LAPD Exploited Kids Division was housed at Headquarters, Downtown but Rhea had sometimes worked out of Hollywood division on Wilcox. It was nestled in a homey little block of ’60’s apartments and Jacaranda trees, two blocks south of a Popeye’s Chicken on Sunset Boulevard. The lighting was bad and there was an actors’ union ATM machine in the lobby. Rhea kept a spare notepad in the desk there that she shared with Strickland. It was one of those little rainbow pads that come in a four pack. She went there later that day, after she’d left Dr. Gallows, had some thick French toast at Aloha cafe then walked all over downtown trying to figure out what to do.
She grabbed her notepad out of her desk drawer, turned to leave and faced the two hundred and sixty pound slab of reality that was Detective Matt Strickland. He was just coming in. It was awkward for a few seconds.
“I was just getting my notepad.” she muttered, not wanting to look him in the eye.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“OK… catching up on a lot of tv. I got Netflix. Have you ever seen Breaking–”
“I meant with the therapy–”
“I know.”
“Have you gone?”
“Yes. Twice.”
“Good.” He lingered, wanting to say something; unsure if he should.
“What?” she prompted him.
“Do you want out? Is that why you… did that. “Cause if you want out–”
“No. I don’t want out.”
“Then why–” he started to ask again.
“It’s how I deal, Strickland. That’s all. It’s just how I deal.” she offered.
“The hell’s the matter with booze?” he wanted to know. “Or even pot if you wanted to break the law – Dirkshire and the Lieut would let it slide – but not this, not some–
“I didn’t break the law.” She reminded him. “And pot’s legal now.”
“Yes. OK. But we are supposed to be looking out for kids, here–”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry, OK?” She wanted him to understand, at least a little.
“Look…” she let out a long breath and gave in to some of the truth, “They remind me of when I was happy.”
“They?”
“No– I meant–” she tried to recover but he stopped her.
“Fix it, Rhea. Fix the… ‘need’ and come back.”
She nodded. “I will.”
As he opened the door for her to leave, she looked at the dents in it, kicked in from a thousand angry cops taking out their frustrations. As she walked by him, she paused and asked him, ““How do you deal?”
He looked at her, hard. He’d known her so long; since she was sixteen. He’d seen her scared and he’d seen her brave. He’d seen her fight, learn, cry. He’d seen her chase down a lead with no sleep for three days straight. He’d seen her give up. He’d seen her start over. He’d seen her kill. He’d seen her hate. Lord knows he’d seen her eat. But looking at her now, he realized he’d never seen her love.
“I garden.” he answered, a little annoyed she didn’t remember; she’d seen his garden a thousand times. She’d lived in it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Fix it.” He said again and walked away.
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