Chapter Text
Thursday, May 12, 1983
14th Precinct Squad Room, Early Afternoon
The afternoon light slants through the dusty, high windows, striping the floor between their desks. Christine is slouched in her chair, legs kicked out in front of her, arms crossed, chin tipped down as she scrutinizes the texture of her foam coffee cup. She hasn’t touched the reports stacked in front of her.
The squad room is relatively quiet for once—just the low hum of phones, the staccato clack of typewriters, and a uniform officer clearing his throat over and over. An allergy sufferer, Christine guesses. Yeah, we’ve all got our problems, she thinks.
The stairwell door creaks open, and Mary Beth bustles in wearing her black blazer with a scrawled nametag—MRS. LACEY—and a grin of motherly triumph. She carries an embossed leaf-print paper bag in one hand and brushes lint from her slacks with the other.
“You would not believe the number of fourth graders who need to use the restroom at any given moment, Christine. I’m tellin’ ya, I worked up a sweat escorting all those little Jasons and Julies and Jamies back and forth. The teachers were thrilled to have a real live policewoman there—right up until I confiscated a water pistol filled with Hawaiian Punch from one of the little charmers.”
Christine offers her a half-smile, eyes still downcast.
“You didn’t miss much,” Mary Beth says. “No murders in the dinosaur exhibit. But I brought you something.” She approaches, pulling a small, tissue-wrapped package from the paper bag.
Christine perks up. “What is it?”
Mary Beth drops the package into Christine’s lap with a flourish. It’s very light, wrapped in bright green paper and sealed with a tiny stegosaurus sticker.
“Happy birthday, partner.”
“You remembered?”
“’Course I did. You think I’d forget the day the Queen of Midtown South was born?” Mary Beth drops into her desk chair and shrugs. “Last year on your birthday, we were stuck in holding with that guy who swallowed eight balloons of heroin. So this year’s lookin’ up, eh?”
Christine chuckles quietly and begins unwrapping the tissue paper. Inside is a keychain-sized plastic snow globe featuring the museum façade and, inexplicably, a tiny T. rex inside, surrounded by silver sparkles. Beneath it, the words New York City – Prehistoric Party.
Christine laughs despite herself. It’s a full laugh this time. Then, softer, “Thanks, Mary Beth.”
Mary Beth props her chin on one hand, watching her. “You okay? You were in a mood before I left. Worse now. What happened?”
Christine shrugs, shakes the snow globe once, and sets it beside the nameplate on her desk, watching the glitter-snow settle over the T. rex and the Museum of Natural History.
“Andrew canceled our dinner plans. Said he’s had a rough week at work.”
Mary Beth frowns. “Aw, on your birthday, Chris?”
She shrugs again. “I didn’t remind him it was my birthday. So I guess I can’t really blame him. Still feels like crap, though.”
“Come to my place, then. We’re havin’ spaghetti. The boys’ll be thrilled to hear the tale of the infamous balloon-smuggler again.”
Christine lifts her eyebrows. The idea of dinner in Jackson Heights—with two rowdy boys and Harv—might not be as elegant as a French bistro on Lexington, but it sounds warm. Real.
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Chris, you’re not imposing. You couldn’t. You’re family. Don’t be alone on your birthday—unless you want to be.”
Christine looks at her for a moment, eyes glossy but guarded. Then she nods.
“Okay. Thanks. But only if I get the first slice of garlic bread.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Detective.”
They both smile.