Stripped, page 4
Nothing new there.
“I tried to give it to his parents, but they told me to keep it.” She spoke the words in a flat, monotone voice, sounding unlike herself.
Sawyer frowned. “Did you drive here?” he asked, his eyes darting to the window as he scanned the parking lot for her Harley.
“Nope. Took a fucking Valium and called an Uber. I can’t feel any more today.”
A silence settled over the table, and Sawyer drifted back into his thoughts, both welcoming and pushing away the onslaught of memories that pelted him like hail each time he let his mind go idle.
“You gonna keep it?” asked Jack, raising an eyebrow.
Amelia snatched the ring box back and snapped it shut. “Why? You want it, Posh Spice?” Jack came from money and good-naturedly took a lot of shit for it. He and Amelia were partners, and this kind of sparring was completely normal for them.
Never had normal felt so weird.
Jack sipped his scotch and smiled, a teasing glint shining in his eyes. “Bit smaller than I’m used to.”
“I’ll take Things Your Date Said Last Weekend for $500, Alex.” Sawyer made the joke Ryan would’ve if he wasn’t dead. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt bad, knowing that he probably shouldn’t be cracking jokes. But after a heartbeat of silence, they all laughed, Jack shaking his head, Amelia smiling ruefully down into her beer. The knot in his chest loosened slightly. He topped up his beer, feeling both guilty and relieved that they were laughing.
“Yeah, I’m gonna keep it,” said Amelia, slipping the velvet box back into her purse, an unreadable expression on her face. He watched her take a couple of deep breaths before she propped her elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Ryan would’ve wanted me to.”
They all nodded, and Sawyer couldn’t stop himself from thinking about all the things Ryan would’ve wanted had his life not been cut short.
Amelia sat up and squared her shoulders, blinking away the hurt that had clouded her eyes just a second ago. “Let’s talk strategy. What’s our game plan for bringing down this hijo de puta?”
Sawyer’s mind lurched back to that night, somehow only two weeks ago. He and Ryan had been parked in an unmarked police vehicle, staking out one of drug lord Ernesto Hernandez’s known associates, following up on a tip from one of Ryan’s CIs about the Baracoa cartel. They’d been doing surveillance for hours without any sign of Hernandez or his associate, and Sawyer had ducked out to make a coffee run.
Not sixty seconds later, someone had slipped into the vehicle and shot Ryan in the head at point blank range. They had no physical proof it was Hernandez, but Sawyer had recognized his voice over Ryan’s radio when he’d tried to signal for help. The dash cam had caught a shadowy figure matching Hernandez’s build running away from the scene. But a snippet of voice on the radio and a man’s silhouette on the dash cam weren’t even close to enough to move on Hernandez, even if Sawyer knew down to his bones that he was the one who’d killed Ryan.
When Sawyer had returned to the car less than five minutes later, Ryan was already gone. Sawyer’s stomach heaved as he remembered the lifeless sheen of Ryan’s eyes, bits of blood and bone and brain spattered over the car’s interior. Someone had tipped off Hernandez that he was being investigated, and the murder was clearly a message to the APD to back off.
Fat fucking chance of that.
Guilt gnawed at him as the scene played back again, searing itself into his brain.
If he hadn’t left to get the coffees . . .
If he’d checked out Ryan’s CI—who’d clearly set them up—more thoroughly . . .
If Ryan had gone to get the coffees instead . . .
If. If. If. The word beat against his skull, vibrating through him and chasing away the tiny bit of comfort from joking around.
DeMarcus sat up straight, mirroring Amelia’s posture, the dim light from above gleaming against his bald head. “None of you should even be working right now,” he said, his deep voice carrying a gravelly undertone. A beat of silence passed as he let his words sink in. “Raise your hand if you’ve seen the department’s therapist.” All hands stayed firmly down. No fucking way did Sawyer want to go talk to some stranger about what had gone down. Talking wouldn’t bring Ryan back, and it sure as hell wouldn’t make him feel better.
DeMarcus sighed, a rumble of resignation. “I would strongly encourage all of you to take some time. Make sure your heads are on straight. But I can’t force you to take leave.” He paused, waiting for all of them to meet his gaze as he swept his dark brown eyes over the table. “But don’t think for a second that I won’t mandate your asses to therapy, or send you to the records department if I feel you’re not fit for active duty. I want Hernandez as badly as all of you. But I will not allow you to put yourselves or your colleagues in danger because you’ve got a vendetta against him. Anything not completely by the books, and I’ll bench your ass faster than you can say Tim Tebow. Understood?”
They all nodded, the mood at the table shifting back to somber.
“With all due respect, Cap, time is the last thing I want right now,” said Sawyer. “I want to do my job and put this motherfucker in prison.” Anger won out over sadness, and he curled his fingers around his glass. He wanted justice, for Ryan, and for himself and Amelia and what they’d lost.
“I can’t deal with being alone right now,” she said, tracing her finger around the rim of her glass. “I can’t stand silence, or sleeping. I need this. You don’t want me working the Hernandez case, I get it. But let me work. It’s all I have.” Her voice wavered on the last syllable.
DeMarcus nodded. “I know. I’m sorry, Amelia. It’s my job to look out for all of you. It was my job to look after Ryan, and I . . .” He shook his head, and Sawyer’s chest tightened, his guilty heart beating sympathetically for the captain. “If you guys say you’re good, I trust you.”
“Any word on when someone new might be coming in?” asked Jack, toying with his glass as he voiced the question they’d all pretended wasn’t weighing on their minds.
DeMarcus nodded slowly. “New hire’s been chosen. She’ll be in next week.”
“Internal?” Amelia asked, finishing her beer and pouring herself another glass, killing off the pitcher.
“Yeah, internal. I can’t really tell you much yet, since it’s not white shirt official, but we’re just waiting for some t’s to be crossed. She’s impressive, though. Ran track in college, black belt in kickboxing. Degree in criminal justice from the University of Georgia. She was given the Meritorious Service Award last year for her role in the crackdown on the illegal bars in Adair Park. I think she’ll be a good fit.” He glanced at Sawyer, who knew they were all waiting for him to respond.
“Doubt she’ll be half as good as Ryan.” He shrugged, noticing how tight his shoulders were. “Maybe I should just be on my own for a bit.”
DeMarcus shook his head. “Listen, I get it. But that’s not how this unit works, and you know that. If you’re not ready for a new partner, I respect that, but it means you’re desk surfing until you are. So it’s your call.”
Raindrops spattered against the window looking out over the parking lot, the sky opening up in a sudden downpour that matched Sawyer’s mood. He didn’t want to be stuck behind a desk—he needed to be out there, tracking that fucker Hernandez down and making him pay for what he’d done. And he couldn’t do that if he didn’t suck it up and accept the fact that next week, he’d be working with a new partner.
Somehow, the idea of someone else sitting at Ryan’s desk, working with him on cases, felt more final than watching Ryan’s casket disappear into the ground. As though a part of him had been hoping it was all a giant, tangled nightmare that wasn’t really true. That life wasn’t really marching on without Ryan. Not to mention that figuring out how to work with someone new right now was pretty much the last thing he wanted to do. He just wanted to focus on crushing the Baracoa cartel like the cockroaches they were. No distractions.
He glanced up and realized the entire team was staring at him, waiting for him to say something. “Fine. Last thing I want is to be stuck behind a desk.”
That seemed to satisfy the captain, so Sawyer returned his attention to his beer, hating every single second of this. Being here without Ryan. Having to suck it up and accept a new partner. All of it.
A waitress came by and set down a bottle of Patron, four shot glasses, a salt shaker, and a bowl of limes. Jack slipped her his black AmEx and winked at her, watching her ass appreciatively as she sauntered away. He pulled the cork on the bottle and poured four shots, sliding the glasses toward each of them and then raising his own. “To Ryan.”
“To Ryan,” they all echoed before shooting the tequila back and shoving limes into their mouths. Sawyer savored the burn the liquor cut down the center of his chest, welcoming the feel of something other than the hollow pain he’d been living with for the past two weeks.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever be quite whole again.
Chapter Three
The elevator doors opened and Brooke stepped out into a swirling cacophony of voices and activity. The third floor of the APD’s Criminal Investigations building—a nondescript red brick building on Peachtree that looked more like a boring government building than anything else—was devoted to HEAT, the High-Risk Evaluation and Action Team. The bullpen lay before her, with its rows of desks laden with computers, phones and files. Bulletin boards on the wall were covered in neatly arranged pieces of intel, parts of ongoing investigations. A hallway to her right led toward the holding cells, while the hallway to her left led to the interrogation rooms. The captain’s office sat at the far end of the bullpen, and just adjacent to it was what looked like the briefing room.
Large windows lit the space with bright morning sunshine, and the scents of coffee and industrial cleaner hit her nose as the elevator doors snapped shut behind her. Voices melded together, phones rang, printers whirred, fingers clacked against keyboards. Laughter erupted from somewhere near the coffee machine. The energy was almost palpable. These detectives were the best of the best—the smartest, the strongest, the bravest, the most determined.
And now she was one of them.
Excitement shot through Brooke as she raised her hand and fingered the shiny new detective shield hanging around her neck. She took a few steps into the bullpen, conscious of the fact that several heads had swiveled in her direction. Smoothing a hand over her ponytail, she stood up straight. Given the situation she was coming into—replacing a fallen officer—she knew she’d have some ground to make up. Impossibly enormous shoes to fill. But she had to try, both for her own career and for her new teammates. The only way through was forward, and maybe she could play a role in that.
Her stomach fluttered with nerves as she moved toward the captain’s office, and she noticed that everyone was wearing jeans and T-shirts. She suddenly felt like an overdressed rookie in her navy-blue pantsuit. She wondered if she should ditch the jacket, roll up the sleeves of her blouse, try to look a little less keen. She needed to make a good first impression on her team, and she knew that she had about seven seconds in which to make one. If they immediately judged her as uptight, or as some brownnosing rookie, she’d have an even harder time building a rapport.
Before she could make up her mind, the captain spotted her and rose from his desk, waving her into his office. Captain DeMarcus Hill was an attractive African American man with a shaved head, brown eyes and a big smile. Something about his friendly face made him look younger than he likely was, but she knew that he was a force to be reckoned with it. One of APD’s youngest recipients of the Medal of Honor, he was known to be tough but fair, with an analytical mind and the ability to remain calm when shit was hitting the fan.
“Detective Simmons, welcome,” he said, shaking her hand and then gesturing for her to have a seat. God, Detective Simmons. That would take some getting used to. Right now, it still sent a nervous thrill charging through her. She’d worked so damn hard to get here that it didn’t feel quite real. As though a part of her was waiting for someone to jump out with a camera and say, “Just kidding!”
“Thank you,” she said, crossing her legs and sitting back in her chair, hopefully projecting an outward calm she didn’t quite feel.
Captain Hill folded his hands on his desk. “It’s not typical that someone gets their first crack at detective work in HEAT, but I have to say, you impressed us, and I think you’ll be a good fit.”
She nodded, flushing with pleasure at the captain’s compliment. “Thank you, sir. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
He smiled and then tipped his chin toward the bullpen behind her. “There are forty HEAT detectives in total, all organized into subteams of four detectives each. One of the members of your subteam will be your assigned partner. You’ll work your assigned cases together. The work we do can be incredibly dangerous, which is why investigations are never conducted solo. There’s also inherent value in working as a team—puzzle pieces of investigations come together quicker with two—or even four—minds. Because of that, I try to connect partners who I believe will play to each other’s strengths. Who will complement each other with skills in areas where the other is perhaps weaker.”
She nodded, wondering what he thought her weaknesses were. “Understood.”
His smile faltered and he sighed, leaning back in his chair. “As you know, you’re coming on during difficult circumstances.”
“I never knew Detective Walker, but I’m sorry for his loss.”
The captain blew out a long breath. “The APD has lost eighty-seven officers in the line of duty, and sadly, Walker won’t be the last.” He leveled his gaze at her, as though trying to impress on her what she was getting herself into.
She didn’t flinch. She was nervous about making a good impression on her team, but when it came to actual police work, she was fearless. “But if we can bring down Ernesto Hernandez, that’ll at least be something. Justice for Detective Walker.” She’d read the briefing about Walker’s death, even though, given the undercover nature of the investigation, many of the details had been redacted.
The corner of Hill’s mouth tipped up in a smile. “I think you’ll get along just fine with your new teammates. Walker wasn’t just their colleague, but their friend. They’re hungry to see Hernandez rotting in a cell.”
“Believe me, even though I didn’t personally know Walker, I get it. My parents were killed in a hit-and-run when I was nine. Although it didn’t bring them back, watching the man who’d taken them from me have to pay for what he’d done did bring me some peace. Some healing, I guess.” She shrugged, wondering if she was oversharing. “It’s partly why I became a cop—if I can prevent those tragedies from happening, or bring people to justice after the fact . . . well, that’s worth something. It was worth something to me.”
For a moment, she held his gaze, and something passed between them. An understanding, not man to woman, or superior to subordinate, but cop to cop.
His voice was quiet when he spoke. “I’m sorry about your parents.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what makes a good cop, Brooke?” He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly bright and intense.
“I have my own theories, but I’d like to hear what you think, Captain.”
“It’s the ones who don’t forget what it’s like to be civilian. It’s the ones who have a deep-seated understanding of what it is they’re protecting. What they’re fighting for. And because we understand the value of that, we do whatever it takes, day in and day out, without hesitation. And sometimes we pay for that dedication with our lives.” His gaze drifted to the far wall, where a picture of Ryan Walker hung. “You get that. It’s what drives you, and it’s why you’ll be an asset to HEAT.” He cleared his throat roughly, blinking away the sudden brightness in his eyes. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour and introduce you to your new partner.”
He stood from his desk, indicating that Brooke should follow him. Smoothing her hands down the poly-cotton-blend pants she was really starting to regret, she followed him out of his office, taking mental notes as he showed her around, pointing out the briefing room, giving her a tour of the cells and interrogation rooms, and making sure she knew where the essentials were—coffee machine, bathroom and vending machine. And while she maintained an even pace with him, she kept having to snap her attention back to what he was saying because her focus was pulled into the energy of the room, again and again. This was where she belonged.
As the captain finished up his tour, a feeling even more intense than the nerves, than the excitement, than the need to work hard and impress, settled over her: a sense of coming home. As though everything in her career had been leading up to today. A culmination and a beginning, all in one.
“Any questions?” he asked as they made their way back toward the bullpen.
She shook her head, her eyes dancing around the room. All she wanted was to meet her partner and dive in. To start doing the work she was so hungry for. To prove to everyone that she was worthy of the detective shield hanging around her neck.
“Great. You need anything, you can come to me. Now let’s go find your team.” He started walking toward the far back corner of the room, to a set of desks near one of the windows. A man and a woman stood with their backs to the room, talking to a partially visible man. All she could see of him was a pair of scuffed brown boots and worn jeans, his feet propped up on his desk and crossed at the ankles. The desk directly facing his was empty. Did her new partner—her first—always put his feet up like that? Because she didn’t want to write her reports while staring at the dirty treads of his lug soles. She hadn’t even seen him yet, and she could distantly hear the strains of The Odd Couple theme running through her mind.
“Everyone, this is your new team member, Detective Brooke Simmons.” The man and woman turned around, their eyes cool and appraising, their expressions neutral and unreadable. “This is Detective Jack Ward, and Detective Amelia Perez.” Brooke extended her hand and shook with Ward and Perez, exchanging polite greetings. Jack looked as though he’d stepped from the pages of GQ, with his perfectly styled blond hair, piercing blue eyes and strong jaw covered in an artfully manicured layer of stubble. He wore a black T-shirt stretched tight across his muscular chest and a pair of dark jeans. Amelia was pretty in a stern, don’t-make-me-kick-your-ass kind of way. Her shiny dark brown hair framed her face, and her black tank top and tight jeans showed off a sleek, muscular frame. She was beautiful and strong, but what Brooke found most intriguing was the haunted look around her eyes, emphasized by the dark circles.
