13. Death by Kosher Dill

The partially clothed body of an older, Arab-American male was discovered in the alley behind Canter's Delicatessen with a half-corned beef on rye stuffed in his mouth and a kosher dill up his ass. If the good merchants of the Fairfax District were telling their new landlord they didn't like the fat bastard any more than Rita and I did, subtlety was definitely not their deal. The corpse lay in plain view for some time, according to the coroner's report -- with evidence suggesting that numerous passersby had kicked it en route to morning prayers. Finally, a possible homicide -- unofficially dubbed "death by kosher dill" here at Hollywood Division -- was phoned in by a Swedish folk duo named Jim and Sam, playing the Kibbitz Room into the wee hours. You've got to love the Swedes. So neutral. So musical.

Of course I didn't know any of this as I sat across the table from the captain in a police interrogation room of all places. While I assumed we'd be meeting in his office to chat about the "inappropriate attire" Georgia May was always busting my can about, this was pretty much the hottest thing that ever happened to me. Video recorders, two-way mirrors, fluorescent blue mood lighting. I pictured him putting me over his knee and spanking me with a night stick. Nothing painful -- just a few sweet smacks on the fanny to lay down the law.

"Since you don't provide a uniform, sir, you can't really complain about my appearance," I said in reference to the over-sized white polo shirt I wore positioned off my shoulder. So what if it did come off as a micro-mini after I belted it fashionably at the waist and skipped the suggested dark pants. "Is it my fault I have freakishly long legs?"

"Let's talk about your financial situation," he said, masking a little smile. He clipped my stack of unpaid parking citations to my employee file.

"Oh. Well, with all due respect, I don't think that's any of your business."

"This is off the record right now. Would you rather I initiate something more formal?"  Suddenly realizing what he was getting at, I folded like a cheap lawn chair. "Alright!" I blurted out. "I didn't give that reporter anything but the little movie star's birth name, and that's a matter of public record!" Though he seemed to find this mildly amusing, he obviously had no idea that I'd sold a tip to a freelance gossip columnist for the price of a Quiznos sandwich. "Sounds like a bit of a grey area," he advised. "You might want to avoid that kind of transaction in the future."

"Would it count as a free meal if I went home and puked it up?" He chuckled. I giggled. Neither of us seemed to know what to do with that easy rhythm of ours, some wordless alliance of reluctant smiles and accidental glances. "Look, Captain, I've had a pretty rough go of it lately. But everybody's got problems they'd rather keep to themselves. Even you, I'll bet."

Maybe yes, maybe no. Pushing forward, the man had infuriating focus. "How well do you know this girl?" he asked, sliding over a picture. It was Rita -- in a promotional photo of the luscious "Strawberry Margarita" borrowed from a dingy display case outside Starbutts. What I wanted to ask is how well he knew her, since Rita had told me all about the assortment of high ranking cops -- on and off duty -- partying it up in that down market, off-strip nudie bar. "I know her a little," I lied. "What'd she do?"

"Her boss reported her missing. I'm wondering why you didn't," he added, "being that the two of you share a last known address." Though the picture matching what was left of Rita's face was probably already pointing to her gruesome fate -- at least internally -- the captain declined to share any of that with me. I'd like to think he was trying to protect me, rather than doing some advance damage control to guage my reaction to the disturbing turn of events not yet made public. "We used to be tight, back in the day, but whatever that chick is up to now, I swear I got nothing to do with it," I said firmly. "Nothing."

As if to assure me he'd heard all he needed, he reached out and touched my shoulder -- more than enough physical contact to send a a jolt of electricity through both our bodies. "Wow," he said, finally acknowledging the obvious. "That's all you got?" I whispered, before pulling back myself. "Just like a cop."

"You learn fast."

"I should go clock in. Thanks for believing me."

Nodding, he balled up my parking tickets, making a hoop shot into the trash. "How many times do I have to tell you, you're either one of us or you're not?"

Early the next morning, after I heard a police tow-truck depositing my liberated Mustang in Rita's driveway, I tiptoed out to start the mysteriously repaired engine. Who could have guessed that whatever news the morning paper might bring -- even, say, some bizarre connection between a dead stripper I once knew well and a grabby landlord with a pickled rectum -- my loyalty was being bought.