On the outside…well, she had no idea how to be a girl. She was neither fish nor fowl, woman nor man. Her entire social life revolved around other cops, and it was limited. She had drinks with fellow officers on occasion, but there was always a barrier separating her from the men, and an even bigger one yawning between her and their wives and daughters and even the few other women cops she knew. They might wear a uniform and pack a gun during the day, but they also liked to shop and get makeovers and go dancing and crochet or quilt or “do” memory books. She would stand there with a smile frozen on her face and have no idea what they were talking about. She liked jewelry, but when would she wear it? She couldn’t imagine decorating the pages of a photo album filled with images of her father with metallic gel pens and cute stickers. She didn’t want mud all over her face or cucumbers slapped on her eyeballs. The reason women seemed to enjoy wandering the mall even when they didn’t need anything was as foreign, even unknowable, to her as the age-old hatreds in countries like Israel and Ireland. Her few friends were misfits in their own ways as much as she was, and therefore incapable of guiding her.
Depressed, she murmured, “Amen,” with the rest of the mourners, watched as the casket was lowered into the ground and the symbolic clod of earth thrown atop it. The widow let out a piercing cry that made Ann shudder and remember not just personal grief but also that morning’s visit to the biker’s girlfriend, who had dissolved right in front of them, her cry gurgling in her throat.
The crowd broke into small clumps of people who spoke in murmurs. Ann started toward the parking lot. Ahead of her Diaz walked beside the daughter, while their captain supported the sobbing widow.
Lucky she’d brought her own car, Ann thought. Separating her partner from the beautiful blonde would be a trick.
As if he knew she was thinking about him, he looked over his shoulder just then, scanning the crowd until his eyes met hers. For an instant she thought his expression was beseeching. She dismissed the idea immediately; Juan Diaz was plenty able to handle any woman. Still, she hesitated, then grudgingly started toward him. She ought to offer some condolences to Leroy Pearce’s widow and only daughter, she supposed. Their fathers had been friends.
Although he hadn’t looked back again, Diaz must have felt her approach, because he turned when she was only a few feet away.
“Ann. Do you know Eva Pearce?”
So she’d gone back to her maiden name after the divorce.
“Yes, since we were children.” Ann hesitated, trying to decide whether she should offer a hand or a hug or some other form of physical expression of sympathy, none of which came comfortably to her. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Eva’s blue eyes filled with tears again. “Damn it, I can’t quit crying, and Daddy was such a…” She wiped her cheeks. “Forget I said that.”
Huh? What had she missed? “Forget you said what?”
Eva gave a choked laugh. “Bastard. He was such a bastard. He might have been my father, but I hated him half the time. That’s what you never heard me say.”
Ann shocked herself by admitting, “I felt the same about my father. You knew him. He was a bastard, too.”
Diaz had been gaping at the beautiful blonde. Now he gaped at Ann.
“There was a reason they were best friends.” Eva sniffed. “We played together when we were little. Do you remember?”
“You wanted to play Barbies, and I thought anything but Cops and Robbers was dumb.”
The blonde looked down at herself in her high-heeled pumps and chic black suit, then at Ann in her blue uniform and sturdy, brilliantly polished dress shoes, and laughed. “Neither of us has changed a bit.”
Ann grinned back. “Apparently not.”
“Can we get together and have coffee?” Eva asked. “We can bitch about our fathers and cry a little.”
“Yeah. I’d like that.” Somewhat to her surprise, Ann realized she would. She and this very feminine divorcée might not have much in common, but their fathers were a link.
“I’ll call you.” Eva gave her a watery smile, then offered Diaz a more charming one. “Thank you for your shoulder, Officer.”
“You’re more than welcome.” His voice was deep velvet.
“I suspect you were assigned the job of tending me, but I appreciate it anyway.” She sighed. “Speaking of tending, I’d better join my mother.”
Ann and her partner murmured appropriate things and watched her walk away, heels sinking into the grass so that her stride had more lurch than sway.
“Were you assigned the job?” Ann asked.
“I’ve had worse ones.”
“What?” She turned her head sharply. “You really were ordered to hover over her?”
“Yeah.” His mouth tilted. “‘Hovered’ wasn’t the word the captain used. ‘Make sure she’s all right’ is closer to what I recall him saying.”
They started walking.
“Nobody hovered over me when Dad died.” She hoped she didn’t sound petulant. “Did somebody fall down on the job?”
Amusement crinkled the skin at the corners of his dark eyes. “I wouldn’t know. I doubt anyone was ordered to lend his shoulder to you. You’re a cop.”
And therefore too tough to cry, at least in public. Her father had been born to be a cop. Ann wished she had been, that she didn’t have to pretend her nonchalance when she shrugged.
“Wouldn’t have known what to do with a shoulder if one had been offered.”
His smile vanished, and he studied her face for a long, uncomfortable moment. “That’s a shame,” he said at last. “Nobody would have thought less of you if you’d cried.”
“I’m a woman, or haven’t you noticed? A burly male cop makes the front of Time magazine when he cries over a wounded child. The public is moved by his tenderness. When a woman cop cries, everyone says, ‘See? She’s too softhearted. Should have been a teacher.’”
He shook his head. “The times, they are a’changing.”
Ann said something succinct and heartfelt.
Diaz laughed again. “You’re wrong. Most people accept women in damn near any profession. They don’t have to be manly to do the same job.”
“Damn straight they don’t!”
“Then why do you try…” He swallowed the rest of that sentence when he saw the storm clouds building on her face.
Rage had her hands shaking. Shame made her go for flippancy. “To hide my raving beauty? Gosh, I’m just inclined to think lashes weighted down with mascara—” she batted her eyes “—might blur my vision at a crucial moment. And lipstick…” She pursed her lips. “Well, bloodred isn’t my favorite color at the moment.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” she snapped, flippancy gone. “I’m just not girlie, okay?” Or beautiful, and no amount of mascara or lipstick would change that.
“Damn it, Caldwell, don’t put words in my mouth and thoughts in my head!” He stopped at his car and glowered at her. “You’re a good cop, and you’re a woman. So what?”
“So what” was about all she’d ever gotten in the way of sexual or romantic interest. Hearing the words said aloud stung, even if that wasn’t what he’d meant.
In a hard tone, she said, “You want to know why I try to look like a man, and act like one? Well, I’ll tell you. A woman has to be tough to be a cop. It’s a fact. Any