Hotline Fling

28: I'm Glad it's You

Juneau's POV

I cracked my knuckles and winced, shaking my wrists because, ouch. My fingers fumbled into my purse, and my breath froze at Sergeant Hotpants' contact information on my phone. Fuck, why hadn't I paid closer attention to his number's 332-area code? "Damian Rivera, NYPD," I mumbled while my fingers flew over my desk keyboard.

332 was a New York-based area code, but people carried numbers, so that wasn't a definite hit. However, the possibility he was in the tri-state area pulsed nervous excitement through me. I hit enter on my search, then sat back with my knees bouncing like my subway stop was next.

"Holy cannoli!" My mouth dropped so fast, I was surprised my jaw didn't hit my desk.

How had I not seen this sooner? NYPD had a public-access database where officers could be retrieved by their badge number or name. Fourteen 'Riveras,' of which two had the first name Damian. One was an investigative detective within the Fiftieth Precinct. By their precinct map, which included part of the Bronx.

The other one, though? Damian Rivera, Patrol-slash-Vice, Thirty-Fourth Precinct.

Thirty-four? Thirty-four!?

The same one I passed by nearly every day? Can't be.

And what the fuck was Vice?

Damian first. I tabled those questions, searching for a visual match. Another click brought me to his badge's page but no picture. The history of claims filed against him brought more curiosity than interest. "Badge number ten-eighty-eight," I mumbled. "Male, enviable salary, Apprenticeship in August of–What the fuck!?"

Six numbers, a 2-digit month, and a 4-digit year jostled me in my seat. I sat upright, locking my spine, and cupped my cheeks in what had to be a horrible impression of Edvard Munch's Scream painting. Strain burned the corners of my eyes, but I refused to blink. The same numbers compressed where I smashed my wrists together.

He started the month of my parents' accident.
He...Why can't I remember?

I certainly looked at the NYPD officer who informed and then comforted me. Younger guy, with acne, voice cracking with puberty, soaked in equal parts sweat and sympathy, but the lack of certain memorable details was maddening.

Guess my grief blurred out my memory. But I could look for him now. Starting with Sergeant Rivera.

Entranced, I scrolled through his complaint history of twenty-four allegations, none of which were substantiated, and eleven complaints. With no idea what those terms meant, I scrolled through an eight-year work history. Thirty-five entries flooded the page.

Abuse of Authority: Vehicle stop–unfounded
Abuse of Authority: Entry of Premises–unfounded
Abuse of Authority: Gun drawn–unfounded

The list continued, with the same result returned on all complaints. Guess he was clean? Another click on a 'More definitions' link showed that 'unfounded' meant 'Evidence suggested that the event or alleged conduct did not occur.' He got a lot of bogus complaints tossed at him. That sucked, and my prank callers from earlier today seemed pretty tame. 

Sympathy tugged in my heart at the idea people attempted to take advantage of someone for doing their job. The 34th Precinct's map included our building's street but stretched north to include the George Washington Bridge and Fort Tryon Park.

The bridge made me close my eyes. The date when this Damian Rivera started his career was too much of a coincidence. Had he seen the accident? Saw my parents? He wasn't present when Sergent Hernandez returned my parents' personal belongings. Six days prior, my parents were buried at Holy Name. Per their will, my aunt and uncle were now my legal guardians. I was moved to Clinton and enrolled in the local high school for my senior year. At the time, I didn't know, but Sergeant Hernandez drove more than an hour to give me that box.