“It’s the lasagna,” Sully said, and belched again. His face pinched in discomfort. “That’s all I had tonight.”
“Yeah, well, it was probably some cheap microwave dinner made by a Polish guy in Cleveland or something. Not real Italian lasagna.”
Sully didn’t reply. For one thing, he was fighting down the nausea. For another, the lasagna had been leftovers that Battaglia’s wife, Rebecca, had sent home with him two weeks ago. It had smelled fine, but-
“You sure you didn’t have any haggis?”
Sully shook his head. “I told you this before, you stupid guinea. Haggis is Scottish, not Irish.”
“Close enough.”
“Not even close. It’d be like me calling you Sicilian.”
Battaglia’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, there’s no need to get nasty.”
“See? No fun to get miscast, is it?”
“My people are from Tuscany,” Battaglia said, indignant. “We are not Sicilian animale.”
Sully smiled in spite of his stomach. “You want to talk about close? You know how many miles it is from the Italian mainland to the Sicilian coast?”
“About a million,” Battaglia said.
Sully opened his mouth to educate Batts, then clamped it shut again as another wave of nausea rolled over him.
“You all right, Sully?”
Sully shook his head rapidly.
“Adam-122, a burglary report,” chirped the radio between them.
Sully turned the wheel hard, whipping the patrol car to the curb. He stomped the brakes, lurching the vehicle to a stop. The sway of the car as it came to rest made the nausea worse.
“Dude, do not puke in this car,” Battaglia warned. “We’ll never get the smell out and-”
Sully pushed open the driver’s door and tried to lean outward. His seatbelt caught him, jerking him to a stop and keeping him upright. The belt released as if by magic. He leaned forward and vomited. A solid spray of red liquid interspersed with white chunks of noodles splattered onto the asphalt.
A moment later he heaved again. This time less came out, but the contraction hurt his stomach more. He let loose with a third round that was largely spittle. He felt Battaglia’s hand patting him on the back through his protective vest as he remained in place, spitting and letting out a small groan.
After a few moments, Sully leaned back into the car. He glanced over at Battaglia, realizing now that it had been his partner who popped the seatbelt loose for him.
“Adam-122?” the dispatcher called again.
Battaglia grabbed the microphone and told her to go ahead with the call. Sully watched as Batts scrolled down the tiny orange screen, reading the details as the dispatcher recited them. Then he copied the call and looked up at Sully.
“You all right?”
Sully shrugged. “You got any gum?”
“Nope. But you’ve got toothpaste in your locker at the station, which is where I’m taking you. Pull forward.”
“Huh?”
“Pull forward,” Battaglia told him.
“Why?”
“We’re changing spots and I don’t want to have to walk in your used microwave lasagna to get into the driver’s seat, that’s why.”
Sully shook his head. “I’m okay. I just need some gum.”
“You got some bad food. You need to go home.”
“I can make it through the shift.”
“That’s another seven hours.”
“I can do it.”
“So you’re feeling better, then?”
Sully started to nod yes, but another surge of nausea hit him. He blinked and fought it down. Without a word, he dropped the patrol car into gear and rolled forward several yards.
“Switch,” was all Battaglia said.
Sully eased himself out of the driver’s seat and walked around the front of the car. He was amazed at how weak his limbs felt. By the time he made it to the passenger side and flopped back into the seat, Battaglia was perched behind the wheel. He goosed the accelerator and the patrol car leapt forward.
“Easy there, crazy,” Sully said. Then he added, “This isn’t Rome.”
“I hope it was the haggis,” Battaglia said. “I hope what you’ve got isn’t catching.”
Sully smiled weakly. “Just don’t let the lasagna sit in the fridge too long,” he muttered.
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” Sully said. “Just take me to the station before I puke again, goombah.”
“You should stick to corned beef and cabbage, Sully.” Battaglia glanced over at him. “Seriously.”
Sully’s stomach clenched again. He closed his eyes and groaned.
“Tell Sergeant Shen I went home sick,” he told Battaglia.
“Duh.”
“Don’t forget.”
“Double duh.”
“I mean it. I don’t want him to think I went AWOL or something.”
“Hey, who are you talking to here?” Battaglia affected a look of indignation. “One thing we Italians are good for is taking care of our family.”
“Aye,” Sully replied, barely able to summon any brogue. “’Tis true.”
Station, he thought, then home.
Tuesday, July 15th
0211 hours
Officer B.J. Carson pulled carefully onto Monroe Street from Rowan and headed south. After four months of driving with a field training officer in the passenger seat observing her every move, it felt both strange and liberating for her to be on her own. She knew she was still under observation-perhaps even more so than before, with an entire platoon sitting in judgment-but she felt like she could relax a little bit now that she was alone in her patrol car.
She still wore the blue nametag of a rookie, too. The one with “B.J.” emblazoned in bright white letters. Carson had loved having initials for a name when she was young enough to wear pigtails. It set her apart. But by the time she reached junior high, the obvious sexual connotation became a plague. High school was even worse, as her initials became an excuse for boys to believe she was more likely to be promiscuous and girls to assume the same. And maybe it was even a little true, but she didn’t like people just assuming it. In her junior year she changed to a different high school, where she became just Billie. That helped her finally get free of the B.J. curse.
Or so she thought. The day she graduated the academy, they handed her a dark blue River City Police nametag with her initials, and her stomach fell. Then she figured that since she was an adult now, working with other adults, the initials wouldn’t matter anymore. Maybe she could even be B.J. again, and like it.
Not hardly. The police department was an older, grayer version of high school, which was, after all, just a crueler version of junior high. Whenever a male officer saw or heard her initials, she saw in his eyes exactly where his mind went.
As she cruised down Monroe, she pushed away those thoughts and took stock of her platoon mates, instead. Some were easier to figure out than others. She was accustomed to the hard-sell come-ons of a guy like James Kahn. Since she was on probation and trying to fit in, she endured his clumsy, overbearing efforts. She had him figured for a guy who wouldn’t give up unless he ran into a hard stop, so she guessed that she would need to manufacture a fictional boyfriend soon in order to keep him at bay. It wasn’t a perfect solution but it was a better choice than some she’d made regarding male coworkers before.
That’s in the past, she thought.Before I became a cop. Things are different now. I’m different.
Being a cop. Already it was a job full of adrenaline and stress and powerful personalities. Inevitably, that led to a sexually charged environment.
How did Katie MacLeod handle it? Since the rotation with MacLeod had been Carson’s first, they’d focused on much more basic things than the finer arts of dealing with men in the workplace. Still, while the men around the police department cast MacLeod an appreciative glance once in a while, they seemed to genuinely respect her as an officer.