Vega shaved and showered faster than he’d ever thought possible. Then he got in his truck and followed Isadora Jenkins to the county police headquarters. It had been only twenty-four hours since he’d walked out of this building, but already it seemed like a lifetime ago.
He fantasized on the way down of unclipping his shield and throwing it across Captain Waring’s desk when his boss started tearing into him. But whom was he kidding? Eighteen years in the county police meant no pension. Nada. Zip. What was he going to do at forty-two years of age? Stock shelves at Walmart? Resurrect his pathetic music career, or worse, his brief and extremely painful stint in insurance? He had mortgage and car payments. Joy was counting on him to help her with tuition. If his boss told Vega he had to file pistol permits for the rest of his career, then that’s what he was going to do.
Vega daydreamed—not for the first time since the shooting—how much easier it would have been if he’d taken the bullet instead of Ponce. Live or die, at least he’d be a hero. Not this toxic embarrassment to everyone who’d ever cared about him.
Vega parked in police parking and walked over to the civilian area to meet up with Jenkins. She wagged a finger at him.
“What was my second rule after honesty, Detective?”
“Shut my big, fat mouth.”
“Thank you. Now let’s try to remember that.”
They walked through the front doors and up to the desk sergeant who used to talk baseball with Vega. Now he just kept his head down and buzzed them in without a word. Doom and Gloom—a.k.a. Captains Waring and Lorenzo—were waiting for them in Captain Waring’s office. Waring’s office looked like a permanent Fourth of July celebration. There were stars and stripes and lots and lots of eagle depictions with tridents and guns—just in case you forgot Waring was a former Navy SEAL.
What was missing—what was always missing—was any mention of Frank Waring’s other previous life as a professional Irish step-dancer. Vega had heard from some of the more senior guys in the division that Waring had been orphaned young and followed an aunt who’d raised him into the field. He was good—good enough to have had articles written about him. Yet Waring seemed even more embarrassed about his past than Vega was about the shooting. Maybe to a former Navy SEAL, high stepping across a stage in tight pants is worse than just about anything you could do with a gun.
Captain Waring was sitting behind his desk when Vega and Jenkins entered. It was impossible to tell from Waring’s expression how much trouble you were in. Captain Lorenzo was no better. He was a gaunt, pasty-faced man who could make the words You won the lottery sound depressing. Lorenzo sat in the only comfortable visitor’s chair in the room. Two conference room chairs had been pulled in for Vega and Jenkins. They were definitely not comfortable and weren’t meant to be.
“Close the door,” said Waring. His tone was soft. The softer it was, the more likely you were in trouble. Vega could feel his breath balling up in his chest.
“We haven’t exactly been a good fit since you moved over to the homicide task force, Detective.”
What was Vega supposed to say to that? Did he disagree and tell the captain he was wrong? Did he agree, which pretty much guaranteed his exit?
Vega said nothing. In the hallway he heard phones ringing and cops talking to each other in loud, carefree voices. Vega doubted he’d ever feel that way again.
“What you did today—publicly showing your face at that protest—was beyond stupid.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Captain,” Jenkins interrupted. She shot Vega a sharp look. “Detective Vega is aware of his missteps and has already taken appropriate steps to get himself into counseling so this doesn’t happen again.”
Qué co?o? Jenkins was telling his boss that he needed his head examined? Vega opened his mouth to contradict her. Jenkins glared at Vega, daring him. He shut it again.
Captain Lorenzo spoke. “How soon?”
Jenkins turned to Vega. She didn’t ask. She ordered. “Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Who was going to see him on a Sunday? That shrink Greco had given him? He had her name somewhere in his wallet. Maybe she’d do him a favor. Maybe they could meet for half an hour and he could check off a box and everybody would be happy.
“Yes,” said Lorenzo. “I think that’s a wise decision.”
Waring already seemed bored with the topic. He didn’t care if Vega got therapy or not. He folded his arms in front of him. “I need some straight answers on more pressing matters—starting with the Wickford patrol officer’s testimony that got leaked to the media.”