“It’s okay.” Beckett gestured to the open door. “Go on outside. Everyone but CJ.”
People filed out. The big patrolman waited until the end and brushed Elizabeth with a shoulder as he passed. The contact was swift, but she felt it all the way down, a large man using his size. She watched him go.
Beckett took her elbow. “No one is judging you, Liz.”
“Don’t touch me.” She was glassy-eyed and slick with sudden sweat. The patrolman had dark hair, shaved at the sides of the neck. His hands were brushed with hair like black wire.
“It’s just me,” Beckett said.
“I said don’t touch me. I don’t want anybody touching me.”
“Nobody’s touching you, Liz.”
Outside, the patrolman looked her way, then leaned into his friend and whispered something. His neck was thick, his eyes dark and deep and dismissive.
“Liz.”
She stared at his hands, at rough skin and square nails.
Beckett said, “You’re bleeding.” She ignored him, room fading out. “Liz.”
“What?” She flinched.
He pointed. “Your mouth is bleeding.”
She touched a finger to the corner of her mouth, and it came back red. When she looked at the patrolman, he seemed worried and confused. She blinked twice and realized how young he was. Maybe twenty.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I saw something.”
Beckett started to touch her, but stopped. CJ was looking, too, but Elizabeth was in no mood for troubled eyes or the compassion of others. She glanced a final time at the patrolman, then wiped a bloody finger on her pants. “What does Adrian say?”
“He won’t talk to us.”
“Maybe he’ll talk to me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Of all the cops who knew Adrian Wall, which one never accused him of killing an innocent woman?”
She left the bar at a fast walk. Beckett caught her halfway to the car. “Look, I know you had feelings for this guy.…”
“I don’t have feelings.”
“I didn’t say you do. I said you did.”
“Okay. Fine.” She tried to bluff her way past the slip. “I didn’t have feelings.”
Beckett frowned because he recognized the lie. No matter what Elizabeth said now, her feelings for Adrian had been obvious to anyone who’d cared to look. She’d been young and eager, and Adrian was a rock-star cop, not just smart but telegenic. He caught the big cases, made the big arrests. Because of that, every reporter in town lined up to make him a hero. The rookies loved that about him. A lot of the older cops resented it. With Elizabeth, though, it went deeper, and Beckett had been there to see it.
“Listen.” He caught her arm and stopped her. “Let’s call it a friendship, okay? No judgment. No baggage. But, you were closer to Adrian than you were to most. He meant something to you, and that’s okay. The medals, the pretty face, whatever. But he’s been thirteen years inside the hardest prison in the state. A cop on the inside, you understand? Whether he killed Julia Strange or not—and to be clear, I’m certain that he did—he’s not the man you remember. Ask any cop that’s been around for a few years, and you’ll hear the same thing. It doesn’t matter if Adrian was a good man, once upon a time. Prison breaks a man down and builds him into something different. Just look at the poor bastard’s face.”
“His face?”
“My point is that he’s a convict, and convicts are users. He’ll try to leverage your relationship, whatever feelings you may still have.”
“It’s been thirteen years, Charlie. Even then, he was just a friend.”
She started to turn, but he stopped her again. She looked at the hand on her arm, then at his eyes, which appeared dim and sad under heavy lids. He struggled for the prefect words, and when he spoke his voice seemed as sad as his eyes.
“Be careful with friendships,” he said. “Not all of them are free.”
She stared pointedly at his hand and waited for him to release her arm. “Third car?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Beckett nodded and stepped aside. “Third car.”
*
She walked away with an easy stride, and Beckett watcher her go. The long legs. The eagerness. She carried herself well, but he wasn’t fooled. She’d been deep in the cult of Adrian Wall. Beckett remembered how she’d been at the trial, the way she rode the bench day after day, straight-backed and pale and utterly convinced of Adrian’s innocence. That set her apart from every other cop on the force. Dyer. Beckett. Even the other rookies. She was the only one who believed, and Adrian knew it. He’d look for her in court, first in the morning, then after lunch and at the end of the day. He’d twist in his seat, find her eyes; and Beckett—more than once—saw the bastard smile. Nobody celebrated when the verdict came down, but it was hard to deny the near-universal sense of grim satisfaction. When Adrian murdered Julia Strange, he put a black eye on every cop that cared about right and wrong. Beyond that, it was a PR nightmare.