the scrawled initials of Captain L. Powell.
See me, I thought, heading for the Homicide Squad's command post. Words to live by.
Years ago, that kind of summons would have struck terror in my heart, especially if I knew that the reason behind it was a screwup of my own making. But things have changed since then. The truth is, I no longer need this job. I work because I want to. That kind of economic freedom does put a slightly different spin on things when the boss comes around chewing ass.
When I first heard Johnny Paycheck sing his trademark song 'Take This Job and Shove It,' it seemed like an impossible dream. It's reality now-for me anyway. Anne Corley's generous legacy made that possible. And now that I have a choice, I find it's a whole lot easier to be forgiving of Captain Powell's occasional foibles, to say nothing of my own.
On the fifth floor, we refer to Captain Powell's fully windowed interior office as 'the fishbowl.' I went straight there, carrying the still-smoldering Post-it with me. I could see from outside that the captain was busy on the phone, so I meandered over to the desk where Sergeant Watkins had assumed his usual position.
'Did Sue Danielson find you?' Watty asked. 'She was by looking for you a few minutes ago. I told her Chuck Grayson said you were around-upstairs somewhere-but I couldn't be any more specific than that.'
'Did she say what she wanted?'
Watty shook his head. 'Last thing I heard, I think she was headed downstairs to the crime lab.'
I nodded in the direction of the Fishbowl. 'What's he want?' I asked.
'I wouldn't know,' Watty answered.
Since Sergeant Watkins is Captain Powell's right-hand man, that seemed unlikely, but I didn't argue the point.
About that time, Captain Powell put down the phone. Then he sat there frowning with his hands steepled under his chin, staring at the molded black plastic instrument as though it had just delivered news of the end of the world. The grim set to his jaw boded ill for my coming interview, but I figured I could just as well get it over with. As I started toward the Fishbowl's perpetually open door, Watty gave me a cheery thumbs-up sign.
As a high school student, I earned spending money by hawking popcorn and sodas in Ballard's now-defunct Baghdad Theater. Watty's gesture reminded me of some of those old gladiator films. There was always a scene in the dusty amphitheater when the doomed gladiators clapped themselves on their armored chests and announced ever-so-solemnly, 'We who are about to die salute you.'
Watty and I are about the same age, and most likely he grew up watching the same movies I did. I took heart from his raised thumb. After all, in the movies a thumbs-up from Caesar meant the bloodied gladiator lived. Maybe there was hope for me.
I tapped lightly on the doorjamb.
'Come,' Powell called out.
Being summoned to Captain Powell's Fishbowl bears an uncommon resemblance to being called to the principal's office back in grade school. My instincts then, as now, were to get my licks in first, to hurry and blurt out my side of the story before anyone else could get a word in edgewise.
'Sorry, Captain, but it's all my fault,' I said, not giving him an opportunity to take the first shot. 'I tracked down the leak on the story in the paper, and it turns out to be me. I didn't realize it, but at the time I called to discuss the Identi-Kit sketch with Bonnie Elgin, she and her husband had a houseful of company-including Maxwell Cole himself. I made the mistake of not warning Bonnie to keep a lid on…'
'Forget it, Beau,' Captain Powell interrupted. 'Those things happen. That's not why I called you in here. I need your help. Have a chair.'
I shut up and sat.
'I guess you know what they say about shit-that it rolls downhill?'
After twenty-some years on the force, this was not news. 'So I've noticed,' I said.
Captain Powell nodded gloomily. 'Me, too.' He plucked a single piece of paper off the morass on top of his desk. 'No doubt you've seen this?'
I glanced at the memo. The bar at the top said it came from the office of Kenneth Rankin, Chief of Police, Seattle P.D. It was addressed 'To all Squad Leaders,' of which Captain Powell is one.
Seattle's recently appointed police chief, Kenneth Rankin, is on a one-man campaign to get cops out of their patrol cars and into the community. To that end, the chief's staff has generated a steady flurry of printed pages that gradually filter across desks and down channels to the men in blue-something that also may change if Rankin's radical proposal to get police officers out of uniform gains approval.
To be honest, there have been so many memos flying around that most people have developed a certain immunity. I, for one, had just about given up bothering to read them.
The piece of paper in my hand was some long, wordy dissertation on the value of police-officer visibility and volunteerism in the community. The general gist of the memo was that Seattle Police Department officers were being asked to use their off-duty hours-whenever those might be-to take part in community-service activities and projects.
I suppose the basic philosophy behind all this is the idea that if a punk and a police officer work side by side cleaning up garbage out of a park or off a beach one weekend, they're not quite so likely to shoot one another the next time they meet on the street. The concept sounds fine on paper, but it doesn't translate all that well into practice.
For one thing, it wasn't at all popular with the rank and file. Seattle's finest-those public servants sworn to serve and protect-weren't exactly running over each other in their eagerness to give up their off-duty time. Neither were their wives and families. Furthermore, the punks of this world-the real baddies-were far too busy selling drugs or shooting one another to be bothered with cleaning up garbage-strewn parks.
I handed the paper back to Powell. 'What about it?'
'The chief's riding the individual squad leaders pretty hard about this. In fact, that was his second-in- command on the phone just now, calling to ask for a progress report. By Monday, each individual squad is supposed to come up with some game plan for that squad's community participation.'
'What does all this have to do with me?'
'Watty and I were talking it over a little while ago. He said you might be able to help.'
'How?'
'You're involved in things like this, aren't you, Beau? Don't I remember you donating a car or something to one of the charity auctions?'
Not the damned Bentley again, I thought, but Powell continued without detouring off into any specifics. 'Watty said he thought you might know some of the people who are involved in this kind of do-gooder crap-someone who could point us in the right direction.'
'What exactly did you have in mind?'
'Well,' Captain Powell said, 'we need to come up with something that will actually do some good, won't take up too much time, and will get the chief off my back. Do you have any ideas?'
It took some time, but I did come up with one. The idea, when it came, was almost blinding in its sheer brilliance.
'Captain Powell,' I said, barely concealing the smirk that wanted to leak out the corners of my mouth. 'This is one time when you've come to the right place at the right time.'
'How so?'
'I happen to know just the person you need to talk to-one who can put you in touch with all the movers and shakers around town. She'll hook you up with one of the charity auctions for an item like ‘Coffee-with-a-cop' so fast it'll make your head spin.'
Captain Powell frowned. 'Are you kidding? Coffee with a cop?'
'It would probably sell like hotcakes.'
Powell picked up his pen and held it at the ready. 'All right,' he said. 'Who is she? What's her name?'
'Bonnie Elgin,' I answered triumphantly, dragging my ragged notepad out of my pocket. 'I have her number right here. You can tell her I suggested that you call.'
It must have sounded do-able, because Captain Powell was looking almost cheerful when I left his office. As for me, I was still grinning when I made it back to my cubicle.
There were two messages on the voice mail-one from Kari Gebhardt and one from Sue Danielson telling me
