Archive of Our Own

You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
— Mary Oliver

"I was thinking I might invite Jude for dinner next week," Jean says over breakfast. "Her and her family. They were super good to me when, you know… They, uh, fed me, and — stuff. It would be nice to return the favor."

It’s their joint morning off. The apartment block is alive with the din of communal habitation: beds creaking, pots clanging, children playing outside. Through the slats in the blinds, the sun stripes Jean’s kitchen golden. It's going to be a glorious summer day.

"Uh-huh," Kim says as he tries to decide whether 13-across: LUM model (6) refers to URRACO or ISLERO. Might be best to leave it blank for now.

"I was thinking you could, uh. Also be there. At the dinner."

Kim puts the pen down and looks up from the crossword. "The dinner with Judit?"

"No, the dinner with the ghost of Filippe The Third," Jean mutters, avoiding Kim’s gaze. "Yes, the dinner with Jude, obviously."

The words are out before Kim can think them through. "I don’t think this is a good idea."

Jean nods: once, twice, three times. "Right. Uh, I forgot about your whole — the whole kids thing. They don’t need — they don’t need to be there. It can just be Jude and Anton."

BEHAVIORISM: To make it look even more like a double date.

"I thought you hated Anton," Kim says for lack of a better-formed objection.

"I don’t hate Anton. Like, he’s an annoying fuck, but who isn’t? He’s a good guy."

"You said he was a mooch taking advantage of Judit’s generous heart."

"Okay, well, so maybe he’s not that good." Jean punctuates the comment with an eyeroll. "But he’s fun. You two could talk about history or some shit."

"Or some shit. I don’t know that Judit wants to see me outside of work. She’s your friend, not mine."

"Yeah," Jean says. "Exactly. She’s my friend, and I think…" He trails off. A muscle works in his jaw. "I want to tell her about — about this."

"About…this." In Kim’s stomach, guilt and dread mix up into an unpleasant cocktail.

HALF LIGHT: I warned you it was coming.

Jean motions between the two of them with a floppy, nonchalant hand. "You know, this."

A silence settles that Kim refuses to fill in. Far away, a dog barks.

"I guess we never discussed it, but, uh, this has been going on for — for a while. It’s a pretty — pretty big part of my life. And I can’t keep it under wraps forever."

AUTHORITY: Prepare to say goodbye to whatever reputation you’ve built for yourself at the station.

COMPOSURE: This is salvageable. Stay cool. Appeal to your previous discussions on the matter.

"I thought we agreed that it was unprofessional —"

"To talk about this at work, yes." There is a note of poorly suppressed irritation in Jean’s voice. "I’m not gonna go running my mouth like an asshole. Not gonna tell Torson, or McLaine, or anyone else. But Jude is not just a coworker. It’s different."

AUTHORITY: Is it? Your junior partner should not know who you fuck and what you like to eat for dinner.

COMPASSION [Fail]: She is the single worst person to take into confidence.

"I don’t want to tell more people than necessary, especially at the precinct."

"Well, Jude is ‘necessary people,’ for me at least." Jean’s pale eyes meet and hold Kim’s gaze. "All the stuff that’s happening in my life, and I’ve got no one to share it with —"

"You can share it with Harry."

A flash of nastiness crosses Jean’s face. "Right, cause he already knows. I wonder how that came to pass."

"Yes, he already knows, and he’s your friend. You two can talk about it all you want."

Jean bristles with indignation, like a wet cat. "Oh, so he’s my friend now? He’s your friend! He’s your friend, and I’m this fucking — fucking tagalong afterthought."

COMPASSION: He’s not wrong. You are Harry’s best friend, and Jean is a step below that, at best. Whatever closeness the two had before THE HANGED MAN CASE is gone, never to return.

"You’re not an afterthought," Kim says helplessly. The conversation has escalated beyond a comfortable level of conflict. "He cares about you."

"Right."

"He does."

"He would never take my side over yours if —" Jean grits his teeth. "Whatever. Okay, so Jude is out, great. Anyone else I can tell? My upstairs neighbor, maybe? The local mailman?"

"Mail carrier," Kim corrects on auto-pilot. "If you are genuinely looking for input and not egging me on, your sister is the logical choice."

"My sister thinks I’m a manwhore who preys on older men."

PAIN THRESHOLD: Ouch.

Kim wracks his brain for other candidates. "Heidelstam?"

"Trant?" Jean pulls a face. "I mean, shouldn’t he fall under the same rule as Jude? No coworkers?"

"I never said that." Kim realizes his tone is too defensive and continues in a calmer manner. "He’s not police, he’s not under my direct command. I’m sure he would be very supportive."

"Oh yeah, so supportive. Give me books on Perikarnassian military history or some shit. Do yoga with me to make me flexible… All this self-improvement fuckery. Telling Trant is worse than telling nobody." Jean rubs his face, as if trying to clean it of all visible emotion. "Fuck, now I’m being mean to Trant for no reason. Forget I said anything. I’ll call a phone sex line. I’ve heard they are willing to lend an ear. Not to mention discreet."

"Listen —" Kim reaches for his hand.

Jean pulls away and drops his head, glaring sulkily at nothing. A breeze from the half-open window plays with his hair.

Kim’s lungs constrict in sympathy and only ease up when he opts to stare at the eggs instead. The eggs stare back with an air of lukewarm disapproval.

***

"Are you angry at me?"

Jean refuses to look up from his paperwork. The green desk lamp casts strange shadows onto his face. "Angry? No. Is there a reason I would be?"

PERCEPTION: For one, his accent has been unleashed with a vengeance. Iz zere a reezon?

"You’ve been avoiding me."

"I’ve been busy. I know I’m ‘unprofessional,’ but I have work to do."

"You are not unprofessional." Something forces Kim to add, "And you had time to go to Harry’s this week."

BEHAVIORISM: Great job sounding like a jealous lover.

"I did." Jean’s voice turns to a mocking drawl. "It’s because we’re such great friends. We braided each other’s hair and gossiped about you all night long."

"Jean."

Jean deigns to look at Kim. His eyes are shiny and menacing, like the mercury of a broken thermometer. "What."

"I’m sorry."

There’s a pause while they look at each other, trying to gauge what the other one is thinking. Finally, Jean shakes his head. "Oh no, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I expected, asking you for this. You’re so private. You’re this, like, self-sufficient cool mec. Of course you wouldn't understand."

"I understand," Kim protests.

"In your brain, maybe. But the rest of you is — is scandalized I asked at all."

COMPASSION [Fail]: Needy, insolent brat.

"I was not scandalized. And I thought we arrived at a compromise."

"Yeah, the amazing compromise of Trant. And now we’re both so happy." Jean returns to his paperwork. "Is that all? I actually do need to finish this, so."

"I want to talk to you."

"I’m working."

SUGGESTION: Tell him you’ve missed him.

"It’s a work conversation."

Jean bows his forehead into his clasped hands and heaves a dramatic sigh. "Alright. I’ll bite. You have ten minutes."

PERCEPTION: He is hiding a smile. Don’t ask me how I know.

"Not here." At nine in the evening, the station is abuzz with activity. Phones ringing, radios crackling, typewriter keys click-clacking away — the normally comforting hum of police work now seems like an irritant. "Let’s go up for a smoke."

"We can smoke here," Jean says, without much conviction. He stands up and stretches; Kim can see a sliver of pale hairy skin where his shirt has come untucked. "And I’m all out of cigs. You shall have to provide."

On the roof, Kim provides Jean with more than a cigarette: earlier, he stopped by Kuklov’s and bought two potentially larvae-free kebabs. He hands one to Jean, who digs into it with gusto.

"I’m all ears," Jean says around a mouthful of suspect substances, "about whatever your made-up work problem is."

"It’s not made-up." Kim unwraps his own kebab and takes a hesitant bite. "I’ll tell you after we are done with this."

CORPUS SANUM: Don’t speculate about what went into the meal. It will go down easier.

Once they’ve eaten, Jean waits for Kim to produce a pack of cigarettes. The two of them dodge each other’s gazes as they perform the well-rehearsed dance of lighting up. "I get what you’re doing," Jean says as he takes a drag, "but I meant it. I’m not angry. I just need to lick my wounds a little. We can fuck again next week, or whatever. Maybe even this Saturday."

For a second, Kim’s lungs struggle for air in the cage of his ribs. "It’s not about fucking." But he doesn’t know how else to explain the inarticulate longing that has been consuming him, so he leaves it at that.

"Right." Jean leans over the parapet and exhales smoke, which curls into the inky summer sky. "Spit it out already. Unless I got lured here under false pretenses."

Kim moves to stand beside him and restrains himself from putting a hand on Jean’s waist. The windows and motorways of Jamrock glitter below like a scattering of gems. The district’s lungs exhale after a long day; the smells of asphalt, industry and rain mingle into an urban whole. It was a good idea to come up to the roof.

"Judit and I are working a case," Kim begins. "It’s a major burglary, and solving it will be a good look for the precinct."

"Yeah, she mentioned. THE CASE OF THE RESTO BARON."

"I don’t know that I would call him a baron." Vincent Moreau owns two cafes in the nicer part of the district, as well as a chain of small liquor kiosks. "But he is a well-off man."

PERCEPTION: His house sits on a small lake surrounded by a nice leafy park. He employs six staff, including a cleaner, a chef, and a butler. And what got stolen is nothing to sneeze at, either.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Several paintings, a box of diamonds, a collection of old miniatures, gold cutlery, and a set of silverware made of actual silver, complete with several large serving dishes.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Most of these things went missing from a fireproof safe located in Moreau’s study. The owner of the house and his butler are the only people to know the combination. To top it off, all the locks in the building — both windows and doors — appeared to be undisturbed when you and Judit inspected them.

Jean interrupts Kim’s retelling of the investigation. "The butler did it, obviously. It sounds like your typical inside job."

"The butler has an alibi," Kim says. "Moreau has vouched for him."

"What a generous soul."

"He says they spent the whole night of the burglary together. ‘Playing cards.’" Kim waits for the words and inflection to sink in.

After a beat, Jean doubles over in laughter that morphs into a cough. Smoke escapes his mouth in brief bursts of bluish gray. "Kim, what the fuck? The baron is banging the butler?"

"I didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to! ‘Playing cards,’ my ass. What, like strip poker?"

Kim allows himself a half-smile. "Most likely. No matter the activity, the alibi is legitimate. Moreau has no reason to make it up."

"He does if he’s dickmatized." Jean’s posture has gone rigid again. "Sex makes you stupid."

SUGGESTION: He’s referring to himself, and he’s making sure you know it.

Kim ignores the comment. "At any rate, Judit and I have factored the alibi into our current working theory."

"Which is what? An accomplice did the dirty thievin’ while le majordome peddled his virtue as a distraction?"

"Correct. We have already zeroed in on the likely suspect."

SUGGESTION: You asked the butler, Lambert, for a rundown of former and current employees for the estate, then requested the same from the local police station.

VISUAL CALCULUS: When you compared the two lists, you found a discrepancy. A certain Henri Martin was featured as a dismissed employee in the police report, yet not included in the butler’s neat little notebook.

LOGIC: Further inquiries showed that he was fired a year ago for the "misplacement" of a hundred reál. Interviews with the other staff did not mention any particular closeness between Lambert and Martin, yet there is little doubt that this is your man. Sadly, you cannot find and arrest him based on a hunch alone.

AUTHORITY: In the hopes of getting more information, you have instructed the local postmaster to make copies of all of Lambert’s communications and mail them to you.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: You didn’t have to wait for long. Earlier today you received a copy of a suspicious letter, addressed from Lambert to an "Eloise Arnaud" on the outskirts of Faubourg.

SUSPICIOUS LETTER: "Darling, a hunting party visited us the other day. Two bloodhounds, one female, one foreign. They hunted for a while and returned home. We have peace and quiet again."

"You’re not foreign," Jean says, offended, as Kim relays the information. "Also, wow. This sounds like a ten-year-old wrote it."

"But you see what the problem is," Kim says. "Ideally, we would return to Faubourg and stay there for a couple of days to monitor the situation. But the captain is refusing to pay for our lodgings. He says Faubourg is within commuting distance."

ENCYCLOPEDIA: It’s a three-hour round-trip, so he is technically correct.

Jean scoffs. "Shit, don’t you love how Harry’s mistakes keep biting everyone in the ass? I bet Pryce still has nightmares about his alco antics at the Whirling. Can’t say I blame him."

"Let’s not go there, please." Kim feels tired. This past week has been full of stressors and devoid of the simple animal comforts that could offset them. Talking with Jean has made him feel better, but now that the man is up in thorns, exhaustion creeps back in.

Jean, to his credit, looks chastised. He turns away and takes a puff, sighing on the exhale.

They finish their cigarettes in silence.

***

"What is the meaning of this?" In the break room, Kim shows Jean a piece of paper that Judit brought to their daily check-in. On it, familiar blocky letters read: 51 Rue des Bâtisseurs, Faubourg. Kim has been carrying it in his jacket pocket all day, waiting for Jean to clock in, slowly getting incensed at the gall of it all.

VOLITION: Jean and Harry are working the night shift today. The waiting has taken a while.

Jean spares the paper a quick glance and turns his attention back to the coffee maker, which groans in exhaustion as it sputters out liquid. "It’s an address in Faubourg, where you guys can stay for your case."

"Your sister’s address."

"I mean, yeah." Jean shrugs. "That’s how you get free bed and board. She’s not, like, a dream host, but — fuck, this machine really needs a cleanup." He frowns at the mug of coffee he’s just brewed.

"It’s a bad look for the RCM," Kim explains patiently. "We can’t take advantage of a civilian’s kindness."

SUGGESTION: Or Jean’s kindness, rather. This must have been a difficult favor to procure.

A shift happens in Jean’s face, so small that the Kim of four months ago wouldn’t have noticed. "Okay. You don’t have to take advantage of anything. Feel free to rot in traffic all day. Jude can solve this thing toute seule."

"That will likewise be a bad look," Kim mutters. "I can’t believe you did all of this behind my back."

"Behind your — yeah, cause I knew you’d be weird about it!" Jean’s mask of placidity is off; his cheeks bloom a blotchy pink. "A normal person would say thanks and go his merry way." He takes a sip of coffee, looking over the rim of his mug in challenge. "You know, Jude was pretty fucking grateful."

INLAND EMPIRE: Whereas your refusal to accept a gift implies an inability, or unwillingness, to repay it.

"She doesn’t have any of the subtext behind this alleged favor."

"‘Alleged?’" Jean sets the mug down and folds his arms. "And what subtext is that, pray tell? That you came to me whining, and I made your life easier?"

Kim has enough presence of mind to lock the break room door and lower his voice to a hiss. "Forced contact with your relatives does not make my life easier."

"Well, it’s not all about you." Jean manages to match Kim’s volume, even though it clearly costs him a lot of effort. "And you said it was okay to tell my sister!"

"Because I didn’t think I’d be meeting her."

Hurt flashes in Jean’s eyes, but the next moment his expression shutters closed. He lowers himself onto the worn blue couch and picks up the coffee, keeping it close to his face.

COMPASSION: He looks surprisingly small like this.

Kim sits down, too, keeping a careful distance. "I didn’t mean it."

"You did." Jean grips the mug tighter, as if afraid of what his hands might do if left to their own devices. "For the record, she thinks we’re work friends. You won’t have to feel embarrassed."

BEHAVIORISM: This makes sense. He said he didn’t want her to know.

"I needn’t have assumed otherwise." Kim sighs. "And it’s not about embarrassment."

"Could have fooled me."

A feeling of tenderness washes over Kim, curdles into self-loathing and slips away. "You know I prefer keeping my professional and personal lives separate."

Jean harrumphs. Kim puts a hesitant hand on his shoulder, which Jean neither shrugs off nor leans into. Encouraged, Kim continues, "I’m a private person. I don’t want to be around more people than necessary. So I’m not singling your sister out, or acting out of character."

"Well, I’m sorry I don’t exist in some vacuum outside of all social context." Despite the gruff tone, Jean makes the smallest of movements in Kim’s direction.

"I’m sorry, too," Kim whispers. "I could be seeing an orphaned hermit raised by dogs. Just my luck." He gives Jean’s shoulder a squeeze, hoping that the words get correctly interpreted as a joke.

PERCEPTION: They are. You can feel it: the release of tension, the thawing of his mood.

RHETORIC: It is not about the joke. It is because you have defined what this is.

Jean slumps against Kim: a warm familiar body. "The hermit would be introducing you to Sharptooth and Half-Tail and twenty half-siblings, and it wouldn’t be a fun rendezvous."

"And here I thought it was the perfect fantasy." For a minute, they sit in a comfortable quiet. Kim traces small circles on Jean’s upper arm.

"Are you guys done?" comes a muffled voice through the door. Kim recoils before realizing it’s Harry.

REACTION SPEED [Fail]: Thank Dolores.

Jean is quicker on the uptake. "What the fuck? Have you been standing there eavesdropping?"

"No," Harry says unconvincingly. "Can you let me in? I want a refill."

"Don’t you dare touch the coffee, old man." Despite the threat, Jean cracks the door open.

Harry holds up his mug for inspection. "It’s herbal tea."

"At ten at night it better be."

Harry pushes his way in. "I’m glad you two have made up." Something must show in Kim’s face, because Harry adds, "Don’t worry, I couldn’t hear anything. But I don’t need to hear to know what happened." He taps his temple with his index finger.

Jean rolls his eyes. "What happened is none of your business."

"Ah, but it is! You’re two of my favorite people. I enjoy seeing you happy."

"Prepare to often be disappointed." The pleased pink in Jean’s cheeks belies the sarcasm of his tone.

Kim decides to put an end to this conversation before it attracts any of their coworkers. "I was about to head home, but Jean, thank you for your help. I will take up your sister's offer."

Jean gives him a small smile. Harry gives him an oversized wink and pistol fingers.

***

Rush-hour traffic carries Kim and Judit over a sunlit overpass, from which they can see the entirety of Faubourg.

PERCEPTION: A hodge-podge of residential areas, industrial waste-grounds, and dusty parks fades into the distant horizon. Nameless alleys feed into the artery of Boogie Street. For-rent signs crackle above overnight hotels and furnished basement apartments. Tiny kids play with tiny basketballs; tiny dogs chase tiny bikes.

KINETIC DRESSAGE: Packed buses and beat-ups MCs carry commuters home from their pilgrimage to the city. The steady hum of motors is broken by the occasional slammed brake or honked horn.

Smooth asphalt gives way to potholes and mud as they move into the cramped busy streets of the banlieu proper. Its ragtag population is taking full advantage of the waning days of summer. Children and adults, hobos and workers have stripped down to the minimally acceptable level of clothing. People laze about on their balconies and peddle ice cream cones from coolers.

Jean’s sister lives on a narrow street overcrowded with small, shabby, single-family houses. Kim guesses which one belongs to the female Vicquemare immediately.

PERCEPTION: Her building is the only one with its walls recently repainted.

BEHAVIORISM: She takes pride in her lodgings and keeps them in good shape.

The woman in question is out on the miniature porch, smoking. She is exactly what Kim expected: tall and thin, with dark bobbed hair and a cigarette held aloft in a long-fingered hand.

PERCEPTION: Classic Suresne stock. The only thing that’s missing is a striped black-and-white top.

"Mademoiselle Vicquemare," Kim says once they’ve parked the Coupris.

Jean’s sister takes a long drag of her cigarette and looks Kim up and down, then subjects Judit to the same treatment. "No one’s called me that in a while. Marie is fine. And you two are…? I hope you don’t expect me to address you by rank."

"I’m Jude, and this is…" Judit hesitates and looks to Kim for guidance.

AUTHORITY: She avoids addressing you in any way other than the impersonal "Lieutenant" or "detective."

Kim takes pity on her. "Kim Kitsuragi," he says.

"Splendid. We’re going to be the best of friends, once you stop loitering. You can wait for me indoors. Don’t want the neighbors seeing the force on my stoop. And please park elsewhere tomorrow."

On the inside, Marie’s house is just as small and well-kept. The tiny entry area is decorated with a patterned rug. The kitchen beyond it is airy and clean, with exposed floorboards, pale green walls, and sheer white curtains. Jean would call this setup petit bourgeois, but Kim is relieved to learn he will not be staying in a sty.

PERCEPTION: Photo frames are dispersed along all available surfaces. Most of them show the same girl at varying stages of life, from toddler to adolescent.

LOGIC: Context clues suggest that this is Jean’s niece Chloé, whom he has mentioned to you on occasion.

One of the snapshots catches Kim’s eye. It’s in black-and-white instead of color and, on closer inspection, depicts Marie herself rather than the daughter. She must have been in her twenties when it was taken, looking both insolent and resigned in a set of oversized office clothes. Slouching next to her, in all his gangly pockmarked glory, is a teenage Jean.

VOLTA DO MAR: You would recognize that glower anywhere. It’s the expression of a person who is daring the world to hurt him.

AUTHORITY: If you had run into this child in your days at Juvenile Crime, you would have stopped him for questioning immediately.

"Hasn’t changed much, has he? Sulky fucker." The door closes with a click: Marie has come in and joined them. "Did you want some tea and biscuits? I have wine, too, but I’m saving it for your farewell party. I do hope it’s fast approaching."

***

Judit offers to help clean up after, but Marie waves her away. "I’m not exploiting a fellow mother. You probably suffer enough as is. You." She points at Kim. "Help me take the trash out."

The street is dark and quiet. Windows glow; branches rustle and bend in the wind. Kim is tasked with carrying the trash bags. As they walk to the landfill Marie takes out two cigarettes and proffers one to Kim, which he accepts. No need to aggravate or disappoint her further: she clearly finds something about him off-putting. She could be racist or, more likely, misandrist. She could be projecting her negative feelings toward Jean onto his coworkers. She could be —

"I take it your torrid fling with my brother is going swimmingly?"

Kim’s stomach swoops; his ears grow hot. He feels upset at giving himself away, then remembers that the blush is invisible to the naked eye, especially at dusk. Still, it takes him a moment to regroup. "I am not partaking in any sort of a fling, let alone a torrid one."

Marie snickers. "Fling, hookup, I don’t care what you call it." With every inhale, the end of her cigarette flares to life, glowing bright red. "I know, I know. You’re asking yourself, how did she ever guess? Well, detective, my brother wouldn’t call me up for any Tom, Dick or Harry. For the Harry, yes. And for the dick du jour, yes as well."

"I am not his dick du jour, or vice versa."

"Ah, so it’s serious? Well, good. He’s typically not so discerning with his sex life."

"Your brother is a valued coworker. And my private life is not up for discussion."

"It’s not?" Her mocking tone turns frosty. "How convenient. You know how I know he’s fucking you and not your partner?"

"Judit is married," Kim says on impulse.

RHETORIC: You have just confirmed her accusations. Wonderful.

"As if that ever stopped him. No, it’s much simpler. Jude is well-adjusted and emotionally available, and Jean would never go for someone like that. He’s complètement maso. Fucking idiot."

They reach the dumpster site; Kim gets a reprieve from the interrogation while they dispose of the trash bags and cigarette butts.

"Anyway, you being his latest is indictment enough," Marie says as they start back. "He’s a terrible judge of character. And an extremely easy lay."

COMPOSURE: Keep quiet. She’s provoking you.

HALF LIGHT: Quiet?! She is shit-talking your… she is shit-talking Jean.

"Don’t talk about him behind his back," Kim says, surprised at how harsh his voice comes out. "This is your brother you’re insulting."

"It’s not an insult if it’s true. Did he tell you he slept with my ex? Granted, he was sixteen at the time, but even so." She stops abruptly, forcing Kim to do the same, and turns to face him. "On the phone, he said you were the precinct’s finest. Very smart, polite, an honorable man, blah blah blah. He’s a terrible judge of character, like I said." She pauses. "But you’re right. He is my brother. And I don’t like seeing him hurt."

"He is not—" Kim starts and stops. He remembers Jean’s recent outbursts and avoidant tendencies, the dejected slump of his shoulders after Kim refused to humor him for dinner.

RHETORIC: Did that bleed into his calls to Marie? Could she read how upset he was, or is she making a blanket statement?

"I would not hurt him on purpose," Kim says finally.

Marie looks at him expectantly, then fishes another cigarette out of her shirt pocket and lights up. With her free hand she waves, urging Kim to continue.

"But I don’t feel responsible for reactions I can’t predict." Which is most of Jean’s reactions, he doesn’t add.

LOGIC: If you can’t predict it, there’s nothing you could have done differently.

Marie puffs on the cigarette so hard that her cheeks look sunken. "You underestimate how much power you have over others. And you’re applying an analytical approach to something irrational."

Kim does not feel the need for a psychology lesson. "You are making false analogies. He is not sixteen anymore, and I am not your ex."

"No," she says. "I sure hope you’re not."

After this awful conversation, Kim expects to sleep on the kitchen floor, or perhaps the porch. Instead, he’s shown to a guest room with a double bed. He entertains the thought that it was Jean’s, once upon a time, before remembering that the house is a recent purchase. He crawls underneath the blanket, which depicts a deer hunt in unpleasant detail, and feels an acute lack of a second body next to his own.

PERCEPTION: Outside, the windows of the banlieue are a checkerboard of black and yellow.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Behind each light is a person getting ready for bed, having a chat with a friend, or waiting for a loved one to come home.

VOLTA DO MAR: Far to the north Jean is having his evening cigarette or toke. Or maybe he’s already curled up in bed, sleepless and lonely.

When Kim closes his eyes, he can see it, captured in high definition on the inner side of his eyelids: Jean’s dear, expressive face on the opposite side of a shared pillow.

INLAND EMPIRE: Feelings can grow just like that.

CORPUS SANUM: Now sleep.

***

The next morning, Kim and Judit pay the mysterious "Eloise Arnaud" a visit. Kim initially pegged her to be Lambert’s fiancée: another person roped into the butler’s romantic entanglements. Cursory research, however, made it clear that this is the mother to Henri Martin.

BEHAVIORISM: A mother will have more innate loyalty. A tougher nut to crack.

The door opens to a hunched old woman in a headscarf.

"Madame Arnaud?" Judit asks as she and Kim flash their badges. "We’re with the RCM. We’re here to ask you a few questions in connection to your son."

LOGIC: You have an unspoken agreement that she does most of the talking where women are involved. Something about sisterhood and female solidarity.

The woman squints at the badges. "RCM? The power provider? I didn’t call for you."

"RCM means Revachol Citizens Militia," Kim explains. "We’re with the police."

Madame Arnaud clasps her hand over her heart, a tad theatrically. "The police! And from the big city! What happened?"

Judit volleys a question back. "Is your son home?"

"My son? No. He moved out ages ago. Left his old mother all alone…"

"May we come in? We don’t want to go into more detail where your neighbors can hear."

A shadow passes over the woman’s face. A moment, and it’s gone, a toothless smile in its place. "Of course. Do excuse the mess. Hard to keep the place shipshape all by meself."

BEHAVIORISM: She knows what this visit is about.

The apartment is a tiny cluttered studio. The wallpaper is peeling off; all the furniture looks like it predates the Revolution. The pièce de résistance is a foldout sofa outfitted with yellowing sheets. There is no place for an adult man to hide.

Judit appears put off by the state and smell of things, but valiantly tries to mask it. "This will only take a minute. It’s standard procedure, no need to worry. When was the last time you saw Henri? And I would love to take a seat for this."

On cue, Kim pulls out two kitchen chairs and offers one to Judit. The old woman is forced to take the sofa or remain standing.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Both you and Judit are now positioned outside of the Madame Arnaud’s center view line.

AUTHORITY: She will have to look back and forth between you. The eye movement will give you more information than her words ever will.

For now, the woman looks off to the side. "That boy is a no-good tumbleweed. Never checks in on his mother, never calls…"

"Some people prefer letters to calls," Kim says off-handedly. "When would you say you saw him last?"

"Two, three years ago… My memory is not what it was."

For a while, Kim and Judit jump non-sequentially in their questions, in the hopes that the old woman slips up. What is her relationship to Robert Lambert? She knows no such name. Does she know her son got fired for theft? Her son was no thief. Has she heard of Vincent Moreau? Yes, but very vaguely.

Kim moves in for the kill. "What is Henri’s current address?"

"How would I know? He don’t call, he don’t write…"

RHETORIC: Liar.

PERCEPTION: There she is, looking off to the side again.

Kim follows her gaze. His eye stops on a framed miniature of Dolores Dei standing in the center of an icon shelf.

Judit notices, too. "That’s a beautiful red corner," she says.

The woman pales. Kim crosses the room, picks up the painting, and turns it around to reveal a sealed envelope.

***

"My sweetest heart,

I am leaving now for the station, going to Saint-Batiste. I’m so happy the hounds have left you. Everything is calm here too.

In other news, poor old Ambrose has died. We buried him on Friday, and I had a good cry over his grave. May he rest undisturbed.

Expect to see me soon.

Your Henri."

Kim rubs his forehead after yet another re-read of the letter. Holding it over a flame revealed no hidden ink; asking about Ambrose yielded silence. The old woman’s apartment was searched and put under surveillance by two officers from the local precinct, and then all progress stopped.

Judit hovers over Kim’s shoulder. "I keep coming back to this." She taps the word cry. "I’m pretty sure ‘tears’ is slang for diamonds."

"That’s a good start. It’s the rest that we should be concerned with. Is ‘grave’ slang for anything? ‘Grave of Ambrose’?"

Judit shrugs. "Maybe? I went through the recent obits like you asked me to, but nothing came up." She sets a stack of newspapers on the table. "It’s not a very common name."

"No, it’s not." Kim scans the topmost grayish page. "Do you have the list of all the funerals dated last Friday?"

"These are from the two big cemeteries in town." She adds more papers to the pile. "A couple of Dolorian churches have their own graveyards, but I still need to go over there and request information."

"You do that," Kim says. "I’ll ring up the precincts and see if this Ambrose was a known criminal alias."

Eleven phone calls to eleven precincts later, Kim has zero leads. He puts the receiver down, but his hand refuses to let go.

SUGGESTION: This is because you have a twelfth number to dial.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You know you want to.

It would not be a good idea. Marie has let them use the kitchen as a workroom, but she would draw the line at Kim and Jean flirting over her phone line.

"Would she really? It’s a work conversation, for all she knows," an imaginary Harry chimes in from the recesses of Kim’s mind. "Listen to your instincts, Kimothy. It’s all connected. You never know where the next clue is gonna come from."

VOLITION: Not from your booty call.

IMAGINARY HARRY: Don’t be so sure. Give him a ring!

Kim absently strokes the phone. The kitchen has grown dim without him noticing. The hunched houses of Faubourg shiver under a veil of silvery drizzle. Judit is still out visiting churches; Marie has gone to an alleged bingo night. Nobody is going to overhear. And it’s not as if they will discuss anything incriminating. Still —

VISUAL CALCULUS: There’s a pay phone by the corner store, two blocks away from here.

***

The booth is littered with cigarette butts and gum wrappers; rain patters on its yellow dome. Coins fall, jingling, into the metal slot. Kim pretends to consult a thick damp phonebook, even as his fingers find the correct numbers on the rotary dial.

VOLTA DO MAR: At dusk, a street, a lamp, a pay phone. A meaningless and dismal light.

"You sister knows about us," he says in lieu of greeting.

"Uh," Jean says on the other end of the line. "Yeah, she rang earlier to chew me out. What the fuck?" Over the phone, Jean always sounds like he’s bracing for a fight or a piece of bad news. Right now his voice is particularly raspy. "And hello to you, too."

"Hello. Did I wake you?"

"No, but I had a rough day… Trant came over last night, brought this weird liquor. I think it disagrees with me." The words fade in and out; the connection crackles with static.

"Kaamos?" Kim asks, remembering Jean’s drinking stash.

"No, this one’s different, but it’s the same sort of shit."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"Whatever. I shall probably live. Did you want to talk? I was just heading out."

Kim suppresses a jealous question — heading out where, exactly? — and moves straight to what has been bothering him. "Do I make you miserable?"

"What?" Jean sounds indignant, disbelieving, and finally awake. "No! Why would you ask that?"

"You’ve been moody."

"I don’t need your help for that."

"You’ve been moody around me specifically," Kim clarifies. "We fight all the time."

"Not all the time!"

"More than I’m used to."

Jean heaves a long-suffering sigh. Kim can imagine him flopping onto his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he tries to form a counter-argument. "That’s cause you’re a repressed man who never had, I dunno, friends to disagree with. We are two different people who are honest with each other. Of course we fight."

The walls of the booth are plastered with ads: weight loss pills, escort services, pawn shops. Kim tightens his grip on the receiver. "I never know what will set you off. I’m always saying the wrong thing."

More static. Then Jean is back, tone unreadable. "You really want to do this over the phone?"

PERCEPTION: Raindrops leave oozy trails on the glass walls of the phone booth.

SUGGESTION: There is no good way to answer this.

Jean barrels on, "You wanna know what sets me off? This sets me off. I told you, we should only have these deep discussions face to face." He elongates the vowel in deep, lending it a sarcastic lilt. "I want to be able to see you, to read you." His voice grows lower and softer. "To hold you. But instead I’m this bundle of nerves in Jamrock and you’re — what? In the middle of a rainstorm?"

"It’s not a storm," Kim says. "It’s a drizzle."

"Ah. Well, that makes all the difference. Look—" There’s shuffling and rustling. He is stalling: changing position, or switching rooms, or fidgeting. "You make me happy, okay? On average. You’re only able to hurt me because I let you get close to me."

INLAND EMPIRE: Tenderness can mean both gentleness and soreness. The most vulnerable places offer the biggest rewards, but require the lightest touch.

"Like today — I told you not to tell my sister, and you went and told her. You tell her, you tell Harry, and I’m — I can’t tell anyone… Everything happens on your terms. God." Kim can almost hear the headshake. "I’m not even angry. It’s just, why?"

Ten more céntimes go down the slot. "I didn’t tell your sister anything."

Jean’s silence is a live creature, coiled up and waiting to strike. Kim closes his eyes. "She could tell I care about you. So she guessed, and I admitted it." But the end result was the same. "I’m sorry I hurt you."

INTERFACING: The telephone wires carry the message north, over the dim-lit neighborhoods of Faubourg.

PERCEPTION: A long, labored intake of breath on the other end of the line. A pause. An exhale.

Finally, Jean says, "Well, you didn’t mean to."

"Still. I am sorry."

"I shouldn’t have laid into you like that."

This is all the heartfelt conversation Kim can muster for the day. "Did you have to run somewhere?"

Jean gives a small chuckle. "Smooth. Yes, we can talk about something else. Did you add coinage to the call? How’s the case going?"

Kim, relieved, recounts the morning discoveries and decides to heed the advice of Imaginary Harry. "Does the name Ambrose tell you anything?"

"Ambrose? Why, is he some sexy beast I shouldn’t worry about?" When Kim doesn’t rise to the bait, Jean continues, "No, it doesn’t, not with zero context."

Kim reads him the confiscated letter in its entirety. Jean hums some more.

"I have one hunch," he says. "But it’s a stretch. There’s this character in an early Cole Crest novel —"

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Cole Crest is a hardboiled detective in the vein of Dick Mullen. He is a little more taciturn and a little less slimy.

"— his name is Ambrose Plummer. He’s this, like, homo-sexual evildoer. Very fruity, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Oral fixation, limp wrist, the works."

"I get the gist, thank you."

"In fact, he’s such a giant homo, he might as well wear a jacket saying ‘pissf****t.’"

Kim arches an eyebrow for an audience of zero. "Don’t remind me. And don’t say ‘pissf****t’ and ‘homo.’"

Jean cracks up with laughter. "I only wanted to get a reaction. Anyway, my best guess is that this was some mec in the local homo-sexual underground. Your slutty butler and his thieving paramour probably knew him, and this whole Ambrose thing was, like, an inside joke."

Kim can see where this is headed. "You want me to infiltrate the underground and ID the mystery man?"

"It’s not really infiltrating if it’s you, right? It’s a night on the town. When you go, I want in on this grand event. But no, I’d just check if anyone croaked whose last name was Plummer."

***

The Dolorian church on Rue Dominion is untouched by history and lacking in personality, but it does boast a splendid garden-slash-cemetery. Rose bushes and apple trees erupt in shades of brilliant green. Wildflowers grow around grave markers. The air smells of soil and freshly cut grass.

Dozens of identical headstones are scattered around with no discernible rhyme or reason. Every single one has a small etching at the top: a pair of lungs, a skull, or a female angel. In an ironic twist, the grave of Arnold Plummer sports the latter.

AUTHORITY: You and Judit relayed your suspicions about the grave to the deacon and asked permission to open and inspect it.

SUGGESTION: The deacon told you that disturbing a grave, let alone a church grave, was a crime, not to mention an affront to Dolores Dei. However, if you wanted to tidy it up by changing the turf, you were welcome to do so.

Kim and Judit, of course, have been hit with a deep desire to redecorate and repair. They remove the headstone and dig up the grave mound until Judit’s spade hits something hard: a sizable steel case.

When she opens it, the stolen diamonds come to life in the glare of the summer sun.

***

Coupled with the letter, the diamonds are enough to bring Lambert in for questioning and issue an arrest warrant for Henri Martin (location unknown).

Kim and Judit will head back to Jamrock tomorrow morning for the interrogation circus. Tonight, however, they can celebrate. Judit suggests going to a pub to "pre-game" before the promised wine party. Kim considers Marie’s hostile attitude and agrees: a pick-me-up will help him weather her company.

They decide on a poorly lit, anonymous watering hole that smells of greasy fries and stale sweat. There are only two beers on tap, one dark and one light. Kim opts for the former: it should be harder to water down. Judit picks the latter.

"I’m glad you said yes," she says after downing half a pint in one go. "I feel like I’m always left out of the MCU extracurriculars. Probably because I’m—"

HALF LIGHT: A woman.

BEHAVIORISM: Overly polite and rational.

"—married with children. I don’t even know if I’d have the time, if I was invited." She smiles in a shy, self-effacing manner. "This has been a vacation for me, believe it or not."

"I believe it." The beer leaves a watery taste in Kim’s mouth, despite the precautions. "It’s good to put some distance between you and your usual routine."

"Oh, absolutely." The drink has brought color to Judit’s high cheekbones; her top button is undone. She wears the uniform while on duty, despite being allowed to go plainclothes. "I’m actually remembering why I went into RCM to begin with."

"Do you normally not remember?"

"Well, I’m not married to the job. If I lost it tomorrow, I would do something else. Like accounting."

"That’s a healthy way of looking at things."

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "It’s a self-preservation tactic. The MCU was in shambles when I joined. And my partner before that was a mess. Not even an entertaining mess — I’m sure you’ve heard."

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Joseph Mills was an awful cop with an awful sense of humor. He has not been missed after his demise.

"I take it he was not well-loved," Kim says diplomatically. "But I imagine his death came as a shock."

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Mills and Minot, who were partnered by virtue of alphabetical proximity, interrupted a drug deal while on a call. The Villalobos gang on site beat Mills to death. Judit, outnumbered and outgunned, ran away.

AUTHORITY: She was a patrol officer at the time, not yet in possession of a firearm.

Judit shrugs again."It was not so much a shock. It was — how do I put it? Like first snow for a farmer. An inevitable unpleasant surprise."

The back of Kim’s neck prickles with discomfort. Not only did she leave her partner to die in line of duty; not only does she appear unrepentant; not only is she making callous comments, so at odds with the maternal woman he met in Martinaise —

COMPASSION: She is hiding her real emotions for your benefit. Why would she open up to you when you won’t reciprocate?

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Cumulonimbus clouds gain such altitudes that their topmost parts freeze. The surface gets icy-white and reflective; sunlight can’t reach deeper inside. Down there, dark storms brew.

Kim is hit with the understanding that the person opposite him is, essentially, a stranger. This is the first time they are discussing something of substance one on one. If Kim stays silent, he will be lying by omission. The partnership, built on a cracked foundation, will suffer in subtle, yet irreparable ways going forward.

INLAND EMPIRE: Face Judit, and you will face yourself.

Words haul themselves upward from Kim’s hollow lungs. "My partner died, too. My previous partner." Giving voice to this feels like gargling glass. "We thought we were going into a routine call, but…. Well."

"I’m sorry." Judit makes a move as if to cover Kim’s hand with her own, then thinks the better of it. "You want to talk about it?"

Kim flashes back to Eyes’s head, busted open like a horrible red flower. "No."

"That’s fair." Just like that, the warm, kind woman he knows is back. "It’s an open invitation, okay? If you’re ever ready."

Kim nods. "Understood. Thank you."

In the silence that follows, the bartender sidles up to the table to take away Judit’s empty glass and lingers in the hopes of getting another order. In a shadowy corner, a group of locals erupts in laughter.

Judit isn’t willing to put the conversation to rest. "You know, I still feel sad about Joseph. Sometimes I come in and expect to see him in the break room. And I didn’t even like him." She straightens her collar. "I don’t know how I would cope if we were actual friends."

"It wouldn’t be much different. Just worse."

"Is this why you refused to take a partner?"

ENDURANCE: Yes and no.

PAIN THRESHOLD: It’s the sickly patina of failure, both personal and professional. The responsibility of communicating the news to the widow. The whispers, the pitying looks. The nightmares.

RHETORIC: But it’s also the freedom to run things by no one but the captain, to work on your own schedule, to drive a fancy MC with no passenger seat. The easy road from deciding to doing. A simplicity that can’t be had in a two-person tug-of-war.

Kim settles on, "It was one of the factors."

"I thought you didn’t want to partner with me specifically." Judit rubs at a ring stain on the table, mouth is set in a grim line. Her previously chipper mood has given way to poorly concealed anxiety. "Not that I blame you. I just want you to know… That night, it was either him, or him and me both. If there was a chance I could have saved him… I won’t die for empty heroics, but I’m not a coward."

The wind knocks open the pub windows and rushes inside. It carries the smell of drying grass and river water. Summer is nearly over.

"I’m trying to say I won’t abandon you," Judit concludes. "I hope you know that."

BEHAVIORISM: This is the woman who stood up for Harry in Martinaise, who showed you around on your first day at the precinct, who brings her coworkers pastries and rushes off at the end of the shift to see her family.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: This is your partner.

"I know. I trust you."

"Good." Her eyes flick up. "It’s funny, but I actually didn’t want a partner either. After Joseph died, work became so much easier. I was doing all these grunt tasks. Traffic control, truancy. Low-level stuff they have solo flyers do. Clock in, do the shift, clock out. It was great. I knew if I got partnered, I’d have more on my plate. So I kept saying no to Pryce, giving all these excuses."

"What changed?" Kim asks, curious.

"Jean started getting on my case, how I should be more ambitious. He thinks he’s being progressive, bullying women into promotions… Well, he’s not wrong. It’s more fun to work on the serious stuff, even if it’s hard. I guess he did me a favor, in a way." She smooths her windswept hair. "He’s a good friend."

Kim’s mind flips over a kaleidoscope of scenes, some remembered and some imagined. Jean and Judit, sharing a thermos of spiked tea in the winter cold. Making battle plans in the event of Harry’s complete meltdown. Slumped half-asleep over piles of paperwork, bringing each other morning coffee, spotting each other at the precinct gym.

BEHAVIORISM: Instinctive, habitual support.

COMPASSION: The support that you’re limiting, because you make Jean conceal things from Judit. What are you holding onto? Your well-honed image? Your pride?

Kim sits with these uncomfortable questions. He’s been thinking of their bubble of privacy as safe and practical: a way to avoid judgment and commentary. Right now, when Jean comes to work upset, nobody but Harry attributes that to a lovers’ spat. Nobody thinks that Kim is abusing his rank; nobody deems his relationship skills lacking. But, like Jean said, Judit is not just a coworker. If Kim puts himself in Jean’s shoes —

BEHAVIORISM: Which is hard. Jean is privileged by virtue of being white and overtly laddish. He’s never had to convince the public of his masculinity or fight for a spot in the pecking order. The gay jokes thrown around the precinct don’t bother him because he’s got no reputation to lose.

COMPASSION: That doesn’t mean he’s not insecure about other matters. He reads your reservations as shame, your reticence as a lack of feelings.

What Jean wants is probably simple. He wants to mention to Judit that he has gone to see a new movie: the same movie that Kim has seen, coincidentally. He wants to carpool the entire way to work instead of walking the last five blocks. And he wants to refer to Kim by name and not as "Kitsuragi" or "detective."

HALF LIGHT: Careful. The more people get pulled into this, the more mortifying every mistake and the near-certain eventual crash.

This flurry of anxious brain activity has spurred Kim to finish the beer faster than normal. "Ready when you are."

Outside, motor carriages have turned on their headlamps. Gaudy signs shed their tired daytime look for an array of blues, pinks and yellows. The sidewalk gets busy as people scuttle in and out of the evening gloom.

Judit makes no move to get going. "I’m glad we did this. It’s good for morale to have things aired out — not to say we’re low on morale… It’s been pretty nice since your transfer. Harry’s healthier, Jean is happier. You’re a good influence, lieutenant." Her tone has a hint of mischief to it, which Kim chooses to ignore to spare his ego.

SUGGESTION: She has likely guessed about you and Jean. You are not that subtle.

BEHAVIORISM: Last week, you squeezed his shoulder during a department meeting and recoiled, as if from a fire-hot stovetop. The secrecy only exists in your head.

"I wouldn’t attribute any positive changes to myself," Kim says. "But I am also glad we talked."

Glad is not the right word. There will be no going back when he lifts the veil of separation between Judit, coworker and Judit, confidante: one can only feel so much deference toward a man who got a junior officer into his bed.

INLAND EMPIRE: The horror of being known is psychological. The horror of not being known is existential.

VOLITION: And the hard way through life is the easy way, in the end.

Kim forces his lungs to steady their ragged tempo. "We could go get a drink again next week. Jean would want to join as well, I’m sure." This is the key: control the breathing, and you control the emotions. "And you can call me Kim."