[center][h2]Captain’s Office, 13th Precinct[/h2][/center]


Fitzpatrick wasn’t having any of his man’s account.  “Not sure you’ve been reading the tea leaves, detective.”  The captain’s desk chair emitted a screech as he shifted an uncomfortable amount of girth to nearly envelope an armrest.  “I sign off on investigating anyone, let alone a nun?  Based on one visit to a boat and stories from a couple tweakers?  Take a minute to think about those optics.”

“Sir,” Hekubah landed his elbows on the desk, before a fresh scowl from his captain signaled their hasty withdrawal. “They’ve supplied me with good info in the past…”

“Right,” Fitzpatrick cut him off.  “You bring me something like kids getting drops from the BZ?  That I can take to the Commissioner.  But her?”  A pudgy finger bent slightly backwards as he pressed it into the still capture.  For the moment, Sister Lyen Giu’s face was obscured as the precinct commander brought the weight of his office crashing down on the detective.  “That nun’s a royal pain the the [i]pi gu,[/i] detective, but she’s…off…limits.   No stakeouts, no tails.  And no personal O.T. either.  She’s got powerful friends up the chain.  Long as they’re pumping coin into her soup kitchens and med clinic, everybody’s happy…including the Commissioner.  You got me, Ernie?”

Hekubah closed the open file.  “Yeah, yeah.  I got you.  But there’s something happening, and she’s neck deep in it.  My DI’s tell me she walked right into a faceoff between a boat crew and the BZ Kings last night…in the brickyard.  Today, I saw her come right off that same boat in the port. We know she’s been seen with both Zona Libre and suspected Browncoat radicals…”

Fitzpatrick lifted his hand for silence.  “Been to the U of O campus lately?  The Student Union building is wallpaperred in Zona Libre posters.  Kids are all shouting slogans and  trying to out ‘Che Guevara’ each other.  Never seen so many freakin’ berets.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.  The point is this.  You can’t walk that campus or the blackout zone without tripping over a half dozen nose pickers playing at being a revolutionary.  Until you can connect the dots on this, all we can prove is the Sister’s milking a cause celebre from both ends.”

“Just give me the time, Captain,” Hekubah pleaded.

A fresh protest squealed from the chair as the senior officer rocked back.  He folded his hands atop his belly, his well worn signal of deep thought.  Hekubah would’ve laughed at the sight, but for the fire in his own belly.  “Tell you what,” Captain Fitzpatrick turned a profile to the detective.  “You can either work this as unpaid O.T., or burn some vacay on it.”  Now he turned again to lean forward.  “You bring me something.  Something solid I can take upstairs,” his brows lifted for emphasis, “then I’ll see you get recompense and full credit for the collar.  Best I can do.”

Ernest Hekubah pondered the ball now resting in his court.  “Vacay,”  he finally said.  “I’ve got a week, but Connie killed me in the divorce.  Rather do this than watch a bunch of broadwave and eat ramen.”

“Fair enough,” the captain nodded in reply.  “I’ll authorize it.”  As the detective rose for the door, the precinct captain stopped him.  “Ernie.”

“Yeah, Phil?”

“[i]Bùyào gǎo zá zhège.[/i]”      (trans - “Don’t fuck this up.”)