She loomed there, panting as if she had run a sprint. But he could see she could easily go a few more laps, and he said, “All right. Let’s talk it out. Have a seat.” She didn’t budge. “Come on, will you sit?”
While she pulled a chair up, he took out his handkerchief to dam the flow of creamy decaf rolling off the desktop into his trouser cuffs, all the while keeping an eye on her. “All right,” she said. “Sitting. Start talking.”
“I made a determination … as commander of this precinct,” he added weakly, “to open a new line in this investigation in order to get things moving.”
“With my dad?” She side-nodded to the bull pen through the glass. “With her? Come on.”
“You’ll show some respect, Detective.”
She slapped her hand on the desktop. “Person of interest? My father? A: That man was cleared ten years ago. And B: In what world is it OK for you to send someone—anyone—to interview him without letting me know first?”
“I am the precinct commander.”
“I am the Homicide Squad leader.”
“Leading a stalled investigation. Look, Heat, we talked about this yesterday after this ended up in the Ledger. After a decade, it’s time for a fresh champion.”
“Uh-huh … Have you been polishing that quote for the next article? While you compromise my case and damage my relationship with my family?”
“My determination is that you are too involved. You have a potential conflict of interest. I think what I’m seeing here bears that out.”
“Bullshit.”
“I sent Detective Hinesburg because I feel her talents are underutilized.”
“Hinesburg? Five bucks says she spent more time at Westchester Mall last night than she did with my father.”
“And,” he held up a finger as if hitting an imaginary pause button on her, “I felt we needed some objectivity, not some lone wolf on a vendetta.”
“We don’t need a witch hunt, either. Witch included.”
“You’re out of control.”
“Trust me, you’d know that if you saw it.”
“Like the other night in Bayside when you violated procedure and entered the hatch to that basement alone because of your obsession with this case?”
“You need some time in the field, Captain. You might understand actual police work.”
“You know what you need? Some time out of the field. I’m benching you.”
“You’re what?”
“Nothing personal. Even after this … encounter. In fact, I’m a big enough man to see all this as your reaction to post-traumatic stress.”
“Like you’re qualified to know that.”
“Maybe not. But the department has psychologists who are. I’m enforcing your mandated psychological evaluation following the murder of your boyfriend and your shooting of the fleeing suspect.” He stood up. “Get yourself shrunk, then we’ll talk about putting you back on duty. This meeting is over.” But he was the one to leave. And he got out of there in a hurry.
The shrink said, “You certainly didn’t waste any time making this appointment, Detective.” Department psychologist Lon King, Ph.D., had a friendly, low-key manner that reminded her of gentle surf somewhere tropical. “I only got your precinct commander’s referral ticket this morning after your, uh, meeting.”