Val woke to the sensation of warm, powerful hands caressing her aching back. It felt wonderful, even when those strong hands rubbed areas sore from the previous day’s kicking and punching. She raised her head a few inches from the ocean of pillows surrounding her face, and the aroma of almonds and coconut wafted in through her sinuses.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” Gil squeezed her spasming shoulder muscles. She nearly fainted from pleasure, but his next words kept her in the realm of consciousness. “I made coffee.”
“You are a prince among men.” Val rose up to her elbows and cuddled in when his lips grazed her bruised cheek. “What time is it?”
“More-of-the-same o’clock. Lie down.” He pressed her shoulders down and she collapsed back onto the mattress.
“This is so wonderful,” she said a few minutes or hours later, however long it took for her to drool a giant wet spot onto her pillow. “But I’m supposed to work today.”
“You worked yesterday. And every day before that. Today is Sunday, a day of rest.” Gil’s hands slid down her back, massaging the ridge of muscles along the top of her pelvis. She thought she might melt.
“Tell me if I hit a tender spot,” he said.
“Every spot is tender,” she said into the pillow. “And don’t you dare stop. In fact, if we ever get married, back rubs are going in the pre-nup.”
“Mutual?”
She laughed. “There’s always a catch. Ow! Yes, that spot…don’t go back there.”
“I’m surprised there are any non-sore spots.” Gil moved his hands down to her legs. “Don’t they have rules for these fights?”
“Yes. Don’t die.” Val raised herself up on her elbows again, still appreciating the magic he was bringing to her thighs. “Tell me honestly. Did you think I was going to win?”
“Pre-fight? Definitely. After the first round, I had my doubts.” He shifted his attention to her sore calves.
“Maya reminded me to focus on my strengths. It seemed to work.”
“Yes. It did…seem to work.”
Now his hands moved down to her feet. Val lost touch with reality for a few moments. Gawd. Damn. She became an instant convert to reflexology.
But his tone…
“You don’t sound convinced,” she said.
“Of what?” More euphoria spread over her body. Everything he touched turned to gold.
“Of…my strategy. It worked, didn’t it?”
“Apparently so.”
Val couldn’t stand it anymore. Enough doubt rose to sacrifice more amazing foot-rubbing. She rolled onto her back and sat up, facing his beautiful naked body. “Gil, you’re the worst liar since, well, me.”
“It’s what I love about us.” He kissed her. “Breakfast?”
“Don’t change the subject. What aren’t you telling me?”
Gil shrugged, did his terrible Sergeant Schultz impression from old Hogan’s Heroes reruns. “I know nutt-ink.” He slid his legs off the bed.
Val grabbed his arms, preventing him from leaving. “Come on. No secrets between us, remember? Spill.”
He sighed, gazed at the ceiling for a moment, then met her gaze. “That woman you fought was a champion in your weight class. You’re a beginner. She kicked your ass for the first two-thirds of that bout, then she forgot how to defend herself?” He shook his head. “Not buying it.”
Val stared at him, wanting to argue, but all of her objections stuck in her throat. Everything he said was true. “You think they threw the fight.”
Gil opened his mouth to object, closed it. Shrugged.
“God dammit, they threw the fight!” She picked up a pillow and fired it across the room. It landed somewhere in the bathroom. “Why?”
He mugged a moment, pretending to think about it. He knew, though.
“Gil, tell me.”
“Val, think about it. Why would they throw your first match? Against a tough competitor?”
She held up her hands, searched her weary mind, and reached the conclusion that she didn’t wanted to accept. “They want me back.” He nodded, and she paused, letting it sink in. “Why?”
“You said they need women. Didn’t Maya mention something about how women lend the place some legitimacy? That it makes it less of a testosterone convention?”
“Not in so many words, but, yes.”
“And, you’re a cop. A well-known one. Which lends them even more cred.”
“Shit!” Val pounded the remaining pillow with her fist. “Dammit, Gil. I can’t even enjoy one day of thinking I’d won something. This sucks!” She pounded the pillow again.
“Oh, you won, all right. I mean, you knocked that woman out.”
“Unless she faked it,” Val said. “Even so, she let me win. That explains what she said to her second before the last round. ‘It doesn’t count,’ or some such. Dammit!”
“Sorry, Val. I didn’t mean to spoil this for you. I’m a horrible poker player, and you kind of forced me—”
“Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you’re this bad at lying when it matters.” Val wrapped her arms around him.
“And when might that be?” He planted a gentle kiss on her lips.
“When you try to hide secrets from me,” she said, kissing him back.
“I keep no secrets. My life is an open book.”
She laughed. “Then why do I know so little about you? Tell me, who’s your fantasy—holy crap, is that the right time?” She bounded across the bed, picking up the alarm clock on his side table. “Nine o’clock? I’m soooo late! Shit shit shit!” She jumped to the floor and began pulling on clothes. “Simpson called a nine a.m. team meeting on the shooter case and I was supposed to be there. Oh, for God’s sake! He already hates me, and now I’m showing up late, looking like a damn shambles with no shower and—”
“It’s Sunday,” Gil said, irritation showing. “Who calls a team meeting at nine a.m. on a Sunday? People have lives, families, church—he’s a maniac!”
“Yeah, and now I’m on the bad side of this maniac. Crap!” She pulled on a shirt and jeans, kissed Gil again. He pulled her in close for a deeper kiss, pressing his naked, muscular body against hers, and she almost—almost—gave in to the temptation.
“See you at dinnertime.” Val left him on the bed, mouth agape, staring after her as she dashed out the door.
Only when she’d parked her car at police headquarters did she realize she’d forgotten to broach the subject with Gil of whether he’d go undercover to infiltrate IncelNation.
She made a mental note to ask him at dinner. In the meantime, she had Simpson’s wrath to face.
Val pushed the meeting room door open a crack, hoping she could enter unnoticed and slip into a seat in the back. She’d attended only one briefing in this space before, one typically reserved for larger gatherings like public press briefings or cross-precinct staff meetings. The typical layout used consisted of a presentation panel sitting up front, facing eight to ten rows of folding chairs.
Not this time. Simpson stood in the center of the room, surrounded by two dozen chairs in a squared-off U-shape, filled with plainclothes officers and detectives, all facing him. All, Val wagered, wishing they were at home like Gil, watching the Patriots–Dolphins game. Simpson, of course, faced the door, where Val entered.
“Nice of you to join us, Officer,” he said with a sneer. “How was the sermon this morning?”
Val paused en route to an open seat at the far end of the U. “Sir?”
“I can’t imagine any other reason for you to be late,” Simpson said with a smirk, “other than your church service ran long. What was the topic of the homily this morning, Dawes?”
Val started to answer: I’m not Catholic. Then she caught herself. None of his damned business, and she refused to let him bait her. Instead she glanced at the clock. 9:25 a.m. “Sorry for being late. It won’t happen again.”
Simpson glared at her, waiting until she took her seat before resuming the meeting. “As I was saying.” He tapped a capped whiteboard marker into an open palm. “We believe this was a targeted attack, aimed at one or more specific victims, most likely the doctor or the protester. The two pregnant women were collateral damage.”
Val sat back in her seat, startled. Targeted? In a mass shooting? That was rare, to say the least. However, the others in the room, mostly middle-aged men of varying rank and duty assignments, seemed to have no reaction to the statement, other than boredom. “Sir?” Val raised her hand. “Upon what evidence do you—”
“If you’d arrived on time,” Simpson said, his voice rising, “you’d have heard the evidence. For example, the boyfriends and husbands of the victims all produced rock-solid alibis, corroborated by others. Unless, perhaps, you possess some contrary information to share that you failed to include in the case file?”
“N-no sir.” Then she realized she’d withheld her speculations about the incel groups. “I mean…possibly.”
“Possibly you have evidence,” Simpson said, impatience rising, “or possibly you failed to inform the others on this investigative team about your findings?”
“It’s a connection I made among bits of evidence that bears on who the shooter might be. It points to motive.”
“Go on.”
All heads in the room turned to face Val.
Val stood. In college, she’d discovered that when a professor put her on the spot in similar situations, standing gave her confidence to speak her mind. “The ballistics report,” she said, and a gray-haired man in dark-rimmed glasses snapped to greater attention. She assumed he’d authored the report. “It included a finding that inscriptions on the bullets survived impact and excavation.”
“We prefer the term ‘removal’ in autopsies and medical procedures,” the gray-haired man said. “It’s not an archaeological dig.”
“Right. Sorry. The inscription was ‘ERM.’ I did some digging and I believe it refers to a slogan used by incel groups—so-called men’s rights advocates that—”
“Skip the pedantics, Dawes. We all know what ‘incel’ means.” Simpson glanced around the room, wearing that condescending smirk again, and earned several approving nods and half-hearted grins from several of the men. The others typed into their cell phones, as if performing a quick Google search. So, maybe not everyone knew what it meant.
“Yes, sir. If so, this links the incel groups to the shooting. I’ve seen men wearing incel symbols on their clothing—”
“Have these groups taken pro-choice or anti-abortion stands, to your knowledge?” Simpson said. “Did they issue calls to action against these clinics in recent weeks?”
Val searched her memory of Saturday morning’s research, but couldn’t recall any hard evidence to confirm her suspicion. “Not per se. I’m sure with—”
“If you’d been present for the start of the meeting,” Simpson said, “you’d have heard that both Dr. Webb and Ms. Graham—the protester—received threats on their lives in recent weeks. In my experience, actual, personal threats trump ‘possible links’ any day. Does anyone disagree? Other than, apparently, Ms. Dawes.”
Blank faces stared back at them.
“Thank you for your, ahem, interesting theory, Officer. Moving on, then,” he said. “We conclude that this is a targeted, one-time event. Therefore, our most fruitful lines of investigation lie in tracking down known and potential enemies of the two key victims.”
Val sat, dumbfounded. Simpson not only dismissed her findings out of hand. He also planned to proceed down a path driven by opposing motives—or at least, victims allied with both sides of a controversial issue. Based on anonymous threats. It made no sense.
Plus, she didn’t recall any threats in the case file against the protester, nor the doctor. However, the anonymous caller did threaten all three local clinics. Why would Simpson interpret that as personal?
Val needed to get back into the file. And, she realized, she’d have to pursue her own theories without the help of Simpson and his investigative team.
Simpson’s team meeting droned on, painfully fading to a soft, slow close around 10:00 a.m. Val caught a few others in the room muttering things like “C’mon, let’s wrap this up, Tackle Box,” and browsing on their phones, so she didn’t feel quite so alone and outcast. Still, nobody else made eye contact with her or even exchanged pleasantries as they shuffled out, either.
She swung by the WAVE Squad office a few floors up to peruse her email and do some research, but her cell phone chimed before she got very far.
“Beth! Thanks for calling back.”
“No worries,” Beth said, yawning. “I saw you texted again this morning and wanted to check in. You’ll drive me tomorrow, right? My appointment’s at eleven a.m.”
“You got it. Pick you up at work?”
“Home. I’m taking the day off.”
“Good plan.” Val drew in a deep breath, her mind churning. Having the whole day opened up interesting possibilities—safer ones. “Beth, I wonder if…given recent events…you might consider going to a clinic outside Clayton. Planned Parenthood operates in Hartford, Torrington—”
“No way,” Beth said. “I want to stay close to home, in case I need to go back for any sort of follow-up. Plus, my family’s here, you’re here…my support group.”
Val glared at the ceiling, glad her friend couldn’t see her. Beth could be so stubborn. “But this shooter—”
“Isn’t scaring me away, dammit!”
Beth’s angry retort startled Val, and she had no words in response.
“Look,” Beth continued. “The media say that this is a one-time thing. That mass shootings don’t become serial events. Even if they did, wouldn’t they go back to the same place?”
Val sighed. Sounded like Simpson had fed his line to the press already, and they were eating it up. “I understand that argument,” she said, “but—look, don’t tell anyone I told you this, okay? Promise?”
“Told me what?” Beth sounded intrigued, not just humoring her.
Val lowered her voice. “Someone issued threats to all three clinics last week. And then, Friday…”
“Friday they made good on their threat,” Beth said. “Val, you’re freaking me out. Are you trying to scare me out of doing this altogether?”
“No!” The word escaped before Val could even think. “As I’ve told you, I support your choice, and I’ll be there for you, no matter what. Even if I have to wear my uniform and sidearm.”
“Not a bad idea. No one would be stupid enough to shoot at a cop, would they?”
Val recalled the horrific image of Gil, writhing on the sidewalk, blood gushing from the bullet wound that shattered his pelvic bone. Then she recalled Gil’s worry about her going with Beth. Unease flooded through her.
But Beth needed her. Val had to stand tall.
“As long as you want me, I’m there—in riot gear, if need be,” Val said. “I’ll see you at your place around ten-thirty.”
After Val hung up the phone, guilt battled fear for control of Val’s emotions. She remained resolved to stand by her friend, but she couldn’t suppress the notion that somehow, she’d already failed her.
Gil leaned back against the wall, arms folded. He squinted across the kitchen at Val, mixing greens and vinaigrette in a salad bowl—pushing the limits of her cooking ability.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want me to join a right-wing militia group of involuntary celibates?”
Val sighed. “Not for real.”
He smirked and glanced down at his crotch. “Good. Celibacy was never my thing.”
Val tossed a towel at him, which he dodged. “The idea is to go under cover. To gather intel. Detective work.” She hoped the appeal to furthering his goal of making detective would quell his doubts. She’d already wrestled plenty with her own qualms before working up the nerve to ask him.
“I’d be dead meat,” he said. “They’d spot me as a cop a mile away.”
She nodded. “They already know that. This guy, Stevie Ray—you met him the other day—he invited you.”
“He’s an incel? That guy?” Gil unfolded his arms, paced the room, his hands stuffed into his back pockets. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Because…?”
Gil shrugged. “I guess I had an image of these guys being super macho, chauvinistic, all that. He strikes me as kind of a wallflower. A nerd.”
“Hey, what’ve you got against nerds?” Val grinned and tapped her chest. “Remember who you’re dating here.”
“You’re the good kind of nerd,” Gil said, returning the grin.
“What kind is that?”
Gil moved closer, rested an arm on her waist from behind. “Smart, female, and sexy.” He slid his hand down to her rump.
Val pressed her body into his. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the smart, hazel-eyed cops with bubble butts.” He wrapped her up in a hug.
“Shall I use my feminine wiles to convince you to help me out on this?” She set the salad tongs aside and guided his hand up to her breast. “You and I would get to, ah, work together more closely.”
“No fair distracting me.” Gil held her close for a moment, his chin resting on her shoulder. “I don’t have to join your little fight club, do I?”
“My fight club?” Val slipped away from him and resumed construction of their dinner salad, tossing in diced tomatoes and cucumbers. “No, I already made that clear. I hope you could attend a meeting or something. In particular, I want to find out if they know anything about the abortion clinic shooting, and, if so, whether they’re planning any more attacks.”
“You think they’d share that with a new recruit? And a cop?”
“Well…they might let something slip.”
“To a newbie?” Gil shook his head. “Given how little we’ve learned so far, over forty-eight hours after the shooting, I’d peg them as being either uninvolved or really, really careful.”
Val nodded, conceding the point. “We need to find out either way. Maybe you could get one of them one-on-one over beers or something.”
“I don’t know, Val.” Gil circled around to face her across the table, frowning. “That might take some time, to build that trust. Do we have that sort of time?”
Val pushed the salad bowl across the table and took a sip of wine from one of the two glasses he’d poured. “All I know is that we need to learn more about them. And they did invite you. It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.”
“What does Petroni think about this? Or Simpson?”
She expressed a loud breath and sank into a chair. “I haven’t broached it with either of them yet. I wanted to see what you had to say first.”
“Neither of them will like this. They both insist on controlling the composition of their staff.”
Val nodded and sipped more wine. “Even if we don’t find anything about these shootings, wouldn’t it be good to scout them out? To find out what they’re up to?”
“You’re certain they wouldn’t string me up and use me for target practice? Because my birthday is next month, and it’s been a lifelong goal to make it to thirty-five.”
“You’d better. I already bought you three presents, old man.”
Gil chuckled. “Then you overspent.” He reached across and took her hand. “It just doesn’t seem like you to ask for something like this. What’s going on? Why are you so convinced this is the right move?”
Val squeezed his hand, meeting his soft gaze. “I’m not sure that it is. But this case is going cold fast. Like you said, it’s been two days and we’ve learned next to nothing about the shooter. Meanwhile, I’ve lost my partner, and Simpson’s an idiot who shuts me down at every turn. We need to try something different, gamble a little, shake things up. And something tells me that these incel groups are connected somehow.”
He fixed her with an even stare. “Something? A gut feeling, then?”
She paused, then nodded. “Call it female intuition?”
Gil chuckled and let his head droop. “If anyone else were asking…”
She jumped up, scooted around the table, and hugged him. “So you’ll do it?”
“I need to check with my superiors—”
“You’re the best.” She held him so tight that he grunted.
Then she imagined his birthday coming and her not being able to hold him like this, and fear crept in, took hold, and held him even tighter.
Val grew convinced that the idea was a mistake and was about to call the whole thing off when he whispered into her ear.
“You’re the smartest, bravest, loveliest cop I know,” he said. “Never doubt that.”
With those words, as if on command, her doubts vanished.