The Bitter Season (Kovac and Liska, #5)(51)
She thought of the perfect day they’d had, and remembered those feelings of warmth and love with her family. She imagined Eric’s arms around her as they lay in this bed, skin touching skin, hearts pressed together.
But instead of drifting off to sleep to dream of how she was loved, she began to cry. She pressed her face into her husband’s pillow and sobbed, shaking with the fear that some nameless, faceless thing was about to end her dream come true.
16
Cheap Charlie’s was as much an institution for Minneapolis cops as Patrick’s bar. They had been going to the diner for breakfast for half a century. It was a mean and nasty place in an ugly brick bulldog of a building that squatted at the edge of the vast cracked blacktop wasteland known as Downtown East. For many years the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome had been the centerpiece of the area, a sports stadium that rose up from the desolate fields of parking lots like a giant, ugly concrete ottoman. For years the neighborhood had all the charm of a postapocalyptic war zone. Cheap Charlie’s had flourished.
The current fear was that while the diner had thrived in a climate of adversity, it might not survive the new wave of gentrification that the extravagant new Vikings stadium was bringing with it. Pricey lofts and green spaces, juice bars and trendy bistros—all had a way of crowding out blue-collar hole-in-the-wall traditions, starving out places like this one with boutique rental rates.
For now the place remained, defiant, too mean to die. Everything about it was original, including the grease on the ceiling. The décor harkened back to the 1950s: chrome and red vinyl, black and dingy white checkerboard linoleum. The waitresses still wore uniforms and took orders on a green pad, writing with the nub of a pencil.
The front window was fogged with the breaths of a full house. Nikki parked across the street and hustled through a nasty drizzle, her shoulders scrunched up to her earlobes against the chill. As she walked in, she was assaulted by the smell of bacon and strong coffee, and a wall of noise composed by two dozen conversations—one of those being led by Gene Grider, on the far side of the room. She stood where she was, staring at him until he noticed her. She made a sour face and walked away.
Kovac sat next to Elwood in a booth, hunched over his eggs like he thought someone might try to steal his plate away. The new guy sat across from him, a big, strapping hunk with shoulders that strained the bounds of his suit jacket.
“Holy f*cking shit!” Nikki said, arriving at the end of the booth, laughing as she took a good long look.
Kovac barely glanced up. “Tinks, meet Michael Taylor. I’m calling him Stench.”
“That’s a terrible nickname.”
“Thank you. I agree,” Taylor said, lifting his coffee cup in a toast. He had narrow green eyes under a straight brow line, a jaw cut from granite, and a mouth made for sex fantasies.
“What would you call him?” Kovac asked.
“I like Hottie McHotterson,” Nikki said without hesitation.
“That’s sexual harassment,” Taylor pointed out.
Nikki rolled her eyes. “Call a cop, Sweet Cheeks.”
“I expected more sympathy from a woman,” Taylor remarked, sliding over to make room for her in the booth.
“That’s sexist, too,” she said, sliding in beside him, careful to keep her wet coat between them. He was easily the best-looking man she had ever seen walking around loose in the real world—and probably ten years younger than she. “I have just as much right to be an insensitive jerk as anyone with a penis.”
“Taylor,” Kovac said, completing the introduction, “Nikki Liska.”
“What did people call you when you came on the job?” Taylor asked her.
“Pissy Little Bitch, Mouthy Cunt, Bull Dyke—which I’m not, just to be perfectly clear,” she said, motioning a waitress over. “We’re not exactly working with poet laureates here—present company excluded, Elwood.”
“Thank you, Tinks,” Elwood said, striking a noble pose. Their gentle giant with the soul of an artist. Nikki missed his insightful observations and his goofy porkpie hats. The hat du jour was made of black oilcloth, to withstand the filthy weather.
“And all these enlightened years later, I still get called all those things and worse,” she said. “Gene Grider is probably sitting over there wracking his tiny little atrophied brain right now coming up with something dirty and degrading to call me. Last night he suggested that the lieutenant and I roll our own tampons.”
Taylor scowled in disapproval.
Nikki shrugged, trying not to stare at his mouth. “That’s Grider. Class out the ass, that guy.”
“Fuck him,” Kovac growled. “My money’s on you in that fight.”
“It had better be. Hey, did you just insult me?”
“Not intentionally.”
She ordered a coffee and a Spanish omelet. “I heard you caught the big double homicide. Have you gotten any sleep?”
Kovac looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, though he had shaved and put on one of the fresh shirts he kept in a desk drawer at the office. She resisted the urge to reach across the table and fix the crooked knot in his tie.
“Sleep?” he said, like it was something for pussies. “Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. This one is extra special, you know,” he said sarcastically. “Seeing how the vics are rich, white, and connected to the U.”