Rhapsody

30: dirty little secret

Maverick spends most of the following nights tossing and turning. No matter how hard he tries, sleep never finds him. Not even the rhythmic whoosh of cars on the street below, the calming whir of his fan above, or the comforting purr of Pam curled up next to his side can rock him into some light semblance of rest. The feeling of the knife at his throat and the horrid images of his mother's death remain plastered across his memory, too vivid to ignore.

Together, Maverick and Emery had decided to shroud some details of their situation at the docks. Being taken hostage and Emery's encounter with the silver blade—that would warrant at least two weeks of medical leave off for each of them. They can't afford that right now. But they also can't slip up or betray what they know, Maverick tells himself. Jumping back into the job too soon could raise suspicion.

It's a delicate balance, one that Maverick has become very adept at striking with Captain Vaughn. He negotiated just a few days for the two of them to rest and recoup. And when his time is up, he does what he always does when the devils come snipping at his heels: he works.

The 11th precinct is quiet when he enters early Friday morning, but he's not surprised. The week after the full moon is always like this. He ducks his head past the young, freshly recruited officers of night shift, far too preoccupied with his thoughts to ever think about answering the ridiculous questions he just knows are boiling beneath the surface.

Detective Carson, is it true you're on a serial killer case?

Detective Carson, can you help me with this police report?

Detective Carson, do you think this random crime that happened in Midtown could be connected to your big case?

Detective Carson, what's it like working with a werewolf?

Detective Carson, is it true Detective Faustine is up for an award?

The last one isn't just a bitter figment of his imagination. Since Emery saved his life from Tobias a few weeks ago, conversation around staffing werewolves in the police force has shifted from apprehension to acceptance. And since Emery's second act of heroism at the docks, that acceptance has evolved into amazement—a sentiment that has also been permeating department leadership circles.

Maverick isn't sure how serious the rumors are. Granted, there is a fundraiser gala coming up at which the NYPD would usually announce such high-profile things as this. It would certainly be the most appropriate place. The reporters hanging off the red ropes outside would eat the news up like vultures, and their articles would shine beautifully on the 11th precinct's reputation—which has been rather questionable for years now.

But Maverick doesn't like to get caught up in all that. Much to the dismay of Lieutenant Darcy and Captain Vaughn, Maverick hasn't attended the gala in two years, ever since his promotion to detective was announced. But he'd go for Emery. Hell, he'd even be happy for the wolf. He'd much rather his partner get the recognition than some of these other shmucks that kiss ass to work their way up the force. He said it once and he'll say it again: Emery gleams with everything this god-forsaken organization loves. And the more attention on this rumored promotion, rather than this parasitic case, the better.

Maverick sneaks past the officers and heads down to the basement. Cardboard boxes fill rows upon rows of shelves, each lined up one after another like an endless library that stretches the entire length of the bullpen above it. Most of the newer officers likely don't even know this exists, but Maverick joined the force just before the tectonic shift to digital record-keeping. In his first few years with the NYPD, he spent more time down here than was likely appropriate, delving into his mother's files in search of her killer. It's been years since Maverick was last down in this wretched place, but that's not enough time to have forgotten where some of the cold cases had been stored.