Hello friends, sorry for the long wait, but I've been trying my hand at novel writing and it is not easy at all. That and my 86 year old mother broker her femur in November and that has taken up a lot of my energy and raised the stress level here.
This time I waited until the entire story was finished (it is a short one) and my beta reader was satisfied. Thank you, Alice. This is also my idea of a continuation of the Blind Justice universe. The show only had 13 episodes and there was such wasted potential for growth there... so I "growed it" my own way. Sorry Mr. Bochco but this is all for fun and not profit.
He ran into the editorial office, the banging of his portfolio against his leg matching the staccato beat of his cowboy boots.
"Ms. Sullivan, why have you rejected every one of my photographs?" Joffre DesLaurier whined at the new editor, Christine Sullivan.
"I have rejected those photographs because all of those male models looked like they were competing to see who had the most needle tracks on their arms." Christie said without even lifting her head from the light table. "These shots are supposed to show power brokers and you bring me shots of the same anorexic, drug addicted teenagers you always use."
"I have preferred models," Joffre said as he pulled himself to his full six foot five inches of height.
Christie finally looked up. "Joe, stop playing the game. You're good enough you don't have to be anything but Joe Lawrence… Joffre DesLaurier… where did you get that name, a cemetery? I found you when you were taking couples shots in restaurants. Those were good, but these are tired and stale."
The man flopped down, tired and exasperated, "This is the game, Christie. You taught me how to play the game and now you want to change the rules. What happened?"
Christie leaned back into her chair and smiled. "Life; funny how it changes things. Right now I'm thinking we need to start something new and that means we need new faces. I've been asked to get this mature men project off to a good start, make the baby boomers feel sexy even if every picture has to be tinted Viagra blue. That's why I want the old Joe Lawrence. You used to be able to find a face perfect for any shot without even trying. Well, you have to try now and you've got one week to get new faces."
"And where do I find new-old faces." The photographer sighed and shook his head.
"I bet you can find one before you leave the building."
"It's Saturday, nobody is even here"
"One week, that's all I can give you. Bye Joe."
There were no new-old faces between 'Sullivitch's' office, but faster than he could say Google Joe went on line and pulled Ms. Smart Ass Editor's vital stats up.
Oh, daddy is a doctor. You never had to scratch for a living, did you Sullivan. Hunter and Bryn Mawr and Columbia, daddy is a rich doctor to send his baby girl to those schools. Who is that good looking man beside you…? Detective Sergeant James Dunbar and he's your husband. My my my, he's pretty enough to be a model and who knows about power like a police detective, maybe I should Google him too. No, I have friends who will tell me where to find the dear boy. I think I'll take some candid pictures of him and maybe I can get Ms. Fancy Dancy Sullivan off my back.
"Don't feed Hank donuts, Marty." Jim Dunbar could feel his guide dog quivering as Russo teased him. "He gets a special diet and donuts are not on it."
"Ah, come on Dunbar; let the poor pooch live a little. Besides, he's a cop, he's gotta love donuts."
"Russo, my dog ralphs on the squad room floor, you're cleaning it up."
"I'd pay to see that." Tom Selway smirked as he watched his team mates bicker. It was like watching an old married couple and it was a heck of a lot more entertaining than watching the crime scene techs check the abandoned car before the trunk was cracked. "Jim, when is Karen getting back from maternity leave?"
"Not soon enough, I'm getting tired of playing fifth wheel on this little red wagon. Probably another month, she's using accumulated vacation time to extend her time off."
"Heads up," Marty cut in, "I see a photographer at twelve o'clock. God, he's a big one."
Joffre snapped some pictures of the dirty, dented Nissan and the white suited men swarming around it. Then he snapped pictures of the three men standing off to the side. What a perfect set up; a blond, a brunette and a black man, it was as if someone ordered a diversity set to be photographed. When he finished Joe pulled a notebook from his camera bag and approached the men and played reporter.
"Guys, what have we got here?"
"No comment," Russo sneered.
"Come on, I need a story, I'm just a stringer." Joffre toned down his posh affectations and let his mid west drawl slip through. "If I can get a good story I get a good paycheck."
"This ain't no serial killer or espionage case… we don't know what's in the trunk." Marty snapped his gum and then a laconic grin spread across his face. "You know, on second thought maybe you should be the first one to see what's in the car."
"Marty," groaned Tom, "have a heart."
"Nyah, let's see what the next Geraldo Rivera does with the crime scene."
With that the three detectives stood back as the crime scene techs finished. Joffre got into the groove as he got shots both informative and artistic. As the tech pressed down on the pry bar Joffre crouched down to get a good shot of the contents of the trunk. He got the shot before the smell hit him. Joffre managed to hold his camera as he fell back and vomited down his front.
"Well, at least it's not Hank."
"Marty, you are a pain in the ass." Jim smirked and shook his head, "how many bodies in there?"
"Three," Tom Selway's voice dropped. "Three girls and it looks like three different states of decomp. Maybe we've got ourselves a serial killer."
Jim shook his head, "maybe we should take care of our Geraldo before we kick him to the curb."