TITLE: A Conversation with Denise That Turns Ugly
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. (Well, not anymore. Jackasses.) I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.

Jill had spoken truth. She’d played Lindsay like a patent fool and really shouldn’t have possessed the information she’d used against her, but she did have reality in her corner.

Claire may have spoken even more truth. All afternoon long, Lindsay had been unable to shake off Claire’s outburst, and the somewhat startling prospect that Claire might have been right about more than a few things.

The last thing that she wanted to engage in at the moment was another dialogue with either of them. They would only try to convince her that she had a mad thing for Cindy. Fine, she’d bite. It was possible she had a mad thing for Cindy, but she still didn’t have anything to say to her. Not yet.

Unfortunately, she still had to work, which was how she again ended up walking the hall to Jill’s office. When Jill called down and asked for the file, Lindsay was somewhat suspicious that Jill really just wanted another crack at her, but when she got to Jill’s door with said file, Jill wasn’t waiting in her office with a selection of torture devices with which to interrogate her like Lindsay thought she would be. Surprised, but kind of grateful, Lindsay planned to just drop the file by later, on her way out, when she had no time to chat.

“Boxer.”

Lindsay inwardly cringed at the sharp voice that halted her progress.

“What’s the matter? Get lost on the way to your desk?”

Turning to face Denise as she came up behind her, Lindsay pasted on a workplace friendly smile.

“Jill asked me to bring this file up to her, but she isn’t in her office,” Lindsay explained.

“Uh huh,” Denise responded with a curt nod. “Slacker.”

Continuing past Lindsay, Denise motioned for her to follow her into her office. Not particularly wanting to do that, Lindsay followed only as far as the doorway.

“So could you maybe just give it to her?” Lindsay requested lightly.

“Do you think it’s in my job description to keep an eye on Bernhardt’s evidence?”

“Since you’re her boss, I think it is actually,” Lindsay responded, surprisingly intimidated at the moment by Denise’s killer glare. “What difference does it make? You are on the same side right? You do the same job?”

“Fine,” Denise stated, putting her hand out for the file. Two long strides and Lindsay was dropping it into her hand. “Thank you for your help from the bottom of the District Attorney office’s collective heart.”

“Okay then,” Lindsay said, more than glad it was over, and beelined for the door.

“Wait,” Denise called. “While you’re here, I actually could use you for something.”

Stopping with dread, Lindsay turned back to Denise, without offering any words of encouragement.

“Does your redhead like chocolate?”

Lindsay sighed, barely managing to conceal a severe eye roll. Jill had told Denise? Seriously? No. She might lie to her and embarrass the hell out of her, but Jill would never betray her confidence like that. Especially not with Denise.

Lindsay looked at the wall connecting Denise’s office with Jill’s. Recalling Jill’s previous mentions of how thin the office walls were, she gave it a glare.

But even if she had overheard, Denise really felt the need to get in the middle of it? Since when did Denise help anyone but herself?

“Is it too difficult a question for you?” Denise asked. “Should I rephrase?”

Withholding a heartfelt and mightily pissy retort, Lindsay leveled Denise with a glower. “Yes, Cindy likes chocolate.”

“Any particular kind?”

“Pretty much any particular kind,” Lindsay responded.

“And flowers?” Denise continued. “What’s her favorite?”

Lindsay deliberated for a minute, hard, coming up with an even harder answer.

“I don’t know,” she admitted in a whisper.

“Really? Hm. I thought you two were close,” Denise smirked.

“We are close,” Lindsay fiercely asserted.

“Okay. It doesn’t really matter. I’ll just go with roses,” Denise uttered. “It’s a little boring, but they usually get the job done.”

Still reeling from what felt like a demotion of hers and Cindy’s relationship, it took Lindsay a moment to comprehend the words that were just spoken. Never mind the fact that even if she weren’t reeling, they made absolutely no sense.

“What did you say?”

“Roses,” Denise repeated. “It’s English. Do you want a dictionary?”

“You,” Lindsay emphasized with a finger pointed directly at Denise’s chest, “are buying flowers for Cindy?”

At Denise’s satisfied nod, Lindsay felt her protective streak snap to like a fox that just scented a rabbit.

“Why? What did you do to her?”

She doubted that Denise’s flowers were an offering of apology on her behalf like Tom’s and Heather’s had been.

“Nothing. It’s more like what I’m going to do to her.”

Brain unable to wrap around the phrase, because it had to have heard it wrong, Lindsay froze for a moment. A minute later, Denise gave her a little head waggle indicating she either needed to say something or get out of her office.

“You hate Cindy,” Lindsay reminded her. “Remember? What’s she doing here? Cut her off. Any of this sound familiar?”

“All of it,” Denise admitted. “I hate her. I hate everybody. It doesn’t mean she’s not supremely fuckable. I don’t buy flowers for love, Inspector Boxer. I find they are just as useful in persuasion. And that redhead definitely looks like she has aptitude in the sexual arts.”

The growl escaped her before Lindsay could stop it. Surprised by the threatening sound, Denise glanced up with mild interest. Battling the natural impulse to hurl herself across Denise’s desk and claw her eyes out, Lindsay forced a laugh.

“Go ahead, Denise. Try. Cindy would never go out with you.”

“No?”

“Never,” Lindsay emphasized. “Cindy thinks you are a cold, spiteful bitch who uses the authority of her job to treat everyone like crap and who can’t hold her liquor.”

“Is that what Cindy says or what you say?”

“I would never say that about you,” Lindsay put on innocence. “I could get fired.”

“Well then,” Denise replied, “I’ll take her opinion of me under advisement while I’m fucking her brains out on my twelve-hundred-count Egyptian Cotton sheets.”

Never had one lone statement so confused Lindsay’s brain. Or her body. The instantaneous image of Cindy arched against expensive bedding was pleasantly torturous, but there wasn’t anything pleasant about Denise being the other half of the apparition.

“Right,” Lindsay exhaled. “I’m going to go, you know, back to work, and pretend that you didn’t just completely embarrass yourself. And, listen, don’t feel too bad when Cindy rejects you. She just has these pesky little things called standards.”

Lindsay contemplated ‘accidentally’ breaking the big vase by Denise’s office door on the way out, but resisted.

“Oh Inspector,” Denise called to her again.

When Lindsay turned back, Denise wore the same look that she sometimes put on in the courtroom, that frozen, confident smile of victory.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Denise queried, and shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”