The Profiler. Lori A. May

      Just six days back in my hometown and I’m already jaded. But for me, returning to New York City means more than a paycheck.

      “You clean up good, kid.”

      I eyeball Cain and reach for my coffee, contemplating the remaining hours of my elective double shift. No one wants to work on holidays, and I’ve quickly learned Thanksgiving is generally “volunteered” by singles such as myself. It’s as though the world assumes a person has nothing to do on a holiday if there’s no one to go home to. Whatever. It’s just another shift, and I’m indifferent to what the calendar has to say.

      I settle into paperwork, trying to produce order in my new work environment, though it’s not so easy with Cain’s files scattered throughout the office. Now that he no longer has this ten-by-ten-foot box to himself, I suppose the both of us will have to get used to sharing the quaint space. I just want to get some of the clutter organized this morning so I can get home before the Macy’s parade kicks in and holiday hell breaks out on the streets.

      Cain tosses a balled-up scrap of paper at me and says, “Angie, look pretty.”

      When I meet his eyes to give a few words of wisdom, I see we are no longer alone in Cain’s twenty-third-floor office at 26 Federal Plaza.

      “This is Detective Carson Severo from the Fifth Precinct, down on Elizabeth. My darling protégée, you are looking at one of NYPD’s finest.”

      The detective dons a humble frown, but it does little to affect his overall appearance. He looks as though he’s been on the job all night, too, but it doesn’t bring him below nine on a scale of one to ten. Ten would be too assuming. Though one thing I can assume with ease is this boy is homebred Italian.

      Severo extends his hand to shake mine and asks, “How are ya?” in just enough of an accent. My observation is confirmed.

      I study his dark brown eyes, focus and reply. “Molto bene, grazie.” His head tilts a little, and I can see his analytical senses are sizing me up.

      In a cautious voice, he asks, “Parla italiano?”

      “Un po’,” I say, before returning my focus to the stacks of paper.

      “Ignore her.” Cain hands the detective a mug of black coffee. “Or she’ll start in on Russian or Japanese next and we’ll both be screwed.”

      The detective’s brow rises. “Impressive.”

      “Yeah, she’s got her mind set on grandiose things, all right. Got in on that Foreign Language Proficiency jazz they’re doing in Quantico nowadays,” Cain explains, and I try to ignore that I’m being talked about within hearing distance. “Anyways, good to see you. What brings ya by?”

      I let my peripheral vision remain aware as to Severo’s presence, but return intent on getting these files caught up. As soon as this report is out the door, so am I.

      “Heard you got Zeus tonight. Figured I should drop by and extend my congrats.”

      Cain sets his ass on top of his desk, gently relaxing his posture into that casual, confident slouch I have seen on a daily basis. I’ve been in this office six days, but the old guy’s habits are as easy to read as a popup book.

      “My, oh my, news travels fast,” he says, slurping at his office brew. “Sure as shit we did. Couldn’t have done it, though, without this one,” he adds, poking a finger in my direction.

      “Is that so?”

      I meet the detective’s glance to measure his comment, but he simply offers me a friendly nod.

      “Hell if I could pass as a foreign hooker.” Cain’s crusty laugh sends a shiver up my spine. He’s a skilled profiler, but the guy could use some social skills. “My girl Angie’s got what it takes, if you know what I mean.”

      I toss a discarded wet tea bag at my mentor, but it lands in a corner bucket containing Cain’s dying six-foot-tall, leafy plant.

      “Now that I think of it,” Cain says, as he watches me stuff my file folders into an internal mail envelope, “maybe you can be of some assistance to me.”

      “How so?”

      “I need to grease her up for the field, show her what New York is all about, from the gritty perspective, you know? Seems to me, with you dealing with a variety of crap on a daily basis, you might come across something meaty to share.”

      “I’m more of the finders, keepers theory, Cain. Unless something comes up that’s task force related…”

      “Ah, come on. I’m not talking about running off with your caseload, Detective.” I watch as Cain jabs Severo in the side, and I wonder what is it that makes guys display camaraderie through physical force. “I’m just asking for a hand, is all.”

      I feel the detective’s eyes on me as I shoulder my bag and prepare to head home. “But Cain—” he leans in, whispering to my mentor “—it looks to me like you’ll need more than that.”

      “What do you think—carrots or corn?”

      I don’t wait for a reply. My stomach is alerting me of my hunger, and all I want is to wolf down this Thanksgiving spread and get back out there before the sun goes down. The nap did me good, but too many hours at home can lead to too much thought. And my mind’s no place to wander on a holiday—not without my father in my life.

      “Since you’re not arguing, it’s corn.” The two plates are dressed as though our dinner is formal, but right here—the apartment I grew up in—it’s always been casual. “Dinner’s on!”

      I set the food down and light a few candles to make this evening’s meal ambient. With a little jazz in the background, reminding me of my father’s favorite choice of music, I almost feel at home again. Though I’ve been back in the city for nearly a week, I have yet to unpack most of my things from Virginia and transform my teenage-style bedroom into one that will represent who I am now.

      I’m itching to rediscover the neighborhood and absorb all the changes Chelsea has been through over the years. It was more than four years ago when I ventured off to Michigan to pursue my degree, and then went to Quantico for training. But now that I’m back to my native grounds, I want to dig my heels in deep and feel at home again.

      It’ll be no small feat, considering that the last time I lived here my father was alive. Getting past the hurt and anger will not be easy, especially surrounded by constant reminders of his existence. But I know he would have wanted me to live my life to the fullest. I’m going to do all I can to live up to his reputation and make him proud. Wherever he is.

      Taking my seat, I hear the familiar footsteps approach. Welcoming my dinner partner, I return focus to the holiday meal. “My, you’re a mighty fine fella. Thanks for joining me.”

      Muddy lifts his heavy body to the two-seater dining room table and I smooth down his wrinkles. The drool starts from his bloodhound folds, but I don’t mind. It’s in his nature. And he’s been the best damn friend I’ve ever had.

      Maybe this isn’t your typical family meal for a holiday, but I’ve never lived in a Norman Rockwell portrait. Since Dad… Well, the family’s not a big unit where I come from, so I make do with what and who I have.

      As soon as I get settled, I’ll be insisting Grandma David pack her things and move home from Detroit. I know returning to NYC will be painful, with so many reminders of what happened to my father within a stone’s throw. But if I can keep that extra connection to him in any way possible, I will. Reuniting her to the city, now that I’m back, has to help in the healing process.

      Hopefully, for both of us.

      “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

      “How long has it been since your last confession?”

      With time to spare before my next shift, I’ve detoured to Gramercy Park for a moment of family nostalgia.