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Lester Freamon is damn good police. He knows it too. He has known it from the time he entered the Academy, maybe even before that if he was truthful.
He has always loved puzzles, details. He likes to put things together, has since morning spent piecing together shattered bottles next to his stoop. He wants to know things; has always hoarded knowledge like it was gold, filing away any piece of trivia that he comes across. Basically, Lester is a snoop, just as bad as any prying old widow.
Now, a skill for puzzles isn't all, or even most, of what you need to have to be good police. No, there is so much more to it. You need drive. It doesn't really matter what type: ambition, revenge, or noblesse oblige. You just need something to power you through the paperwork, to make you ask all the questions that need answers.
Which brings him to another thing you need: patience. Police work isn't at all like they show on television, all mood lighting and forensic science, all neatly wrapped up in an hour. Shit, most of that science doesn't even exist for good police. No, you have to make the case on your own. And it is hard fucking work.
Lester knows he is good police, but sometimes being good police drives you to do something you know is stupid.
Lester had never been big on undercover. He could do it, had done it, plenty of times, he just didn't like it. He is too comfortable in his own skin to want to try on someone else's.
But that doesn't stop him from being a snoop, from wanting to know. He started making doll furniture because he wanted to know more about the items he reported on every day, to bring his work under his control.
Getting that control when he is on the Major Case Squad is a little more difficult. He doesn't get cases stuck in his teeth like McNulty, but sometimes going after a man when all you know about him is the paper trail he leaves and a 3" x 4" inch photo pinned to a board isn't enough. Sometimes you want to see the man you are chasing down face to face, to take his measure.
Lester can blend into the West Side like it is home, probably because it still is, even though it has changed so much sometimes he feels like an ancient time capsule just uncovered and brought into the modern world. He knows how to walk the streets without being called a cop, an all too rare quality in cops now more foot soldiers in the war on drugs than real police.
He chooses his props carefully: a cigarette rather than a pipe, glasses folded in the pocket rather than perched on his nose. But most important are the papers he prepared even as he tried to talk himself out of this. They are flyers for a book group he sometimes goes to, perfectly legit.
He holds them tight as he walks into the copy shop, peering around cautiously, making a point to study the prices on the wall. They are competitive, with deals for bulk. It shows care and study. Oh yes, this is the place to find Stringer Bell.
And there comes the man himself, walking up to greet him at the counter. He is taller than Lester expected. He had known the sheet, but the sheer mass of him is surprising. Stringer could have been muscle, if his brain weren't even more impressive.
Lester nods to him, smiles. He dives right into the transaction, no fishing for pleasantries. "How much would it be for about 200 copies of this flyer?" he brandishes it. "black and white, but maybe on colored paper, that bright stuff."
Stringer takes the paper from his hand, studies it. He gives Lester a quote, slightly lower than the posted prices. His voice is calm and professional. It is studied, Lester can tell. Long words used purposely to impress the reading man.
Lester makes a show of notating the price. He asks Stringer for his name, to verify. Lester smiles as he says, "They're for the wife. She be pissed if I don't show her I got her the best deal."
"Nah, man. No need for notes. I can promise you that this right here is the best combination of quality ink and paper, at a very competitive price." Stringer's voice is more passionate now. The man clearly knows how to sell a product.
"Thanks, but I really got to check the numbers or I'll be sleeping on the couch." Lester tries to project the aggrieved fondness of a happily whipped man. "But thanks for your help."
He glances back at Stringer as he leaves the shop. He already knew Stringer was not your typical tough, but now he sees how. Stringer is a business man through and through.
As he walks back to his apartment, he wonders if the whipped husband act came too quickly.
Lester has never lived with someone else for so long. He has always been a bit of a loner, more focused on being police than being a boyfriend, husband, lover. Even when he wasn't actually doing police work, those long years working the pawn shop desk, he still was police first, last, and always.
So it is strange that he finally met a girl who made him want to be more than that while on a case. Lester will admit that it wasn't long term thoughts of commitment that came to mind when they first met. He might be older now, but there is no way any man alive could have ignored those legs, that body. He had felt like a lecherous old man taking her home the first time.
But as pretty as those features are, they don't explain why she is still there, almost 2 years later, when he walks through the door. She smiles brightly, and Lester feels his lips turn up automatically in response. It might be pure cliche, but Shardene's smile could light up the whole room.
She starts to tell him about her day, the classes she attended. She holds onto his wrist, showing him how she learned to take a pulse. He leans down to capture her lips in a kiss.
Lester Freamon might be damn good police, but that is not all he is.