white. I understood.

They finally began to peel off the bandages and whatnot from Talbot. His jaw was still wired, so it was still hard to understand him, but he had more stamina now, and better control over his lips and tongue. I visited him every day, being sure to vary my times as Jopie had told me. Sometimes, Mom or Dad, or both, came with me. We couldn't stay long, because he still tired easily. The doctors told us that his body needed all its energy to rebuild muscle and heal bones; they were very pleased that he was sleeping 16-20 hours a day. We didn't talk about the case.

I didn't talk much about my discovery that I loved him, either. The doctors told us to avoid upsetting him, and besides, I had no idea how one did this sort of thing. "I've hated you for twelve years, but I didn't really, I was only acting that way, I really love you?" Not so much. I couldn't help giving him little affectionate touches from time to time, though, and even drugged up as he was, I knew he was starting to figure some things out.

Mom and Dad were there with me when they removed the bandages from the top part of his head. You remember he'd had this mop of curly hair just like mine, only shorter? Not anymore. They'd shaved it all, and now he only had stubble. I cried inside. Talbot saw it and looked sad, so I went over and kissed the top of his head, and ran my hand over his stubble. He liked that, so I did it every time I said goodbye to him, except when Monica was there.

Mom and Dad met Monica when she happened to come in while we were there. She was varying her visit times, too, after I passed along Jopie's message. They were both impressed with her. After we got home, I asked them what they thought of her. Dad didn't say anything, but I was pretty sure I knew what he thought anyway. Mom didn't disappoint me.

"She's a wonderful girl, Livingston. I'm so glad you have her for a friend. You've never really had a best friend, you know, and she's absolutely perfect for you." She paused, just to tease me, I think. She knew that's not what I wanted to know. Well, it was, but it wasn't, if you know what I mean.

"She loves Talbot, but she knows now that it's over, or almost over, between them. She knows long term that you're his girl. The wonderful thing is, she's happy for you."

"How can she do that? Why doesn't she hate me?"

"Part of it is how much she likes you. Mostly, though, she loves him, so she wants what's best for him, and she knows that's you."

Monica and I were meeting three or four times a week. Working with her was amazing. RICO is pretty complex, but I never had to explain anything to her more than once. She always brought me all the information I asked for, never said anything about it being hard or getting her in trouble, and had good ideas on her own. I never asked how she did it, and Jopie told me I didn't want to know anyway, but I could tell he was pleased with how things were going.

The more we worked together, the better I liked her. She was straight as an arrow, and had no more back down in her than I did. She was nowhere close to as strong as I was, physically, and didn't get angry as easily, but I wouldn't have wanted to fight her over something she cared about. There wasn't a dishonest bone in her body; she couldn't even lie about what she and Talbot had gotten up to before the attack. I liked prodding her to talk about Talbot, and it was fun watching her blush. She got me back, though, by repeating things Talbot had told her about me.