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Cries of a Shadow	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2757 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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Straight-backed uniformed wait staff crisscrossed the floor of City Hall’s ballroom. With silver trays held aloft, they glided effortlessly through the crowd, their blank expressions cleverly masking the tedium of serving champagne and hors d'oeuvres to equally bored guests. Dozens of white-clothed tables adorned with elaborate arrangements of hydrangeas and magnolias gave refuge to the honored attendees who were either too tired or too disinterested to mingle with the men and women gathered in cliques throughout the room. From their position on a small raised platform, a string quartet provided a pleasant auditory backdrop to the chatter of voices, the dulcet tones swelling and falling like a warm summer breeze. It was the party event of the year, and for the mayor’s wife, the soirée was an opportunity to gain the enviable reputation of perfect hostess; for her guests, it was a grandiose display of autocratic superiority. But needs must when the devil drives, and none of the invitees would ever consider not attending. It was a chance to socialize with the powers that be, and, through clever manipulation, curry favor with those who had the ability to advance careers. Consequently, the mayor’s annual police gala became a masquerade ball of fake smiles and carefully nuanced conversations. In summary, it was an unspoken but silently acknowledged farce, which everyone—except the chief executive officer and his wife—grudgingly accepted as a part of life as a city employee.
Partly hidden from view by a tall fern decoratively ensconced in an ornate jardinière, Booker tugged at his collar, the unfamiliar dress shirt and tie annoyingly distracting. Keen to make contact with the strange officer who was now his partner, he scanned the crowded room. His dark eyes flitted from one black tuxedo to another, eager for a glimpse of the beautiful face that had captured his imagination and stolen his heart. It was an obsession, and his mind became so fixated on the sea of expressionless features, he didn’t notice Penhall until the larger than life officer clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, pal, how’s it hangin’?”
Booker jumped at the unexpected contact, the involuntary movement sending Dom Pérignon spilling from the crystal champagne saucer held in his hand. Setting his glass down on a conveniently located table, he used the corner of the white linen tablecloth to wipe the pale gold liquid from his fingers. “Geez, Penhall,” he grinned. “Never sneak up on a guy wearing a rented tux.”
Penhall returned a smile and grabbing a salmon puff from a passing waiter, he stuffed it into his mouth. “Rented, huh?” he inquired through a mouthful of food. “You might wanna think about buying one. Jump Street’s the mayor’s baby, which means we get invited to a lot of these events. We’re his pride and joy, and he loves to brag how great we are at cleaning up the streets of L.A.”
Unimpressed, Booker fiddled with the knot of his tie. The last thing he wanted was to become a performing puppet on the mayor’s political stage. “I didn’t sign up to be one of Mayor Wilkins’ political pawns,” he muttered. “And anyway, isn’t this s’posed to be a secret assignment? What’s the point of going undercover if everyone knows what we’re doing?”
Hulking his shoulders into a shrug, Penhall wiped the crumbs from the front of his shirt. “Beats me. It’s all about statistics. But so long as crime rates keep declining, the program stays open, and that, my friend, means I get to keep doin’ a job I love.”
“I guess,” Booker murmured, his tone distracted. From across the room, he’d spied a familiar face, a face that had the power to send his heart into an arrhythmic flutter, a face so beautiful, he wondered if anyone else would ever compare.
“Are you okay?” Penhall asked, his brows knitting in concern. “You look kinda flushed.”
Booker remained silent, his eyes fixed on the vision walking toward him. Confused by the dark-haired officer’s odd behavior, Penhall followed his gaze. It didn’t take long for him to spy Tom, and his eyebrows raised in surprise before his face split into a teasing grin. “Hey, man, do you have a thing for Hanson?”
Shocked back to reality by the question, Booker’s mouth twisted into an angry scowl. “What the fuck are you talking about? Of course I don’t! It’s this suit. How am I s’posed to breathe with this damn tie choking me to death?”
A humorous twinkle shone in Penhall’s eyes, but rather than provoke his new friend, he graciously let the matter go. “Sorry, my mistake,” he apologized before raising a hand and beckoning to Tom. “Hey, Hanson, over here.”
As the young officer approached, Booker struggled to maintain his composure. Dressed in a black tuxedo, white wing collar shirt, bow tie, and shiny leather Oxfords, Tom was a vision of stylish sophistication. Although his unruly brown hair was swept back in a casual ponytail, it did not distract from the overall effect, and Booker found himself suitably impressed. The contrast between the scruffy, nervous officer he’d met a mere eighteen hours before, and the composed young man walking toward him was mind-blowing, and it was then he remembered Penhall’s warning: “He’s like a Jekyll and Hyde. In the field, he’s confident, makes snap decisions, and he can goof off like any teenager. But it’s a charade, a character he plays to nail the bad guys. The real Hanson is the one who just scurried outa here with his tail between his legs. I’m tellin’ you, man, he’s fuckin’ crazy. Consider yourself warned.”
The memory was stronger than the spoken words, and a tingle of uncertainty raised the fine hairs on the back of Booker’s neck. What he’d dismissed as workplace gossip had suddenly manifested into a cautionary tale of a man unhinged. But was it as bad as Penhall portrayed? Having spoken to Tom for only a few minutes, Booker couldn’t say for certain. However, he wasn’t one to take another’s word as gospel, and so he decided to keep an open mind and let their relationship play out. He told himself it had nothing to do with the young officer’s sexual appeal—he’d already determined Tom was probably straight—but he knew he was fooling himself. It was the law of nature; beautiful people garnered more attention, and people often did judge a book by its cover. Hanson might be crazy, but he sure as hell looked good doing it.
The last thought brought a smile to Booker’s lips, and chuckling softly, he didn’t notice Tom standing next to him until the young officer spoke. “Something funny?”
Caught off guard, Booker’s eyes refocused. “What? No...I mean, hey.”
One corner of Tom’s mouth tilted into a slow smile. “Hey, yourself,” he greeted, and turning to Penhall, he gave a stiff nod. “Doug.”
“Hanson,” Penhall reciprocated before deciding to have some fun. “You know, you might find this interesting. I was just asking Dennis if he had a cr—”
“CRAVING FOR A BEER,” Booker shouted over the top of Penhall, his voice easily drowning out the word crush.
Several heads turned and stared at the three officers. Confused by the bizarre exchange, Tom’s eyes flitted from Booker to Penhall and back again. He was used to being the butt of everyone’s jokes and he wondered if the two officers were plotting something designed to embarrass him. “Um, I dunno,” he replied warily. “Maybe. Why?”
“No reason,” Booker reassured while glaring at Doug, his raised eyebrows signaling the officer to shut the fuck up and follow his lead. “We were just talking.”
Satisfied he wasn’t under attack, Tom gave a half smile, his interest waning. He turned away and stared at the musicians, a faraway look in his eyes. Classical music wasn’t really his taste, but he could appreciate the skill it took for the quartet to create such an emotive melody of sound. He likened it to a stimulating conversation between four intelligent people, an expression of one’s innermost thoughts, and he wished he knew the name of the piece they were playing. For the briefest of moments, he considered asking someone, but he knew he would only end up looking foolish. While his fancy attire helped reinvent his persona from shy, awkward Tom to calm, graceful Tom, thereby affording him some level of confidence, initiating conversation was still out of the question. However, if he could have come as his Jump Street alter-ego, he was certain he could walk up to any stranger and quiz them about the enchanting piece of music that somehow managed to complement the heady aroma wafting from the table bouquets. Tom McQuaid didn’t take shit from anyone, he was outgoing, opinionated, and funny without compromising his gentler side. He was, in Tom’s opinion, the perfect guy, and he wished he had the ability to invoke his spirit at will. But he didn’t. In his case, the clothes definitely made the man, and without his ripped jeans, scuffed boots, and trusty bandanna, he was plain old Tom Hanson, the fall guy for everyone's jokes.
With his partner momentarily distracted, Booker took the opportunity to cast an appreciative eye over his slight frame. From behind, the young officer cut a dashing figure. Although not broad, his straight shoulders gave him an air of authority, his slender hips a more boyish appearance, the contrast leaving the observer guessing. He could be in his twenties or mid-teens, at first glance, it was almost impossible to tell. However, upon closer observation, there were subtle signs that gave his age away. Faint black smudges beneath his eyes indicated the weariness of late hours in a stressful job, his brow no longer as smooth as it had been in high school. But Booker knew he was nitpicking. Tom had a youthful vibrancy that was unlikely to fade with the passing of time. He was, in a word, perfection.
“See anything you like?”
A deep blush stained Booker’s cheeks. He’d been blissfully unaware his surreptitious ogling had caught Penhall’s attention, and he tried to hide his embarrassment by giving a nonchalant shrug. “There’s some talent here. The woman in the strapless red dress is pretty hot.”
“Really?” Penhall teased, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Are you sure it’s her you’re interested in?”
Before Booker could answer, Tom turned around. Immediately, the dark-haired officer noticed a marked change in his demeanor. Gone was the gentle smile, his expression now punctuated with glimmers of stress. Curious, the dark-haired officer scanned the crowd, searching for the cause of the young officer’s distress. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall, heavyset man in his mid-to-late-twenties approach their small group. Dressed in a plain black suit, there was a vague familiarity around the man’s eyes, and it was then Booker realized why. Will Hanson was about to join the conversation.
Turning his attention back to Tom, he laid a comforting hand on his arm. “Hey, man, are you okay?”
Tom yanked his arm away, his eyes panicked. “Don’t,” he hissed in a low, conspiratorial voice. “He won’t like it.”
The odd comment brought a frown to Booker’s brow. From what Penhall had told him, Tom and Will were thick as thieves, and therefore, it made no sense for Will to have a problem with Tom socializing with his coworkers. Unless, of course, the brothers were hiding something, the stress of which would account for Tom’s nervous disposition. It was an interesting theory, and although Booker knew it was none of his business, he could not quell his curiosity. Something was off, and he wanted to know what.
Wearing a wide grin, Will walked up behind Tom and clapped a large hand on the back of his slim neck. “So, are you going to introduce me to your new friend, Tom-Tom?” he asked, his dark eyes staring directly at Booker.
To the casual observer, it was a friendly display of brotherly affection, but to Booker, it was a brutal exhibition of power and dominance. There was a noticeable look of pain on Tom’s face, but the young officer remained silent, his eyes fixed on the floor; unseeing, strangely accepting of the discomfort his brother was inflicting upon him. Then there was the odd choice of nickname. For Booker, it was a disturbing insight into the brothers’ relationship, and he shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to speak out or stay silent.
“Cat gotcha tongue, Tom-Tom?” Will joked, his smile broadening. But his eyes remained cold, devoid of any emotion, his detached expression sending a chill down Booker’s spine.
Blushing a deep shade of red, Tom struggled to find his voice. “Um, n-no,” he stammered, his lips twitching into a weak smile. “Th-this is Booker—I mean D-Dennis Booker. He’s n-new to Jump Street.”
A flicker of annoyance flashed in Will’s eyes, but after giving Booker the once over, the older officer released Tom’s neck and stuck out his hand. “That’s great!” he beamed, his left hand slapping down on Tom’s shoulder. “Maybe you can coax Tom-Tom out of his shell. He’s worked at Jump Street for nearly two years, and he still hasn’t made any friends.”
Unimpressed by the disparaging remark, Booker stared at the proffered hand before giving it a reluctant shake. He was one hundred percent certain the last thing Will wanted was for him to befriend Tom, which made him all the more determined to do so. Obnoxious bullies like Will Hanson were especially irritating, but the mayor’s cocktail party was neither the time nor the place to give the bastard a piece of his mind. Instead, he flashed him an engaging smile. “Yeah? Well, I’ve got a feeling that’s about to change. I think we’re gonna get along just great.”
Surprise widened Tom’s eyes, but he quickly ducked his head, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Although Booker had teased him during their first meeting, he was the first officer to vocalize an interest in forming any type of friendship with him. Most of his coworkers ignored him outside of work, his timid personality making it difficult for him to fit in. Therefore, it was pleasantly reassuring to know someone found him interesting, and he wondered what it would be like to have a partner he could confide in. Not that he’d actually reveal anything too intimate about his life, but just knowing someone considered him worthy of their friendship would be a refreshing change. His last friend had been in middle school, a boy by the name of Robbie Robinson. But after his mother’s death, they had drifted apart, with Robbie unwilling to deal with his mood swings. But it appeared all that was about to change. If Booker were true to his word, he might finally have someone to hang out with after spending eleven and a half years on his own with only his brother for company. Maybe his life was finally about to change for the better.
When Penhall and Will went in search of the drink's waiter, Booker took the opportunity to speak to Tom alone. “So, I was thinking we could grab a bite tomorrow and go over our assignment? How ‘bout twelve o’clock at Nino’s?”
Although thrilled with the invitation, Tom found it difficult to push aside his apprehension. Life had taught him to expect disappointment, and he wasn’t sure if Booker were setting him up as a joke or if he really wanted to meet him for a chat. Indecision creased his brow, and his gaze strayed nervously around the room. More than anything he wanted to accept, but the words stuck in his throat. “I...um...I—”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Booker grinned, his gaze firmly fixed on Tom’s face.
“Um, okay,” Tom replied, a shy smile gracing his lips. But his nerves soon got the better of him and placing his glass of champagne on the table, he shuffled awkwardly. “I...er, I’m gonna get a beer,” and without waiting for Booker to reply, he turned and walked away.
“So, whaddya think of Will? Pretty cool, huh?”
Somewhat surprised Penhall had returned without him noticing, Booker turned his head and shot him a brief glance before his gaze once again focused on Tom’s retreating back. “Yeah,” he replied. “Maybe a little too cool.”
The clever use of a homonym was lost on Penhall. If he’d seen the disapproving glint in Will Hanson’s eyes, he did not allude to it. Instead, he gave Booker’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Time to mingle. Will’s talking to the mayor, want me to introduce you?”
The last thing Booker wanted to do was meet the mayor or spend any more time in Will Hanson’s company. What he wanted was to find Ton, and so he decided to employ a stalling tactic. “In a minute,” he replied. “I need to use the restroom.”
The muscles in Penhall’s face twisted into a grimace. “That’s a little too much information, but go ahead, I’ll see you later.”
Distracted, Booker lost sight of Tom in the crowd of black-suited men, and his brow wrinkled in annoyance. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll find you,” he muttered with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Rather than take offense, Penhall smiled inwardly. Despite Booker’s protestations to the contrary, it was obvious he was more interested in talking to Tom than him. “Sure you will,” he murmured, and draining the last of his champagne, he went in search of the mayor.
**
After unlocking the door of apartment 222, Tom walked toward his bedroom, a dreamy smile curling his lips. “That was some party. I think the mayor’s wife outdid herself this—”
Pain exploded in the back of his head, and crying out, he fell to his knees. With his mind in a daze, he struggled to comprehend what was happening, but he was incapable of rational thought. Moments later, the physical effects of his injury took hold, and his stomach lurched, sending the room into a spin. Instinctively, he attempted to rise, one hand held out in front of him, seeking help from an invisible entity. But his injury was too severe, and with a groan, his limbs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor. “Will,” he mumbled before everything turned black and he slipped into a state of unconsciousness.
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Cries of a Shadow