Hold Tight

Cope—that’s what everyone called Paul Copeland—was behind his desk and laughing hard at something Tremont had just whispered to him.

Muse felt her cheeks burn.

“Hey, Muse,” he called out.

“Cope,” she said, nodding toward the others.

“Come in and close the door.”

She entered. She stood there and felt all eyes turn toward her. More cheek burn. She felt set up and tried to glare at Cope. He was having none of it. Cope just smiled like the handsome dope he could be. She tried to signal with her eyes that she wanted to talk to him alone first—that this felt a bit like an ambush—but again he would have none of it.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

Loren Muse said, “Okay.”

“Wait, do you know everyone here?”

Cope had caused office ripples when he first took over as county prosecutor and stunned all by promoting Muse to be his county chief investigator. The job was usually given to a gruff old-timer, always male, who was supposed to show the political appointee through the system. Loren Muse was one of the youngest investigators in the department when he selected her. When asked by the media what criteria he had used to select a young female over more seasoned male veterans, he answered in one word: “Merit.”

Now here she was, in a room with four of those same passed-by old-timers.

“I don’t know this gentleman,” Muse said, nodding toward the man with the pad and pen.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Cope put out his hand like a game show host and slapped on the TV-ready smile. “This is Tom Gaughan, a reporter for The Star-Ledger.”

Muse said nothing. Tremont’s hack of a brother-in-law. This was getting better and better.

“Mind if we start now?” he asked her.

“Suit yourself, Cope.”

“Good. Now Frank here has a complaint. Frank, go ahead, the floor is yours.”

Paul Copeland was closing in on forty years old. His wife had died of cancer right after the birth of their now-seven-year-old daughter, Cara. He had raised her alone. Until now anyway. There were no longer any pictures of Cara on his desk. There used to be. Muse remembered that when he first started, Cope had kept one on the bookshelf right behind his chair. Then one day, after they’d grilled a child molester, Cope had taken it down. She never asked him about it, but she figured that there had been a connection.

There was no picture of his fiancée either, but on Cope’s coatrack, Muse could see a tuxedo wrapped in plastic. The wedding was next Saturday. Muse would be there. She was, in fact, one of the bridesmaids.

Cope sat behind his desk, giving Tremont the floor. There were no other chairs available, so Muse was left standing. She felt exposed and pissed off. A subordinate was about to start in on her—and Cope, her supposed champion, was going to let it happen. She tried hard not to shout sexism at every turn, but if she’d been male, there would have been no way she’d have to take Tremont’s nonsense. She’d have the power to fire his ass, political and media repercussions notwithstanding.

She stood and seethed.

Frank Tremont hitched up his belt, even though he remained seated. “Look, no disrespect to Ms. Muse here—”

“Chief Investigator Muse,” Loren said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not Ms. Muse. I have a title. I’m chief investigator. Your boss.”

Tremont smiled. He slowly turned toward his fellow investigators and then toward his brother-in-law. His amused expression seemed to say, See what I mean?

“Kinda sensitive, aren’t you”—then switching into full-tilt sar- casm—“Chief Investigator Muse?”

Muse glanced at Cope. Cope stayed still. His face offered no solace. He simply said, “Sorry about the interruption, Frank, go on.”

Muse felt her hands tighten into fists.

“Right, anyway, I have twenty-eight years of law enforcement experience. I caught this hooker case down in the Fifth Ward. Now it’s one thing for her to show up uninvited. I don’t like it. It isn’t protocol. But okay, if Muse here wants to pretend she can be helpful, fine. But she starts giving orders. Starts taking over, undermining my authority in front of the uniforms.”

He spread his arms. “That ain’t right.”

Cope nodded. “You did indeed catch this case.”

“Right.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Huh?”

“Tell me about the case.”

“We don’t know much yet. Hooker found dead. Someone bashed in her face good. ME thinks she was beaten to death. No ID yet. We asked some of the other hookers, but no one knows who she is.”

“Do the other hookers not know her name,” Cope asked, “or they don’t know her at all?”

“They ain’t talking much, but you know how it is. No one sees nothing. We’ll work them.”

“Anything else?”

“We found a green bandana. It ain’t an exact match but it’s the colors of a new gang. I’m having some of the known members picked up. We’ll grill them, see if we can get one to give up the mutt. We’re also working the computers, see if we can get someone with a similar MO working prostitutes in the area.”

“And?”

“And so far, nothing. I mean, we got plenty of dead hookers. I don’t have to tell you that, boss. This is the seventh this year.”

“Fingerprints?”

“We ran them through local. No hits. We’ll go NCIC, but that’ll take some time.”

Cope nodded. “Okay, so your complaint about Muse is . . . ?” “Look, I don’t want to step on any toes, but let’s face it: She shouldn’t have this job anyway. You picked her because she’s a woman. I get that. That’s the reality today. A guy puts in his years, works hard, it don’t mean nothing if someone has black skin or no dick. I get that. But this is discrimination too. I mean, just because I’m a guy and she’s a gal doesn’t mean it should fly, right? If I was her boss and I questioned everything she did, well, she’d probably scream rape or harassment or something and I’d get my ass sued off.”

Cope nodded again. “That makes sense.” He turned toward Loren. “Muse?”

“What?”

“Any comment?”

“For one, I’m not sure I’m the only one in the room with no dick.” She looked at Tremont.

Cope said, “Anything else?”