Armstrong sat behind the desk and smoothed his fingers across his mustache. “All right. This kid who drowned yesterday? They’ve got a preliminary ID. Name’s Oscar Rivera. Catholic University, good kid. No known connections to anything that should have gotten him killed. FBI sent over the news, but they’re handling the case. They think it might be related to another couple of murders they’re working on. We’re off the hook there.”
“I figured it was part of something bigger. That was way too creepy to be an accident.”
“They’re thinking it’s drug cartel related, but with a sweet kid like Rivera, I don’t know. It doesn’t fit.”
“Saw the wrong thing at the wrong time, maybe.”
“Maybe.” Armstrong went quiet, then leaned back in his chair and stroked his mustache. What hair he didn’t have on his dark, shiny head was more than accounted for on his lip. “Fletch, are you still with us?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“You know exactly what I mean. You had a taste of how the other half lives during your sojourn at the JTTF. Is working homicide going to be enough for you?”
“I wouldn’t have asked for the transfer back if I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here.”
“I know you wanted out before you left. You’ve made it clear you plan to put in your twenty and move to greener pastures. And that anniversary is going to be here sooner than you think. But if you want to stay, Fletch, stick around a few more years, I’d like to put you up for lieutenant. And God help me, I want to give you your own squad.”
Armstrong’s jaw was set, as if he knew what Fletch would say, since he’d said it so many times before. No way, sir. I can’t even think about it, sir. I want out as soon as my date comes, sir.
Lieutenant. His own squad. Autonomy.
Fletcher surprised them both by saying, “I appreciate the opportunity, sir. So long as Hart gets to be my lead detective, I’m in.”
Armstrong’s face split in a smile, a rare enough occurrence it felt like the sun breaking through after a month of clouds. “Good man. I’m glad to hear it. Now, get out there and help the FBI find Rachel Stevens.”
Fletcher went back to his office with a spring in his step. He’d made the decision in a split second, and he knew it was the right one. When Armstrong said Lieutenant he’d actually felt a click of yes, this is the right thing to do.
It meant more work, more hours, more responsibility, but for some reason, he wanted it. He wanted it bad.
He dialed Andrea Bianco, head of the D.C. JTTF. They’d met while Fletcher was attached there for a case, and had been very casually hanging out. He didn’t want to call it dating. He liked her, maybe even a lot, but Fletcher wasn’t exactly the settling-down type. He’d done that once to disastrous results, and vowed never to take things to the next level again.
Of course, he’d have been willing to make that particular sacrifice for Sam Owens, but he knew, deep down, he would have ended up hurting her, and she him.
Andrea answered in a rush of “Hi, how are you I’m running out the door is it important or can it wait,” the words smashed together, breathless and excited, and he said, “Yeah, sure, but—” and she said, “Okay, great,” and hung up without saying goodbye.
So much for that.
She had a seriously heavy duty job, with responsibilities he couldn’t be paid enough in the world to handle. He didn’t want it. Being at JTTF was a straight line into cardiac arrest.
Maybe he’d catch her later, but he was going to be tied up, too. No matter. This was the reason he didn’t want to be tied down, ever again. Dating other cops was hard, but the only way a romance worked in this field was with someone who understood the hours, the devotion, the insanity and the horror.
He plopped down at his desk and pulled up his email. Nothing from Lynchburg. Damn it.
Hart knocked on the door.
“Hey, princess, ready to go chat with the looker from the FBI? Hey, why do you look all googly-eyed and happy? Did Armstrong suck—”
“And that’s enough out of you, young man. I just agreed to take over your lowly ass. You’re looking at your new homicide LT. And my first administrative move is to promote you, if you’ll take my spot as lead.”
Hart grinned, the muscles in his neck flexing. “Hell, man, that’s great news. You deserve it. I deserve the bump, too. When is this blessed occasion taking place?”
“Next round of promotions, so next week, maybe.” He stood, clapped Hart on the back. “Come on, let’s go hook up with the FBI folks and find this kid. I remember the chick’s name. What’s the dude’s again?”
“Rob Thurber. He’s a lifer, been there for twenty years. He—”
“Rob Thurber? God, that name sounds so familiar. Where did I see it?”
And then it hit him. The will. Savage’s bloody will. Rob Thurber was the name of one of the beneficiaries.
Chapter
25
Bethesda, Maryland