[Imprimatur] "It's just for a week, Izzy."
That's what her sergeant said when the reassignment came down. Bronzeville, Precinct 13. Not her territory, not her turf. Not her colleagues. Not her desk. Not her coffee pot. Not even her fucking favorite coffee cup.
"For fuck's sake, it's just a week. You know if I could do something I would. They've got too many out. But hey - while you're over there, maybe you could figure out what their secret is. Bring it back with you."
---
"Jesus fuckin' Christ." That's the reaction of her new lieutenant the first day she reports for duty in the Precinct 13 detective squad. Lieutenant John O'Malley. "I said a warm fucking body," he complains to the sergeant, Jerry Wolciezewick. "And look at what I get." Then, a glance up at Izzy. "Sit your ass down." It's a command, not a request.
And, as the sergeant stands to leave. "Keep me posted.."
[Izzy Montoya] Its just for a week. She closes her eyes, holding the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Exhales noisily through her mouth. Her mouth stays open, as if to say something, and then? Snaps shut again. they've got too many out. And a secret. "Secret to wealth, well-being and happi-fuckin-ness?" It's neat growled... but she drops her hand and looks up at Sarge - the man who's fought for her more than once, without ever asking her the most important question of all...
why.
So she nodded. She grabbed her shit, AND her favorite goddamn coffee cup, and reported to Precinct 13. In fuckin' Bronzeville.
---
She smirks. "Maybe a fuckin' Ice Queen is the warmest we fuckin' got." She stands for half a beat more. It's a contest of wills, and a command. She hesitates just long enough for him to know she does so because she wants too, not because he commanded her too. It's the little battles that keep life interesting, after all. She does sit though, and crosses one long leg over another, smoothing the dark material of her slacks over her thigh. She's often been told she walks and talks like a man. Even sitting like this - there's no mistaking her for a lady.
She folds her hands in her lap, and waits, gaze steady on O'Malley.
[Imprimatur] O'Malley gives Izzy a flat look, closed mouthed. He has that pale Irish skin and a red nose full of broken capillaries that give him the look of some comic drunk out of an old movie. Still, his eyes - flat as they are - are shrewd and direct, and his hands are big things, blunt. He has the build of a former boxer, solid underneath the fat that has slowly accumulated over the years.
"We have," he tells her, giving her that same flat look. " - the best fucking clearance rate this side of fucking Amsterdam here. You catch my meaning? Lowest fucking crime rate. Highest fucking solvency rate. In the past fucking three years the murder rate's down near about 20%." There's a low boast in there, but it doesn't inch into his voice. Clearance rate's how many murdered dead get solved, versus shunted off to the no-man's land of the cold case files. This shit matters to central administration. This shit makes careers.
"Robberies down 32%. Rapes, 13%. So you are here for one fucking week because two of my detectives are taking fucking paternity leave and another stubbed his goddamned toe. And in that week, you are not going to fuck it up for me. Hear? I've been through your fucking file. I don't want any miracle shit. We do fucking police work, we don't go looking for extra what we don't need. We get 'em open and we get 'em closed, and you are going to toe the line, or I will personally - "
A grimace. Whatever else he was going to say, he doesn't. Might've if she were a man, but fuckin' Christ - if he said it to a woman she might whine harassment. "Do we understand each other, Detective?"
[Izzy Montoya] She snorts, and a slow smirk curls across her lips. "If you've been through my fucking file, O'Malley, you'll notice that I have the highest fuckin' clearance record of my department. So as I see it, since your detectives are out playin pattycake, and another ain't got the sense god gave him to side step a desk - you've get the benefits of havin' the best. For a week."
A beat.
"ONLY a week." She smiles - a slow and not at all comfortable thing to see, as it seems quite a bit more like she'd cut him up and eat him raw, instead of something warm and inviting. "Or I'll personally..."
And she lets it fall, just like he does, with a chuckle. "Maybe in that time you'll learn I'm the last bitch that's gonna cry if you say you're gonna put your foot in my ass." She arches a brow, amused. "..sir."
[Imprimatur] "Ninety percent." O'Malley's level, direct. He doesn't seem to care about her smile, intimidating or not. The words are almost dead-soft, like unworked silver. "My detectives have a clearance rate of ninety percent.
"Your department is lucky to get past 65. On a good week. Toe the fucking line, you hear me? If I hear you're pulling some crackpot fucking theory out on a one and done, fucking up my numbers, I will personally pull your uvula outta your throat and shove it back down your tear ducts."
Without another word, O'Malley goes back to the reports on his desk. If she lingers, he cuts a look up at her. "Dismissed."
[Izzy Montoya] She stands "Aw, O'Malley. Remember that when I make you eat them goddamn words."
And with that, she turns and walks out. She'd better get a goddamn vacation out of this....
[Izzy Montoya] [Intell+investigation - COME ON KAHSEENO!]
That's what her sergeant said when the reassignment came down. Bronzeville, Precinct 13. Not her territory, not her turf. Not her colleagues. Not her desk. Not her coffee pot. Not even her fucking favorite coffee cup.
"For fuck's sake, it's just a week. You know if I could do something I would. They've got too many out. But hey - while you're over there, maybe you could figure out what their secret is. Bring it back with you."
---
"Jesus fuckin' Christ." That's the reaction of her new lieutenant the first day she reports for duty in the Precinct 13 detective squad. Lieutenant John O'Malley. "I said a warm fucking body," he complains to the sergeant, Jerry Wolciezewick. "And look at what I get." Then, a glance up at Izzy. "Sit your ass down." It's a command, not a request.
And, as the sergeant stands to leave. "Keep me posted.."
[Izzy Montoya] Its just for a week. She closes her eyes, holding the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Exhales noisily through her mouth. Her mouth stays open, as if to say something, and then? Snaps shut again. they've got too many out. And a secret. "Secret to wealth, well-being and happi-fuckin-ness?" It's neat growled... but she drops her hand and looks up at Sarge - the man who's fought for her more than once, without ever asking her the most important question of all...
why.
So she nodded. She grabbed her shit, AND her favorite goddamn coffee cup, and reported to Precinct 13. In fuckin' Bronzeville.
---
She smirks. "Maybe a fuckin' Ice Queen is the warmest we fuckin' got." She stands for half a beat more. It's a contest of wills, and a command. She hesitates just long enough for him to know she does so because she wants too, not because he commanded her too. It's the little battles that keep life interesting, after all. She does sit though, and crosses one long leg over another, smoothing the dark material of her slacks over her thigh. She's often been told she walks and talks like a man. Even sitting like this - there's no mistaking her for a lady.
She folds her hands in her lap, and waits, gaze steady on O'Malley.
[Imprimatur] O'Malley gives Izzy a flat look, closed mouthed. He has that pale Irish skin and a red nose full of broken capillaries that give him the look of some comic drunk out of an old movie. Still, his eyes - flat as they are - are shrewd and direct, and his hands are big things, blunt. He has the build of a former boxer, solid underneath the fat that has slowly accumulated over the years.
"We have," he tells her, giving her that same flat look. " - the best fucking clearance rate this side of fucking Amsterdam here. You catch my meaning? Lowest fucking crime rate. Highest fucking solvency rate. In the past fucking three years the murder rate's down near about 20%." There's a low boast in there, but it doesn't inch into his voice. Clearance rate's how many murdered dead get solved, versus shunted off to the no-man's land of the cold case files. This shit matters to central administration. This shit makes careers.
"Robberies down 32%. Rapes, 13%. So you are here for one fucking week because two of my detectives are taking fucking paternity leave and another stubbed his goddamned toe. And in that week, you are not going to fuck it up for me. Hear? I've been through your fucking file. I don't want any miracle shit. We do fucking police work, we don't go looking for extra what we don't need. We get 'em open and we get 'em closed, and you are going to toe the line, or I will personally - "
A grimace. Whatever else he was going to say, he doesn't. Might've if she were a man, but fuckin' Christ - if he said it to a woman she might whine harassment. "Do we understand each other, Detective?"
[Izzy Montoya] She snorts, and a slow smirk curls across her lips. "If you've been through my fucking file, O'Malley, you'll notice that I have the highest fuckin' clearance record of my department. So as I see it, since your detectives are out playin pattycake, and another ain't got the sense god gave him to side step a desk - you've get the benefits of havin' the best. For a week."
A beat.
"ONLY a week." She smiles - a slow and not at all comfortable thing to see, as it seems quite a bit more like she'd cut him up and eat him raw, instead of something warm and inviting. "Or I'll personally..."
And she lets it fall, just like he does, with a chuckle. "Maybe in that time you'll learn I'm the last bitch that's gonna cry if you say you're gonna put your foot in my ass." She arches a brow, amused. "..sir."
[Imprimatur] "Ninety percent." O'Malley's level, direct. He doesn't seem to care about her smile, intimidating or not. The words are almost dead-soft, like unworked silver. "My detectives have a clearance rate of ninety percent.
"Your department is lucky to get past 65. On a good week. Toe the fucking line, you hear me? If I hear you're pulling some crackpot fucking theory out on a one and done, fucking up my numbers, I will personally pull your uvula outta your throat and shove it back down your tear ducts."
Without another word, O'Malley goes back to the reports on his desk. If she lingers, he cuts a look up at her. "Dismissed."
[Izzy Montoya] She stands "Aw, O'Malley. Remember that when I make you eat them goddamn words."
And with that, she turns and walks out. She'd better get a goddamn vacation out of this....
[Izzy Montoya] [Intell+investigation - COME ON KAHSEENO!]
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