Chapter 2: The Blindfolded Taste Test
The taste of fake orange and Amy’s skin lingered for days. It became a phantom sense memory, flickering to life at the worst moments—during a witness interrogation, while filling out paperwork, in the silent elevator ride up to the bullpen. Jake found himself staring at the water stain on the ceiling Amy had focused on, as if it held some clue he’d missed.
Amy, for her part, had weaponized her professionalism.Her blouses were buttoned an inch higher. Her binders were more organized than ever.She addressed him exclusively in clipped, case-related statements. “Peralta, the Meyerholtz file.” “Peralta, your turn for the coffee run.” It was like the Jell-O shot incident had been redacted from an official record.
Which is why the text from Gina that Thursday afternoon hit like a flashbang.
Linetti (3:14 PM):
Court reconvenes.5 PM.Evidence Locker.Dress for degustation.
Jake’s thumbs hovered over the screen. He felt a quick, sharp thrill, followed by a pang of something like fear.Peralta (3:16 PM):
Degustation? Is that a sex thing or a food thing?
Linetti (3:16 PM):
Yes.Don’t be late.Santiago’s already prepping.
The air left his lungs in a rush.Prepping. The word conjured images of Amy in a sterile room, methodically preparing herself like a subject for a medical experiment.It made his stomach tighten.
At 4:59 PM, the evidence locker hummed with a low, electrical anxiety. The usual funereal quiet of the place was distorted by the presence of people breathing. The fluorescent tubes buzzed, flickering occasionally and casting long, dancing shadows from the tall shelves crammed with sealed bags of clothing, weapons, and miscellaneous grimness.Amy stood with her back against one of the cold, green metal shelves. She was wearing a simple black tank top. Her hands were behind her, looped through a shelf support and secured with a pair of department-issue handcuffs. A dark blue silk blindfold covered her eyes.She was chewing her lower lip, a tiny, frantic motion. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.“Subject is secured,” Rosa stated. She wasn’t just watching; she was operating. A digital stopwatch was in her hand, her thumb poised over the start button.She made eye contact with Jake, her expression flat.“Time is a factor. Accuracy is a factor. Composure is a factor.”
Charles bustled around, holding three small, unmarked brown glass bottles.“The mediums!Extracted from the Vice evidence locker. Confiscated from a… uh… boutique pleasure shop in Williamsburg.” He blushed furiously. “They’re all edible, allergen-free! I checked!”
Gina was perched on Captain Holt’s abandoned desk at the back of the locker, looking profoundly bored.She examined the screen of her phone. “The challenge is simple, Peralta.Three oils.Three body parts.Identify the flavors. You get one lick per part.No hands, obviously.Boyle will apply.”
Jake’s mouth was dry. “And the blindfold?”
“Sensory deprivation heightens other senses,” Rosa recited, like reading from a manual.“For her.For you, it’s a distraction. An obstacle.”
“It’s art,” Gina corrected, not looking up.“Now begin. I have a Pilates class in hell to get to.”
Charles scurried over to Amy.“Okay, Amy. Neck first.” His hands shook as he uncorked the first bottle. A sweet, floral scent, cloying and strong, filled the immediate air. He poured a small, glistening pool of golden oil into the hollow of Amy’s throat.
She flinched at the sudden cool wetness, a small gasp escaping her. Her head pressed back against the metal shelf with a soft thunk.Jake approached.The locker felt ten degrees warmer. He could see the oil catching the grim light, a tiny, shimmering lake at the base of her neck. He could see her swallowing.He bent down, his face close to her skin. The floral smell was overpowering.He closed his eyes—a stupid instinct—and licked.
The taste exploded on his tongue: syrupy, artificial, like candy from a cheap drugstore. Beneath it was the salt of her skin, the accelerated pulse of her jugular.
“Vanilla,” Jake said, pulling back immediately.His voice was rougher than he intended. “But, like, gross vanilla.Cake batter.With flowers.”
“Correct,” Gina intoned.“A mundane opening. Points for speed, deduction for lack of poetry.”
Rosa clicked the stopwatch. “Seven seconds.”
Charles moved to her collarbone.The second bottle released a sharper, more citrusy aroma. Lime, maybe.He dripped the oil along the elegant line of her bone.
Jake’s heart was hammering.This was closer, more intimate than the throat. He had to steady himself with a hand on the shelf beside her head.He leaned in, his shadow falling over her. She sensed his proximity; her breathing hitched, then stopped entirely, as if she was holding her breath for him.He licked a slow, careful stripe along the oil-slicked bone.
The flavor was tart and bright, cutting through the lingering sweetness on his tongue. “Lime,” he said.“Key lime.Not the pie, just the… lime.”
“Acceptable,” Gina said.
“Fourteen seconds cumulative,” Rosa announced, her eyes glued to the stopwatch. Then she looked directly at Jake. “You’re slowing down.”
“Inner wrist,” Charles whispered, as if revealing a secret. He took Amy’s cuffed hand, his fingers gently pulling her arm away from the shelf to expose the vulnerable, pale skin of her inner wrist. The veins there were a delicate blue map.He applied the third oil, a clear, viscous liquid that had almost no scent.
Jake crouched down to get level with it.This was different.This felt wildly private. The wrist was a pulse point, a offering. The blindfold made Amy’s other senses scream; he could see her nostrils flaring, trying to catch a scent, her lips slightly parted.
He took her hand in his, surprising himself.Charles had let go. Jake’s fingers curled under her palm, supporting her arm.Her skin was fever-warm.He lowered his mouth to her wrist.
The taste was clean, slightly fatty, almost blank. There was a faint, underlying nuttiness, maybe.But mostly, all he could taste was Amy. The faint, clean soap of her, the indelible, specific heat of her. The frantic, hummingbird beat of her radial artery under his lips.He lingered, trying to isolate the flavor, but it was useless. Her scent, her taste, the feel of her delicate tendons under his tongue—it all flooded his system, short-circuiting the analytical part of his brain.He forgot the game.He forgot Gina, Rosa, Charles. The world narrowed to the point of contact, to the ragged sound of her breathing above him.
He pulled away after what felt like an eternity, but was probably only three seconds.
“Well?” Rosa demanded.The stopwatch ticked.Jake stood, releasing Amy’s hand. He was lightheaded.“I… I don’t know.It’s… unscented. Maybe… almond?”
Gina let out a dramatic sigh.“Wrong. It’s fractionated coconut oil.The carrier oil.It has no flavor. It’s a canvas.” She slid off the desk and walked over, looking between Jake’s stunned face and Amy’s blindfolded one. “You got lost in the canvas, Peralta.You licked the painting. Major deduction.”
Rosa stopped the timer.“Total time: thirty-nine seconds.Identification failure on the third sample. Overall performance: compromised.”
Charles looked heartbroken. “Jake, you were so close!”
But Jake wasn’t listening.He was watching Amy. As Gina declared the results, Amy’s blindfolded head tilted downward, toward the wrist he’d just tasted. A slow, deep blush spread from her chest up her neck. With her eyes covered, the expression on her face was naked, unguarded: a mixture of profound embarrassment and something hotter, sweeter, more desperate.
Gina saw it too.A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.“The challenge is complete. But the real data,” she said, tapping her temple, “is in the meta-analysis. Court adjourned. Someone unlock Santiago before she ascends to a higher plane of existence.”
Rosa tossed the key to Jake.It landed with a cold clatter at his feet.
He picked it up, his fingers numb.He stepped behind Amy.The silence between them was a physical weight. He could hear every tiny shift of her clothing, every uneven breath. He fumbled with the key, his hands unsteady, finally sliding it into the cuffs.The click was deafening in the quiet room.
The cuffs fell away.Amy brought her hands in front of her, rubbing her wrists. She didn’t remove the blindfold.
“You okay?” Jake asked, his voice low, meant only for her.She nodded, a quick, sharp motion. Then she reached up and pulled the silk down.Her eyes found his immediately, wide and dark and swimming with confusion. They held his gaze for a long, charged second.The blush on her neck deepened.
“You tasted coconut oil,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “A child could have identified that.”
“I know,” he said, and there was no joke, no deflection.Just the raw, uncomfortable truth.
She looked at him, really looked at him, and in that moment, the meticulously constructed wall of professional annoyance was gone.What was left was just Amy, flustered and exposed and real. She opened her mouth to say something else, then thought better of it. She smoothed her tank top, the gesture useless and habitual, and turned to walk out of the evidence locker without another word.
Jake stood there, the taste of her still on his tongue, the ghost of her pulse still ticking against his lips. He had lost the challenge.Miserably.
But as he watched her go, the clean line of her back, the determined set of her shoulders trying to regain their usual posture, he knew with a sudden, terrifying clarity that he hadn’t been trying to identify the oil at all. He’d been trying to identify something else entirely. And that realization, hanging in the stale, buzzing air of the evidence locker, was more dangerous than any game Gina could ever invent.