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.”
“Any charges on the student?”
“Four on one. A college kid with no priors.” Beckett shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s just paperwork, now.”
“There’s that, I guess.”
“Guess so.”
“Listen, I’ve got to go.”
“Yeah, the captain said you were coming in. He didn’t look happy.”
“He caught me lurking outside.”
“You are suspended. You remember that, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not exactly helping your cause.”
She knew what he meant. There’d been questions about the basement, and she’d been short on answers. Pressure was mounting. State cops. Attorney general. “Let’s talk about something else. How’s Carol?”
Beckett leaned back in his chair, shrugged. “Working late.”
“Some kind of hair-salon emergency?”
“There are such things, believe it or not. A wedding, I think. Or a divorce party. Deep conditioning tonight. Cut and style in the morning.”
“Wow.”
“I know. She still wants to set you up, by the way.”
“With who, the orthodontist?”
“Dentist.”
“Is there a difference?”
“One makes more money, I think.”
Elizabeth hooked a finger over her shoulder. “I think he’s waiting.”
“Listen, Liz.” Beckett leaned in, lowered his voice. “I’ve tried to give you space on the shooting. Right? I’ve tried to be a partner and a friend and understanding. But state cops are tomorrow-”
“They have my statement. Asking the same questions won’t get them different answers.”
“They’ve had four days to look for witnesses, talk to Channing, work the crime scene. They won’t ask the same questions. You know that.”
She shrugged. “The story’s the story.”
“It’s political, Liz. You get that, right? White cop, black victims…”
“They’re not victims.”
“Look.” Beckett studied her face, worried. “They want to nail a cop they think is racist, unstable, or both. As far as they’re concerned, that’s you. Elections are coming up, and the AG wants an in with the black community. He thinks this is it.”
“I don’t care about any of that.”
“You shot them eighteen times.”
“They raped that child for over a day.”
“I know, but listen.”
“Wired her wrists so tight it cut to the bone.”
“Liz-”
“Don’t Liz me, goddamn it! They told her they were going to smother her when they were done with her, then toss her body in the quarry. They had a plastic bag and duct tape all ready. One of them wanted to screw her while she died. He called it a white-girl rodeo.”
“I know all that,” Beckett said.
“Then this conversation should not be happening.”
“But it is, isn’t it? Channing’s father is rich and white. The men you shot were poor and black. It’s politics. Media. It’s already started. You’ve seen the papers.” He held up a thumb and forefinger. “It’s this close to going national. People want an indictment.”
She knew whom he meant. Politicians. Agitators. Some who thought the system was genuinely corrupt. “I can’t talk about this.”
“Can you talk to the lawyer?”
“I already have.”
“No, you haven’t.” Beckett leaned back, watching her. “He calls here, looking for you. He says you haven’t taken a meeting and won’t return his calls. State cops want you for double homicide, and you’re screwing around like you didn’t empty your magazine into two unarmed men.”
“I had a good reason.”
“I don’t doubt you did, but that’s not the issue, is it? Cops go to prison, too. You know that better than most.”
His gaze was as pointed as his words. Elizabeth didn’t care. Even after thirteen years. “I’m not going to talk about him, Charlie. Not tonight. Not with you.”
“He gets out of prison tomorrow. I assume you see the irony.” Beckett crossed his hands behind his head as if challenging her to argue the basic facts.
Cops go to prison.
Sometimes they get out.
“I’d better go see the captain.”
“Liz, wait.”
She didn’t. She left Beckett and knocked twice before opening the captain’s door. Inside, Dyer was sitting behind the desk. Even this late, the suit was crisp, the tie drawn tight. “Are you okay?”
She waved a hand, but couldn’t hide the anger and disappointment. “Partners. Opinions.”
“Beckett only wants what’s best for you. It’s all any of us want.”
“Then, put me back to work.”
“Do you really think that’s the right thing for you?”
She looked away because his question hit so close to the mark “The job is what I do best.”
“I won’t reinstate you until this thing runs its course.”
She dropped into a chair. “How much longer will that be?”
“That’s not the right question.”
Elizabeth stared at her reflection in the window. She’d lost weight. Her hair was a mess. “What is the right question?”
“Seriously?” Dyer lifted both palms. “Do you even remember the last time you ate?”