“In pursuit of a suspected rapist,” Conn said. “I caught him, too.”
“Six months before that you used the butt of your service weapon to threaten a suspect who was driving away from a scene.”
“I was on the running board of the guy’s Flex while he accelerated up the Thirteenth Street on-ramp to the interstate,” Conn said. “He was endangering my life.”
“The individual, when apprehended, also suffered abrasions and bruises.”
“He fucking tripped over his own fucking feet when he was running away!” Conn took a deep breath and reached deep for some self-control. “How is it my fault he face-planted in the gravel by the side of the road?”
Hawthorn’s gaze was bland and level, his voice perfectly modulated. “It’s your fault, Officer McCormick, because part of the job is keeping control of situations, not escalating them.”
Conn remembered how surprised he’d been when Hawthorn pulled him off patrol to work undercover. Conn knew where he was going to spend his days as a LPD officer: on patrol, in a cruiser. He didn’t have the temperament to make detective. He sat back, breathing slow and deep, trying to keep his temper under control, knowing he was walking a very fine line between angry and insubordinate. “What’s going on here, LT?”
“I’m reassigning you,” Hawthorn said.
Conn was on his feet, leaving his stomach around his knees. “LT, I didn’t do that!”
Hawthorn’s gaze flashed over Conn’s fists, planted on the table, and the breadth of his shoulders. It was a subtle, Hawthornesque reminder of the very temper Conn tried so hard to control. “Until we can ascertain who did, I need you out of sight.”
Conn’s mind stumbled over the implications, emotion warring in his gut. “To desk duty?” He hated desk duty. Being inside all day made him want to crawl out of his skin.
“Not exactly.”
“I didn’t beat up Bettis. Things get out of control when I’m around. I know that. But I’ve never”—he shoved his fists against the sheepskin-lined pockets of his jacket for emphasis—“ever, so much as pulled a dog in the road with someone who’s in my custody.”
“The problem,” Hawthorn said, “is that you act like someone who could. Would. What you do before a suspect is in custody always bleeds over.”
Rocked to his very core, Conn sat back down. A black hole yawned inside him, sucking at all his carefully constructed defenses. It wasn’t the first time he’d been falsely accused. He’d been six feet tall by the eighth grade, with a temper, which made him an easy target for finger pointing and had gotten him sent to anger management classes. Name the emotions. I’m afraid of being abandoned by my family. Again.
He shook it off. He was thirty years old, not nine. Thirty-year-old men didn’t fear being abandoned. If the department thought they could take his gun and badge, they’d better think twice. “Reassigned.”
“Temporarily,” Hawthorn said, the threat of “permanent” implicit in his tone of voice. “Someone assaulted him while he was our responsibility. We’ll start digging and find out exactly what happened.”
A knock at the door.
“Yes,” Hawthorn said, looking up.
“Someone here to see you, LT,” the duty sergeant said, not making eye contact with Conn.
“Send them in.”
“Am I dismissed?” Conn asked, getting to his feet.
“No. You need to be here, too.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Conn saw a flash of suit. He turned to look at the newcomers. He was prepared for Internal Affairs. He was prepared for Captain Swarthmore. He wasn’t prepared for the guy in the suit from the concert last night, courteously opening the door wider for a tiny slip of a girl with wild brown hair shot through with streaks of gold and big green eyes, dressed in an oversized down parka, jeans, and fur-trimmed boots.
“Chris Wellendorf,” the guy said, holding out his hand to Hawthorn. Conn barely heard him over the thrumming in his ears as the girl made eye contact with him. His heart kicked hard against his ribs, signaling recognition on multiple levels, but it was the green scarf around her throat and the mug in her hand that made him do a double take.
Queen Maud was standing beside the conference table, shaking her head to Hawthorn’s offer of water or a soda. Was there some problem with last night’s arrest? He’d filed his report before going home, so it was fresh in his memory.
“I’ve got my own brew,” she said, holding up one of those thirty-dollar insulated mugs.
“Hot water and honey,” Chris said quickly. “Not brew brew.”
“I didn’t think she was drinking beer at one in the afternoon,” Hawthorn said mildly as they took seats at the end of the table. “Have a seat, Officer McCormick.”