Interlude:
"Is that prostitute still living with you?"
Zolotow glared at the police psychologist. She was too pretty to be in this line of work. The department should fire her and hire a wizened old priest. A priest would nod his balding head knowingly while hearing their confessions, recognizing temptation and sin even as he advised against them, his lips set in a unwavering, judgmental line--instead of softly smiling in Dr. Mary Ellis' condescending way. Her smile said she understood their temptations, maybe even desired them. It was a vicarious, voyeuristic smile. She wanted nothing more than to hear the absolute worst that they'd done. Maybe she was just writing a book in her spare time, but Zolotow suspected she got off on the stories her clients brought her each week. A priest would occasionally react with shock, reprehension--maybe even fear. Ellis would lean forward, the pink tip of her tongue gripped in her teeth, her long legs crossed as tight as mating snakes.
"Well?" Go ahead, her eyes said, feed me every titillating detail.
"Who I'm living with is hardly the department's concern."
"It is when it affects your job performance."
"There haven't been any complaints about my job performance."
"And I'm here to see that there aren't any. I'm also here to watch over the psychological well-being of the officers in this department, to watch for indicators that might foretell the emergence of a mental health problem. Preventive medicine, if you will."
And so they went, verbally fencing back and forth, getting nowhere. Zolotow watched the clock on the wall, hanging there next to her UCLA diploma. He was required to sit through one hour of this each week. As the minute hand slipped past its lower apex and started the long, slow climb back toward the hour, he tried to convince himself he could continue to put up with it. Putting himself in their shoes, he admitted that he'd given them more than enough reasons to require these sessions. Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't looney.
"In the last three years, you've lived with eight different women, Detective Zolotow."
Eight that you know of, he thought, but did not say. He stared at her legs and wondered what she was doing for dinner. Would a relationship with her help or hinder the psychological healing the department obviously thought he required?
"Six of those women were prostitutes."
"Ex-prostitutes," he said.
She referenced a folder from the stack on her desk. 'two of these women have subsequently been arrested for soliciting."
He shrugged. 'two out of six isn't bad, though. Even you'd have to admit that, Dr. Ellis. How many prostitutes hit the streets again after we arrest them? I'm guessing it's a lot higher percentage than two out of six. I'd say my reform program is significantly more effective than the State's."
"So you think you're running a community service? A prostitute reform program?"
"I said nothing of the sort," he answered carefully, precisely, aware that there was probably a tape recorder somewhere in her office. "In my years on the force, I've merely encountered a lot of people--some of them women--who needed a hand. Occasionally, I've been in a position to offer one."
She frowned at him. Tried to stare him down. How do you argue altruism? How do you tell a man he was wrong to help people when he could? Finally, she went back to her notes. 'this woman living with you now? Lizelle Blue." The way she said the name indicated she did not believe it could be found on any birth certificate. "It says here that she has AIDS."
Zolotow nodded. 'that's correct."
Dr. Ellis closed the folder with a crisp slap. "Well, then, don't you think that presents a potential health hazard to yourself and to other members of this department?"
"No, I don't."
"How can you say that?" she asked incredulously. 'surely you see you're in danger of contracting the virus from this woman, Detective Zolotow! Even if you don't pass it on, there's always the risk that you could."
"You're assuming, Dr. Ellis, that I'm having sex with Lizelle." He looked her directly in the eyes. "I'm not."
Before she could control it, her eyes showed her shock. And something else: she looked disappointed, disappointed that the story wasn't as juicy as she'd hoped. And maybe one other thing: she looked intrigued. Interested. She'd suddenly discovered Martin Zolotow was a lot more complex than she'd first thought. Zolotow decided then and there that a relationship with her would do his career serious damage. Not that that would stop him if he was interested in her. He'd suddenly realized he wasn't interested in her at all.
"Then?" She hesitated, looking for the proper question. When she couldn't find it, she simply asked, "Why?"
"Because she needed my help, Dr. Ellis. Is that so hard to understand?"
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