Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(72)
Although the irony was, refusing all advances, refusing even to flirt, caused trouble anyway. The cops who came on to her and got shot down told their buddies she was probably a dyke. Because of course, a woman who didn’t share a man’s inflated opinion of himself could only be a lesbian. Meanwhile, there really were lesbians on the force, but she kept them at arm’s length, too. Her sexuality, like her life, was a mystery, which of course only made the topic more alluring. In retrospect, she wondered if she would have been better off putting on a ring and pretending she had a husband before entering the academy. But the idea came to her too late to matter.
Her self-defense skills were another source of attention. There wasn’t an instructor at the academy she couldn’t crush on the mat. Everyone knew about the judo, of course, and reactions varied. Some of the guys had to test themselves against her, and were embarrassed by the results. Some were intimidated. A few, though, were respectful and appreciative, and had no problem asking her to share her knowledge. And a few of the women, too, rather than being jealous and treating her like a freak, asked if she would teach them. She was happy to, and made her first friends in the process.
A year after arriving in Seattle, she was a full-fledged patrol cop. Rick came to her graduation ceremony. Gavin couldn’t make it, but Rick brought a gift from both of them: a SIG Sauer P238 subcompact with black pearl grips—“petite, beautiful, and not to be f*cked with, just like you,” Rick said. She was so overwhelmed at finally being a cop, and by the perfect gift, that she hugged him, and was surprised when she let him go to see he had teared up a little. He gave an embarrassed laugh and said, “You’ve just never been much of a hugger. But that was nice. Really nice. I’d even take another, if you don’t mind.”
She didn’t mind. She was never going to be as physically affectionate as most people, and she didn’t want to be. But she’d gotten used to off-the-mat contact. With someone like Rick, it didn’t cause the kinds of associations it once did. She was proud of that.
They went out for dinner to celebrate, but first, Livia had to make a phone call. She hadn’t forgotten Rick’s story about the little girl Lucy, and she wanted to make a call like that to Tanya, the cop who had been so kind to her when she had been rescued in Llewellyn.
“You probably don’t remember me,” Livia said. “I’m called Livia now, but when you met me, my name was Labee. I’m the girl who got trafficked to Llewellyn. I was so scared and alone, and you were so nice to me. And I wanted to let you know”—she felt the tears coming, and paused for a moment while she willed them back—“I just graduated. Seattle PD. I’m a cop now, like you. I’m going to help people, like you helped me. And I should have called you sooner, but I . . . I think I just wasn’t ready. And I’m sorry for that. And thank you.”
There was a long pause, and then a familiar voice: “Livia. You think I wouldn’t remember you? Even if I hadn’t heard about all your wrestling exploits over the years. You were the skinniest, scaredest-looking thing I’d ever seen. But you know what? I could tell how brave you were, too. And look at you now. I hope this won’t sound condescending, honey, because I didn’t have anything to do with it, but I am so proud of you.”
Livia tried again to will the tears back, but this time couldn’t. “Thanks, Tanya.”
“Thank you, Livia. You just made my day. More than my day, really. If you’re ever in Llewellyn or I’m ever in Seattle, we’ll get a drink, okay? We sister cops have to stick together.”
Livia told Tanya she definitely would, and they exchanged cell phone numbers. She didn’t add that it would have to be in Seattle. She was never going to set foot in Llewellyn again.
Following the academy, there was an eight-month probationary period—half student, half cop. Her evaluations continued to be outstanding. On free weekends, she would head out of town—Olympia, Vancouver, Port Angeles—and look for the kind of sex she liked, where the man got aggressive and she wound up in control. A few times, she found it. And once, in Pullman, she wound up with a genuine freak, like Crader in San Jose. She put him to sleep with hadaka jime—“naked choke”—which didn’t leave marks the way the cloth strangles did, and then smashed an ashtray into the back of his head to give the coroner a cause of death that didn’t look like something done by a martial arts expert.
Of course she was more careful now than she had been in San Jose. She’d assembled a backup bike from salvaged parts, for one thing, something totally untraceable. And she exploited her ever-deepening knowledge of forensics and crime scene investigations. She prepared much more methodically, too. Still, it was bad enough that SPD knew about the judo. If word got around about the kind of sex she liked, people could easily start asking questions. So she kept turning down all the cops who asked her out.
Twice a week, she taught a women’s self-defense class at a Seattle Krav Maga school, using the same approach she had at Kawamoto-sensei’s dojo in Portland. And, just as had been the case in Portland, word got around, and her classes grew.
Sometimes after a workout, she found herself thinking of Sean. She wondered what he might be doing. She could have found out—you didn’t need to be a cop to use Facebook or the like—but she never did. Her memories of him, and of Malcolm, were too tied up with Llewellyn. With Mr. Lone. With all that. But at the same time . . . it would have been good to see him.