I WAS both surprised and impressed by how much time the Company devoted to training us on how to handle hijackings, air rage, and other types of inflight passenger misconduct. The only downside was that it reminded me of Special Agent Donnelly. I think of law enforcement, I think of Donnelly.

My family has this weird relationship with the government. The government seems to think that, in our position as criminal defense attorneys, we are criminals ourselves. It's a horrible, foolish, and unlawful notion, but it doesn't stop them from badgering us incessantly. Special Agent Donnelly was my very own government badger. My very own rude, sexist, and obnoxious governmental badger.

At least, he was. Then he disappeared. For almost a year now, he'd check up on me at least once, if not twice a week. Now it had been over three weeks, and nary a word. Sad, really at how slack government types can be.

This meant I'd have to do the work for him. On my lunch hour I headed to the Federal Building.

Once I got there, I started thinking maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I mean, I have a natural aversion to law enforcement that's magnified by ten when it comes to Federal law enforcement. As I stared up at this fortress of government oppression, I realized how much I missed him. That Donnelly. He had gotten into my head, that's for sure.

I called him one more time; one more time I got the same response. No one by the name of Jason Donnelly worked here. Dammit. I stood outside the building for a few more minutes. Maybe Donnelly would show up.

He didn't. It wasn't right. You can't just go and create all this rapport, and then just walk off. It's not right, man. It's not right.

I probably would have stayed longer if it wasn't for the weather. Fall had sat its butt down on the city and squashed summer completely out; the weather was now consistently cold and the sky consistently gray. There was even snow in the forecast. I was cold and my nose was running. I sniffed and wiped in on the back of my glove. Should have brought tissues.

"This is stupid, Siobhan," I told myself. "He's a cop. Cops lie. He never felt that way about you. You know this. Go back."

I took a deep breath and marched inside. Straight ahead was plexiglass security; to the right was an information counter. I went up to the information counter.

A bored looking black woman looked up at me. "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Special Agent Jason Donnelly." I looked around at the people and the cameras and the people. No doubt they were looking at me as well.

She stared at the screen. "You said Jason Donnelly?"

"Yes m'am."

"What is your name?"

"Siobhan McIver."

"What is your business with this Special Agent?"

There were all sorts of things I could have said to that. What I did say was, "He said he'd take me out to dinner, but I haven't heard from him."

"Oh." The woman got a knowing look on her face. "Well, there's no one here named Jason Donnelly."

"He said he's from the Chicago field office," I added. "Would that make a difference?"

"No. Not if he's here in New York."

"Oh." I wanted to jump over the desk and pound her; I settled for tying my scarf. "Thank you for your help."

I must have looked despondent, because she stopped looking so bad ass and gave me this maternal look. "It's common for men to say they work for the Bureau when they don't. Be glad you found out now."

I blinked. "You mean it's a pick up line?"

She nodded. "Happens all the time. Would you like to sign up for a tour of the building? We have one starting in about fifteen minutes?"

I glanced at my phone. A tour would be cool, but I had to get back. I thanked her and left.

Outside, the wind was picking up, and the closer I got to the ocean the worse it got. Then the snow started. I dug my hands deeper into my pockets, lowered my head, and focused on walking. There was a Chipotle across from the training facility, and I had a hankering for tacos.

Once there, I forced Donnelly out of my mind, ordered tacos and chips, and took a seat away from the door so I could study for the next test. There were two enhanced medical kits on the Airbus 400; one in first class, one in coach. Enhanced medical kits were sealed with a green seal for used and a red seal for unused. Only doctors or D.O.s could use the medical kit...

"I don't get this place."

I glanced up. An older guy, well-dressed with salt and pepper hair, stared down at me.

"Huh," I grunted and resumed studying.

"It's loud, it's ugly, and the food's not really Mexican." He sat down next to me. "I don't get it at all."

I continued to study and waved my left hand at him. My engagement ring was obnoxiously large.

"I mean, look at those tacos. Those tacos are about as Mexican as you are."

Okay. Fine. "I'm married, scooter. Shoo. Go. Off with you."

"You're not married, at least you aren't yet, Siobhan McIver." He reached over me and stole a chip. "Don't remember me? Here I thought I made an impression."

That got my attention. I took a longer look at him as he stole another chip. "How you been? You look cold."

"Stop eating my food before I cut you."

"No, don't be all crabby." He reached into his jacket and flashed a badge.

Figures. I studied his badge and ID carefully. His name was Detective Stephen Reilly of the NYPD. "What do you want, copper? I'm not doing anything."

He untied his scarf and made himself comfortable. "Look at the size of these portions. Don't you think these portions are too big? And what's the deal with the whole rice inside the tortilla part?" He shook his head. "It's why Americans are fat, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you. Go away."

His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but fought through it. "You don't recognize me, do you? Think back, Red. Think to the time you assaulted an innocent ConEd truck sitting helplessly on the curb in your neighborhood."

The ConEd truck...oh, yeah. He was the Detective in the interrogation room with Donnelly and the woman. He nodded, grinned, and stole another chip. "Now you remember. How's the acclimating going?"

I sighed and resumed studying.

"I got a question." He reached over me and moved the salsa between the two of us. "What were you doing down at the Federal Building?" He dunked another chip in the salsa. "Eh. These chips are too salty."

I flipped the page.

"Alright. I'll tell you. You were asking for Special Agent Jason Donnelly."

He reached for another chip, but this time I slapped his hand. "Down boy. Down. Stop eating my food." I moved the bag out of reach.

"What'd you need to see Donnelly for?"

"There is no Agent Donnelly," I muttered. "Go away."

"Sure there is." He grabbed the bag of chips back and dumped them on a napkin between us. "He's been reassigned. Pass the guac." When I didn't, he reached over me and dunked a chip into it anyway. "There's too much oil in this guac. I don't know how you can eat it."

"You know I double dipped, right?" I replied. "And I'm prone to canker sores. Just an FYI."

"Eh. What are you going to do." He double dipped and ate the rest of the chip. I gave up and passed the guac over to him. "Thanks. So what did you want to talk to Donnelly about?"

"Nothing."

He side eyed me. "You got a crush, don't you?"

"Shut up."

"You do." He continued eating my chips. "It happens. Informants can often blur the line with Handlers." He ate a chip. "Did you do him?"

Now, normally, I'd be looking for a weapon, but since the man could lock me up for three days without charging me for a crime, I made myself as cool as the proverbial cucumber. He noticed my internal struggle and smiled.

"I heard you have a temper, Red." He reached over and took a drink of my soda, then grimaced. "Diet. Why bother with diet, when you're eating a 2,000 calorie meal? Go ahead and splurge on the regular coke."

I took the soda back from him, took off the lid, and drank from the cup. "You can buy yourself a soda here." I pointed towards the counter. "Right over there, in fact."

Again with the shadow smile. "Yours tastes better. So, anyhoo, I've got a new assignment. Want to take a guess what it is?"

"Docent at the new World Trade Center complex?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're a smart ass, aren't you?" He dipped a chip in my salsa. "There's too much sugar in this salsa." He pointed at me with the last of the chips. "How can you eat this crap? It's like McDonald's Mexican. You want Mexican, I know this place up around 125th street with real, authentic Mexican."

"Sounds good. You should go there."

"Maybe I'll take you there some time, in my capacity as your new handler."

What? No-oooooo! "I already have a handler," I sputtered. "His name is Special Agent Jason Donnelly. Now go away."

"Wrong," he stated. "I'm your handler." He gestured across me. "Pass me some napkins, will you?"

I ignored that. "Does it have to be you? Can't it be the girl? She was nice."

"Anna," he replied. "Her name is Anna, and she is an excellent field agent, but she's not right for you. You respond better to older, authoritative males." He eyed my tacos.

I moved the tacos out of reach. "I do? Who says?"

"Some profiler out of Quantico, but hell, a blind man can see you're definitely a daddy's girl." He reached over me and moved the basket back. I had underestimated the length of his arms. He took one of my tacos and looked at it. "Is this shredded beef?"

"It's barbacoa," I replied.

"What's barbacoa?"

"Tofu."

He did that lip twitch smile thing then took a bite. "Nah. It's beef." He took one of my napkins and wiped his mouth. "Not bad. But I'm telling you, that place on 125th street that puts this to shame."

"Why don't you go there?" I asked. "You should go there." He reached for my second taco, but this time I slapped his hand. "No, no, no!"

He ignored me and grabbed the taco anyway. "I'm helping you," he explained as he stuffed it in his mouth. "These things will make you fat."

"If I'm fat, will you go away?"

"Nah. I'll just make fun of you."

I envisioned taking my Chipotle plastic food basket and squishing it into his face. "Don't I have a say in this? If I can't have Donnelly, I want the girl. She wanted to help me."

"I wanna help you," he said, mouth full. "Look at it this way, Red. I'm a better fit for you. You'll see that as we get to know each other." He reached for my soda and took another long drink and sat the cup down.

I picked it up and looked inside; it was empty. The bastard had drained it.

"I don't think so. I don't think you're a better fit."

"Give it a chance." He grinned; he had barbacoa in his teeth. I nearly gagged. "So. A stewardess."

I grabbed the last taco and stuffed it in my face to prevent him from stealing it as well as to not talk to him.

"I've known some stewardesses in my time. Had a lot of fun with them, too."

I chewed carefully and swallowed. Lord, please don't let him get detailed about that.

"You know, when I heard that you were training to be a stewardess, I said to myself that I don't see her as a stewardess. "

I got up and refilled my soda cup. When I got back he was still there. I sat back down. "I want the girl. I could build rapport with the girl."

"Come on." He nudged me. "I'm chock full of rapport."

I glared at him. "Rapport must have a different meaning here in New York than in other places. Here it must mean cop who steals your lunch."

He got this look on his face, a certain kind of smile men get when they're teasing a woman and enjoying doing it. "I didn't steal your lunch. I ate lunch with you."

I didn't want to smile. As obnoxious as he was - and he was obnoxious - it was working. I smiled a little. I couldn't help it.

He waggled a finger at me. "See, I think you and I are going to get along just great. Anna's too much of a softie, and hell, the kid was half in love with you, but with me, you get a nice mix of work and life experience."

I perked up. "Donnelly was half in love with me?"

"Like you didn't know that." He took a drink of my soda. "You got diet again."

"I spit in it, too...what do you mean Donnelly was half in love with me?"

He didn't answer that. "What I want to know is this. What's up with the stewardess gig?"

I didn't answer him. I was too busy thinking about Donnelly and that he might actually feel the same way about me.

The Detective snapped at me. "Earth to Red. Stop daydreaming about your crush. I've got a theory on why you want to be a stewardess. You want to know what it is?"

"No."

"I think you want to be a stewardess because you don't want to get married. I think Cosetino's got something on you, and I think this is your one way to do one thing that is truly your own." He studied me. "How'm I doing so far?"

I didn't answer him, and I couldn't look at him. Instead, I watched it snow.

"It's grating on you, isn't it?" he continued. "What's it going to be like after you get married? You think it's going to get easier?" He patted the table. "I can tell you for a fact it's not."

I remained quiet.

"You want my opinion, I think it's bullshit. A girl like you needs intellectual stimulation and a partner who recognizes and respects that." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded over magazine. "As a sign of good will."

He sat it down in front of me. The cover said John Jay College of Criminal Justice Course Catalog and Description.

I blinked and looked at him. "There's a school dedicated to criminal justice?"

He nodded. "There is. I've even been known to adjunct there from time to time. I think you could do well there. Get your degree, figure out if you want to do the law thing or maybe you even might consider joining us in law enforcement."

I half-smiled. "You know I hate cops, right?"

A surprisingly compassionate expression crossed his face. "I know you've been taught to hate cops. But I think you're a smart girl. You might be able to see that things aren't always the way people say they are."

I didn't know what to say to that. Instead I picked up the course catalog and began to thumb through it.

"You got a brain in there, kid, but that's not unusual," he went on. "But you got grit, too. That's something you don't see a lot of these days." He stood up and retied his scarf. "Don't waste it, Red. Thanks for lunch."

I didn't acknowledge his leaving; I was too busy reading about the school. The John Jay School of Criminal Justice was started in the mid-1960s for the sole purpose of educating cops. Whoa. The cops have a college? I read further. Unofficially, it was known as NYPD - U. It was one of the 11 city colleges of New York. There were majors in criminal justice, criminal justice management, and criminology. Ooo, criminology. Now that's interesting.

Criminology was described as the study of crimes, crime victims, criminals, and the theories explaining deviant behavior. Required courses were victimology, penology, probation and parole, the sociology of violence...so it wasn't Notre Dame, but this was what I wanted to study.

I stared out the window. It was really starting to snow. It occurred to me that this Detective had really nailed me down. He caught my attention, kept it, then left me with something that I found genuinely interesting.

The man was absolutely terrifying.

_____ * _____ * _____ * _____ * _____

Now that sounds like a major Siobhan could really get into. Detective Reilly has her number. Either that, or he's trying to get her off the streets.

Thank you so much for taking time to read Siobhan's story! I look forward to your comments, and if you liked it, please remember to vote!

©Copyright Liz Charnes May 2018

This work is protected by copyright and cannot be copied or used in any way without my express consent. Please don't steal it. Thank you!