half-wall. “Do I need to call the police?”
“Why?” Liska demanded, shrugging out of her coat. “Is being a knothead a crime now?”
Kovac rubbed his arm. “I guess I said the wrong thing.”
“Again,” Elwood added. “Did she do that to your nose?”
Kovac tried to catch his reflection in the dark screen of his computer monitor, though he already knew how it looked: puffy and red and lumpy as an old drunk’s. At least it wasn’t broken for the umpteenth time.
“Physical abuse of men by women,” Elwood said. “One of society’s great taboos. Victim Services can probably hook you up with a support group, Sam. Should I call Kate Conlan?”
Kovac threw a pen at him. “Why don’t you go take a flying leap?”
Liska settled into her chair and swiveled toward him, looking sullen and maybe just a little contrite. “I didn’t get any sleep because my brain preferred to remain awake, dwelling on what an asshole my ex is, among other fine topics. What happened to your nose? Iron Mike didn’t want to hear his son was into kinky sex?”
“It was an accident,” Kovac said. “He took the news hard. He and Andy had had a split, probably about a month ago when Andy decided to tell him he preferred DC to AC. That’s not an easy thing for a father to face, I guess. What’d you get from IA?”
“The cold shoulder. Lieutenant Ice Bitch gave me a lot of attitude and no information. She claims she doesn’t want to compromise an IA investigation. Someone’s career might get damaged.”
“I thought that was their goal.”
Liska shrugged. “She was at Fallon’s home Sunday night between eight and nine-thirty, discussing a case he was unhappy about. She says he seemed fine when she left. She did tell me he’d been depressed. She hadn’t ordered him to see the shrink, but she’d suggested he do it.”
“Do we know if he took her up on it?”
“Confidential information.”
“No one’s gonna talk until the ME’s done,” Kovac said. “They’re all holding out to hear
suicide,
and then they won’t have to talk at all, and to hell with anyone who wants to know why this kid killed himself. If that’s what he did.”
Liska picked up a fat pen with a plastic bloodshot eyeball glued to one end. One of many odd treasures in their cubicle. They bought them for each other as a running joke. Kovac’s most prized possession was a very realistic fake finger that looked as if it had been separated from its hand with a hacksaw. He liked to surprise people with it, leaving it in file folders, booby-trapping desks with it. It was the strangest thing a woman had ever given him—and, oddly, it brought him the most simple enjoyment. Two failed marriages to “normal” women, and he got the biggest kick out of a chick who gave him imitation severed body parts. What did that say?
“You going to the autopsy?” Liska asked.
“What’s the point? Bad enough seeing the kid dead. I don’t need to watch him get carved up for no good reason. His brother told me Andy came to see him about a month ago. He was coming out of the closet. He’d told Mike, and it hadn’t gone well.”
“That timing would coincide with his apparent depression.”
“Yeah. It sure smells like suicide,” he said. “The crime scene guys didn’t come up with anything unusual that I’ve heard about.”
“No, they didn’t, but the grapevine says otherwise,” Liska said. “Tippen told me it was the hot gossip at Patrick’s last night. That they came up with all kinds of sex toys and gay pornography. Now, where do you think a rumor like that might have started?”
Kovac scowled. “With the Three Stooges in uniform. Where’d you see Tippen this early?”
“Caribou Coffee. He has a really ugly double espresso habit.”
“Real cops are supposed to drink the sludge in the break room pot. It’s tradition.”
“Christmas is a tradition,” Liska corrected him. “Bad coffee is avoidable.
“The thing that bothers me with the
“Why?” Liska demanded, shrugging out of her coat. “Is being a knothead a crime now?”
Kovac rubbed his arm. “I guess I said the wrong thing.”
“Again,” Elwood added. “Did she do that to your nose?”
Kovac tried to catch his reflection in the dark screen of his computer monitor, though he already knew how it looked: puffy and red and lumpy as an old drunk’s. At least it wasn’t broken for the umpteenth time.
“Physical abuse of men by women,” Elwood said. “One of society’s great taboos. Victim Services can probably hook you up with a support group, Sam. Should I call Kate Conlan?”
Kovac threw a pen at him. “Why don’t you go take a flying leap?”
Liska settled into her chair and swiveled toward him, looking sullen and maybe just a little contrite. “I didn’t get any sleep because my brain preferred to remain awake, dwelling on what an asshole my ex is, among other fine topics. What happened to your nose? Iron Mike didn’t want to hear his son was into kinky sex?”
“It was an accident,” Kovac said. “He took the news hard. He and Andy had had a split, probably about a month ago when Andy decided to tell him he preferred DC to AC. That’s not an easy thing for a father to face, I guess. What’d you get from IA?”
“The cold shoulder. Lieutenant Ice Bitch gave me a lot of attitude and no information. She claims she doesn’t want to compromise an IA investigation. Someone’s career might get damaged.”
“I thought that was their goal.”
Liska shrugged. “She was at Fallon’s home Sunday night between eight and nine-thirty, discussing a case he was unhappy about. She says he seemed fine when she left. She did tell me he’d been depressed. She hadn’t ordered him to see the shrink, but she’d suggested he do it.”
“Do we know if he took her up on it?”
“Confidential information.”
“No one’s gonna talk until the ME’s done,” Kovac said. “They’re all holding out to hear
suicide,
and then they won’t have to talk at all, and to hell with anyone who wants to know why this kid killed himself. If that’s what he did.”
Liska picked up a fat pen with a plastic bloodshot eyeball glued to one end. One of many odd treasures in their cubicle. They bought them for each other as a running joke. Kovac’s most prized possession was a very realistic fake finger that looked as if it had been separated from its hand with a hacksaw. He liked to surprise people with it, leaving it in file folders, booby-trapping desks with it. It was the strangest thing a woman had ever given him—and, oddly, it brought him the most simple enjoyment. Two failed marriages to “normal” women, and he got the biggest kick out of a chick who gave him imitation severed body parts. What did that say?
“You going to the autopsy?” Liska asked.
“What’s the point? Bad enough seeing the kid dead. I don’t need to watch him get carved up for no good reason. His brother told me Andy came to see him about a month ago. He was coming out of the closet. He’d told Mike, and it hadn’t gone well.”
“That timing would coincide with his apparent depression.”
“Yeah. It sure smells like suicide,” he said. “The crime scene guys didn’t come up with anything unusual that I’ve heard about.”
“No, they didn’t, but the grapevine says otherwise,” Liska said. “Tippen told me it was the hot gossip at Patrick’s last night. That they came up with all kinds of sex toys and gay pornography. Now, where do you think a rumor like that might have started?”
Kovac scowled. “With the Three Stooges in uniform. Where’d you see Tippen this early?”
“Caribou Coffee. He has a really ugly double espresso habit.”
“Real cops are supposed to drink the sludge in the break room pot. It’s tradition.”
“Christmas is a tradition,” Liska corrected him. “Bad coffee is avoidable.
“The thing that bothers me with the
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