Thirteen years …
She tried to imagine it gone: the job, the relationships, the sense of purpose. Since she was seventeen, all she’d wanted was to be a cop because cops didn’t fear the things normal people feared. Cops were strong. They had authority and purpose. They were the good guys.
Did she still believe that?
Elizabeth closed her eyes, thinking about it. When she opened them, she saw Francis Dyer walking down the wide stairs that stretched across the front of the station. He made a beeline across the street, his face familiar and frustrated and sad. They’d argued a lot since the shooting, but there was no bitterness between them. He was older and soft and genuinely worried for her.
“Hello, Captain. I didn’t expect to see you here this late.”
He stopped at the open window, studied her face and the car’s interior. His eyes moved over cigarette packs and Red Bull cans and a half dozen balled-up newspapers filling the backseat. Eventually, the gaze landed on the cell phone beside her. “I’ve left six messages.”
“I’m sorry. I turned it off.”
“Why?”
“Most calls I get are from reporters. Would you prefer I speak to them?”
Her attitude made him angry. Part of it was anxiety, and part was the whole cop-control thing. She was a detective, but suspended, a friend but not close enough to justify the kind of frustration he was feeling. The emotion was in his face, in the pinched eyes and soft lips, in the sudden flush that stained his skin. “What are you doing here, Liz? It’s the middle of the night.”
She shrugged.
“I’ve told you about this. Until your case is cleared…”
“I wasn’t going to come inside.”
He waited a few beats, the same angles in his face, same worry in his eyes. “Your follow-up with the state police is tomorrow. You remember that, right?”
“Of course.”
“Have you met with your attorney?”
“Yes,” she lied. “All set.”
“Then, you should be with family or friends, people who love you.”
“I was. Dinner with friends.”
“Really? What did you eat?” Her mouth opened, and he said, “Forget it. I don’t want you to lie to me.” He looked across the top of narrow glasses, then up and down the street. “My office. Five minutes.”
He walked off and Elizabeth took a minute to pull herself together. When she felt ready, she crossed the street and trotted up the stairs to where double glass doors reflected light from streetlamps and stars. At the desk inside, she forced a smile and made a hands-up gesture to the sergeant behind the bulletproof glass.
“Yeah, yeah,” the sergeant said. “Dyer told me to let you through. You look different.”
“Different, how?”
He shook his head. “I’m too old for that shit.”
“What shit?”
“Women. Opinions.”
He hit the buzzer, and the sound followed her into the stairwell and upstairs to the long, open space used by the detective squad. It was nearly empty, most of the desks pooled in shadow. For bittersweet seconds, no one noticed her; then the door clanked shut and a massive cop in a rumpled suit looked up from his desk. “Yo, yo. Black in the house.”
“Yo, yo?” Elizabeth stepped into the room.
“What?” He leaned back in his chair. “I can’t do street?”
“I’d stick with what you’ve got.”
“And what’s that?”
She stopped at his desk. “A mortgage, kids. Thirty extra pounds and a wife of what, nine years?”
“Ten.”
“Well, there you go. A loving family, thick arteries, and twenty years to retirement.”
“Funny. Thanks for that.”
Elizabeth took a sour ball from a glass jar, cocked a hip, and looked down at Charlie Beckett’s round face. He was six foot three and running to fat, but she’d seen him throw a two-hundred-pound suspect across the top of a parked car without once touching paint. “Nice hair,” he said.
She touched it, felt how short it was, the spiky bangs. “Seriously?”
“Sarcasm, woman. Why did you do that to yourself?”
“Maybe, I wanted something different in the mirror.”
“Maybe you should hire somebody that knows what they’re doing. When did that happen? I saw you two days ago.”
She had vague memories of cutting it: four in the morning and drunk; lights off in the bathroom. She’d been laughing about something, but it was more like crying. “What are you doing here, Charlie? It’s after midnight.”
“There was a shooting at the college,” Beckett said.
“Jesus, not another one.”
“No, not like that. Some locals tried to beat the crap out of a freshman kid they thought was gay. Gay or not, it turns out he’s a big fan of concealed-carry laws. They chased him into the alley by the barbershop at the edge of campus. Four on one, and he drew down with a .380.”
“Did he kill anybody?”
“Shot one through the arm. The others split when it happened. We’ve got the names, though. We’re looking for them.”