Judging Time Read Free

good-looking man with a carefully clipped mustache that was much shorter and thinner than that of her would-be lover, Detective Sergeant Mike Sanchez, whom she hadn't seen in almost two weeks because of their ill-timed days off. Iriarte also had a more serious short haircut than Mike's and very classy clothes, like those of a businessman who considered himself a success. A pair of half glasses were tucked in his jacket breast pocket, along with a snowy handkerchief. The lieutenant took the glasses out, hung them low on his nose, and peered at April over them as if he were going to interview her about her qualifications.
    She waited, eyes slightly lowered in the Chinese pose of modesty and self-denial that she had learned at birth and had to unlearn over and over to be a good cop.
    Iriarte finished looking her over. "I won't say women can't be good cops," he said at last. "We happen to have a woman commander in this house. You might take your cues from her."
    "Sir?" April hadn't met the commander and was unsure what this meant.
    "It is not difficult to ascertain that men and women are not the same," Iriarte said. "They are very different . . . in fact."
    "Yes, sir."
    "I want those differences clearly defined."
    "Yes, sir," April repeated, still uncertain where he was going with this.
    "I don't like women who act like men, talk dirty, and sleep in the men's dorms. We had one like that, claimed she was a professional and had a right to stay in the dorm. We got rid of her."
    April nodded. Uh-huh.
    "You can sleep in the women's dorm," he added.
    "I go home on my turnarounds," April told him.
    "Good. Keep to yourself and keep your femininity." The lieutenant folded his glasses and tucked them back in his pocket. He pointed at an empty office catty-comer to his. "There's your office, then. I run a tight ship."
    "Yes, sir. That's what I've heard."
    "I have a good feeling about this." He showed her the back of his hand in dismissal. That was six weeks ago. Since then she'd covered a couple dozen burglaries, couple of rapes, two homeless deaths from exposure. A "justifiable" homicide involving a cop apparently threatened by a suspect flashing a "knife" (shiny object). But who knew. She did the best she could. She was the one who had to explain the situation to the seven members of the dead man's family who came to the precinct to find out what had happened to him. They had arrived without knowing he was dead.
    In six weeks not a lot had changed. At 12:45 A.M. on the Monday that began the first full week of the new year, April caught sight of her new boss Lieutenant Iriarte through the window in the closed door of her first office. Lieutenant Iriarte exited his own exceptionally clean and tidy office wearing his dove gray (probably cashmere blend) overcoat. The commanding officer of the detective squad plopped his dark gray fedora on his head, tilted it rakishly, then crossed the squad room to the locker room where all the detectives except for April ate their meals. Lieutenant Iri-arte passed from April's view. A few seconds later he passed her door again, showed her the back of his hand without looking at her, and left the precinct house for the night. For the next fifteen minutes until 1 A.M. when she could go home, April was in sole charge of the detective squad. All was quiet. She sighed and started cleaning up her desk.
    At 1 A.M. she glanced at her watch. "Time to go," she murmured. No one to talk to so now she was talking to herself. She pulled on her coat, grabbed her shoulder bag, and left the squad room.
    She took the stairs to the main floor, where a uniform getting ready to go off duty was busily mopping into a single grimy film all the dirty puddles of melted snow and ice that had pooled in worn spots on the green linoleum floor. At the forbidding front desk the desk crew (not the most cheerful she'd known) worked the phones and signed in everyone who entered the building.
    Over the desk a sign, hand-lettered with red