Caught Looking
"Okay, pick him out of the lineup."
Not wanting to catch hell from the captain, the detective fumbles with the wrapper of a Mounds candy bar instead of the pack of Lucky Strikes in his chest pocket. Lately, the brass has been busting balls around the precinct about a no-tobacco-use contest, and each division has been keeping score on who pledges to quit. He'll never stop smoking, but he’s willing to pitch in with the team, even if it means little white lies while in the office.
She slumps her shoulders. The detective knows the signs; if he isn't careful, she'll wind up paralyzed by the idea that calling the cops was a huge error. He watches her body language; she stiffens when he tells suspect one to turn around slowly.
Each man on the other side of one way glass steps forward and spins on command, but number three tries to balk and whine about how they have the wrong guy.
There's a tear slowly rolling down her cheek, and the detective hands her a clean napkin dug out from his pocket.
He leans over, gently places a hand on her shoulder, and speaks reassuringly, almost like he's trying to calm a frenzied doe. "I know you have a lot on your plate. One of these dickheads did more than batter you. He took something from you. Don't be afraid to take something back for yourself."
She smiles, nods, and draws a shaky breath.
"It's number one."
He looks through the glass, nostrils flaring. Christ, he wants a cigarette.
"So do you want him arrested, or do you want him to never hurt you again?"
She grins with something that almost shines like joy, but her doe eyes become more like the cruel black diamonds of a hungry viper.