Chapter 8 – On the Strategic Value of Garlic Bread in American Police Promotions
Loren had worked under Sean for more than a year; their rapport was as comfortable as her own living room.
The moment she heard the boss had brought food, her round face lit up. Without a word she bounded over, snatched the paper bag from Sean's hand with the nimble speed of grabbing the last Krispy Kreme.
"Thanks, Sarge!"
Her voice rang with familiar cheer as she flipped the box open while speaking.
A rich aroma of garlic and butter instantly filled the air, making everyone's mouth water.
Yet she didn't start eating herself; instead she handed the slices out to colleagues one by one.
While Loren was distributing the goods, Sean cleared his throat to draw everyone's attention and gently nudged the slightly nervous Erin forward half a step.
"Alright folks, listen up."
Sean's voice carried, relaxed, as he gestured toward Erin:
"This is Erin Gresham, our newest officer and my new patrol partner. From now on she's one of the team—let's give her a warm Western Division welcome!"
The instant he finished, the squad room erupted with enthusiastic if scattered clapping mixed with friendly whistles.
Several veteran officers studied Erin with good-natured smiles.
Had she been a fresh academy grad, the old-timers would've hazed her and knocked her down a peg or two.
But the one the boss personally brought in—and his partner to boot?
The attitude had to be all sunshine and rainbows.
Lamb Dana, just accepting a crisp golden piece from Loren, paused with the bread at his lips, ears perking up at the key detail in Sean's words.
He froze, the focaccia hovering, brow creased in surprise as he looked at Sean.
"Boss?" His voice was muffled by the bread; he quickly pulled it away:
"You mean... you're going back to street patrol?"
Sean had already dragged over an empty rolling chair and dropped into it; the mechanism creaked softly.
He could've stayed comfortable in the administrative office as a glorified paper-pusher, but now he'd have to brave the elements on the streets again.
At the thought he heaved a long sigh, shoulders drooping:
"Yeah, exactly! Captain Winston says my street experience is 'overflowing,' so before my Detective promotion ceremony I have to 'prove myself' out there again and train a rookie."
"Whoa!"
"No way!"
"Welcome back, boss!"
The squad room exploded; cheers nearly lifted the ceiling tiles.
Darcy flashed a bright smile; Loren slapped her desk in excitement; even the usually stoic Carl grinned.
To them, working under Sean was paradise—low stress, good vibes, a veritable 'dream assignment' in the division.
Seeing him return, they were genuinely thrilled.
Seated, Sean watched his crew react like they'd won the lottery, the corner of his mouth twitching:
My nightmare, their dream come true!
Suddenly remembering something, he clapped his hands and stood, giving Loren instructions on his way out:
"Alright, welcome party's over! Loren, get Erin set up with a desk. I'm heading to the command office."
With that, he grabbed the remaining box of garlic bread; the paper bag rustled softly.
He strode toward headquarters—time to butter up Lieutenant Trist.
You think Officer Sean is corrupting American civil servants' integrity?
Bribery, you say?
Sounds like you really want a taste of getting tased.
In the magical land of America, we have our own terminology—'bribery' doesn't exist; we call it 'gifts' or 'tokens of appreciation.'
Look at those 'campaign contributions' politicians rake in, openly labeled 'fundraising' or 'donor support'—if that flies under the radar, anything can.
Six years at Western Division had let Sean weave a dense network; he knew everyone up and down the station house.
Beyond his own precinct—other divisions, even the FBI Field Office and DEA—he could always find a friendly contact.
On the way to the command room, plenty of colleagues passing by recognized the legendary officer who once 'enforced the law' with military-grade equipment on his shoulder, and shouts of greeting rose and fell.
He pushed open the command-room door to find Lieutenant Trist leaning her generous backside comfortably against the edge of a desk, chatting animatedly with her subordinates.
The moment she saw Sean walk in, she teased,
"Oh? If it isn't our Officer Horace! Free enough to grace us with your presence—already can't wait to show off the joy of your upcoming promotion?"
Sean was long used to this big-sister type who loved busting his chops; he handed the paper bag to Trist.
"Good bread—perfect for the kids' breakfast tomorrow."
For a middle-aged white woman to have reached the rank of Lieutenant was already impressive in the still male-dominated LAPD.
When Sean first joined, Trist had already been a veteran with two service stripes on her sleeve—markers for ten years' service—and now she'd earned a third.
Trist didn't stand on ceremony; she took the bag from Sean without hesitation, stashed it under her desk with practiced ease, not the slightest hint of embarrassment.
After all these years, declining would only create awkward distance.
Having gone a month without seeing Sean on 'administrative leave,' Trist asked how he'd been.
"I hear Captain Winston pulled you out of admin and sent you back to patrol?"
Sean merely nodded. To him the biggest difference was that desk work was cushy—punch in, punch out—while patrol paid overtime.
Patrol was a bit more demanding; even writing parking tickets earned him bonuses of fifty to two hundred bucks each.
Trist's next words answered a question Sean hadn't even asked.
"Know why Winston wants you back on the street?"
That piqued Sean's interest; he wanted the inside scoop and quickly asked why.
"Because this month is the Los Angeles Art Expo—lots of VIPs and celebrities will be attending."
Trist gestured at her command center, quieter than usual.
"It's not just you; plenty from admin have been reassigned to patrol. City Hall's budget is tight, staffing is thin, and with a major event like this, everyone gets pulled back to the line."
She drew Sean to the window and continued.
"Our Western Division still hasn't officially appointed a new chief, but it's basically locked in for Winston. They're just waiting for the Police Commission's paperwork. After this month, at the promotion ceremony, he'll become the new division commander, so during this critical period he has to drive crime stats down and boost clearance rates."
"Scare off the gang activity, reduce shootings and homicides; once the violent crime rate hits target numbers, Winston gets the corner office."
Listening to Trist spell it out, Sean finally understood—ah, no wonder Winston had dangled an extra twenty-five grand in salary to drag him back to patrol.
The department itself couldn't pocket surplus funds, so boosting officers' pay was the best way to secure loyalty for his own promotion path.
Spend the city's money, pave your own road to advancement.
He'd only been on administrative leave a month, yet so much had changed in the department politics.
Luckily Trist had filled him in—though... the single captain's bars on Winston's collar would soon be swapped for a commander's insignia.
Hearing Trist lay out all the politics, Sean figured the box of bread had been money well spent.
"Alright! I'm heading to the break room!"
Done chatting, with the clock nearing one PM, Sean decided to grab a power nap; only with enough rest could you finish the shift properly.
Trist waved him off, grumbling,
"If I didn't have three kids and a mortgage to feed, I'd live like you—never work overtime on weekends!"
Sean could only give an awkward laugh at her complaint.
Trist was already in the six-figure bracket, her yearly pre-tax hovering around one-fifty, and the longer she stayed on the force, the higher that pension would climb.
Exactly how much she took home after Uncle Sam took his cut depended on the IRS's mood.
"If you were single and childless like me, you could make the same choice."
He turned, gave her a view of his back, and sauntered off in style.
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