An Apple for the Creature

Ms. Hannover’s landing stuck, although she wobbled. Claire was amazed the woman hadn’t broken an ankle. In her right hand, the suspect clutched a turkey baster. The baster didn’t look loaded but you could never be too sure.

“FBI. Don’t move,” Claire said.

The woman teetered a moment as Claire approached. She was very large, and very naked.

“Oh, Jesus, oh, sweet Jesus,” the woman said, taking in Claire’s FBI vest, helmet, and, presumably, her gun.

“Drop the baster,” Claire said.

Ms. Hannover did not comply. Instead, she wheeled around to an open side gate—Claire’s original ingress—and zoomed through it. Whapping it shut behind her, the suspect took off like a bat out of hell. Claire was astounded. The lady was hauling. She had to be on drugs.

“FBI! Freeze!” Claire bellowed at her. She always said “FBI” as much as possible to give it as many chances to sink in. Resisting arrest always added so much more paperwork.

Ms. Hannover did not freeze.

Claire vaulted over the gate, nearly landing on a rusted, broken tricycle. Claire gave chase—hell, she wasn’t even thirty, and she was in fighting trim—but she watched with awe as her naked criminal made it to the sidewalk and hung a left. Ms. Hannover’s bare feet slapped on the pavement.

Somewhere, a dog barked and a car engine started up. In a second Bureau car, Santos and Park, their backup, threw open their doors and aimed guns at Claire’s bad girl.

Still, Ms. Hannover ran. She might have made it as far as the crosswalk if Claire hadn’t tackled her. Claire’s face smacked against Ms. Hannover’s naked behind and her left elbow ended up in more dog poop. Didn’t these fine citizens curb their dogs? Or wear anything?

Then she saw the spotless boots of Jackson approaching, stopping at Claire’s eye level and madame’s ass.

“FBI. Don’t move, ma’am,” Jackson said, so much more professional than laughing. Claire was going to chew his balls off for breakfast.

“Oh, Jesus,” the woman said, as Claire extracted herself and whipped out her handcuffs. Then Claire read Ms. Hannover her rights, and together they hauled her to her feet. Ms. Hannover remained silent until Claire was finished. Then she started panting and said, “Jesus, who’s going to cook my goddamn Thanksgiving turkey?”

Claire and Jackson traded incredulous looks. “You should have thought about that before you started cooking methamphetamines in your spare bedroom,” Jackson said.

“Yes, unfortunately, it’s your goose that’s cooked,” Claire added, with a straight face.

“It’s not cooked. And it’s a turkey. It’s going to spoil,” the woman said, sounding confused. And high. Higher than the rising sun.

The backup team approached with a double-extra-large FBI Windbreaker and Special Agent Santos wrapped it around Ms. Hannover with some difficulty, trying to snap up the front without getting sued for sexual harassment.

“My son was messing around with that stuff,” Ms. Hannover argued as they walked her to their car. “That’s his room.”

“Your son is serving twenty-five to life for murder,” Jackson said.

“My nephew is staying in Sweetie’s room while Sweetie’s in prison,” Ms. Hannover prevaricated. Her teeth were very pointy, as in maybe filed down on a whim or for some trick’s big bucks, or as a result of some pimp’s payback back in the day before Ms. Hannover lost the will to limit her caloric intake to only three double cheeseburgers at a single sitting. Claire realized that lack of sleep was making her snarky. As a rule, she had nothing against people who liked their food.

“Sweetie told his cell mate that you committed the murder,” Jackson added. She’d been read her rights. She hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Things were looking good.

“I’m going to be in jail on Thanksgiving.” She chuckled and grinned at Claire with those freaky teeth. “I won’t have to cook but you will, honey.” She broke wind against the Windbreaker.

“She’s riding with you guys,” Jackson told Santos. He wrinkled his fine freckled nose at Claire’s assorted dog poop stains. “Maybe she should, too.”

Santos narrowed his eyes at Jackson, promising payback, and escorted Ms. Hannover to the backup car. When Jackson and Claire got back to their own government-owned vehicle, Claire folded a towel and sat sideways with her feet on the ground as she scraped off her shoe. Behind the wheel, Jackson pulled all kinds of little-boy “ew” faces that she ignored entirely. She started cleaning her elbow with a fresh wet wipe.

“You were laughing,” she said to him.

“She caught me unawares,” he said. “Door opens, I see her in the buff, she bolts.”

“And you’ve been an agent for what, six seconds?” In truth, he had more time in the Bureau than she did. They’d partnered up in fugitives three years ago, and before that, he’d done years and years in white-collar crime—while she’d had just a handful of assignments as a new agent.

He shrugged unapologetically. “Whatevah,” he said, in his Southie accent.