In Her Tracks (Tracy Crosswhite #8)(5)

“Faz came back first, so I had to slot him into the A Team.”

“I heard that also.”

“I offered a temporary position to Johnson, but he couldn’t take on the extra responsibility with four kids at home.”

Nolasco was stalling. Tracy’s skin crawled with each minute in his office. “What’s the problem?”

“I couldn’t do a lateral move and offer Fernandez a temporary position. Sex Crimes wouldn’t hold her position open.”

More stalling and lying. He hadn’t mentioned any of this to Kins. Tracy did her best not to show her aggravation. Nolasco was vague, but the picture was becoming more clear. He was nothing if not predictable. He’d done this before—hired a woman to take Tracy’s position so Tracy couldn’t allege discrimination, or argue that he was forcing her out of Violent Crimes, which was always his ultimate goal.

“Give her another position on another team.”

“There aren’t any openings at the moment.”

“There rarely are.”

“Unless someone goes out on maternity leave,” he said.

“Or medical leave,” she countered.

“It tied my hands.”

Did he want her to apologize for having a child or for having a vagina and a uterus? “Give her a fifth-wheel position.”

“All full.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Tracy knew she was entitled to her position . . . if it was available. She didn’t want to screw Fernandez, whom she knew well and liked. She and Fernandez had coordinated investigations involving sex crimes and homicides, and Tracy found her diligent and knowledgeable. Violent Crimes, however, was the pinnacle—the macabre joke once being that homicide detectives only left the section in a body bag. She was eager to hear what bullshit Nolasco had concocted this time to get rid of her.

“Nunzio is retiring. He gave word two weeks ago.”

Technically, Art Nunzio worked in Violent Crimes, but for the past two years he’d been the section’s cold case detective.

“You want me to take cold cases?”

“It’s comparable.”

“Only the pay.”

“I’m offering you a position in the section at the same salary and the same benefits.”

In other words, Tracy would be hard-pressed to win a complaint if she sought the union’s help. She bit her tongue. The case in Cedar Grove had been a cold case that turned into a nightmare and nearly got her killed. The only other cold case she’d worked had been the disappearance of her sister, Sarah, and that had become an obsession that put her personal life on hold for nearly twenty years. To move forward she’d had to lock Sarah’s files in her apartment closet and lock her memories in a mental box.

“When do you need an answer?”

“Art gave notice for the end of next month, but with accrued vacation days and sick time he’s never taken, his last day is today.”

Son of a . . . “You want an answer by the end of today?”

“I need someone in place, so Art can smoothly transition his files,” Nolasco said, withholding a smile.

Tracy wanted to tell him where he could shove those files.





CHAPTER 2

Tracy hesitated as she approached the open door to Art Nunzio’s cramped, windowless office. She wouldn’t take the position. She’d tell Nolasco to shove it and retire. She and Dan didn’t need the money; Dan made plenty as a plaintiff’s lawyer. Tracy could stay at home and raise Daniella, teach her things like single-action shooting, like her father had taught her and Sarah. She’d take Daniella to shooting competitions. It had been a good life—until her sister’s disappearance destroyed her family.

Tracy had been surrounded by death ever since.

Maybe it was time to surround herself with the living.

Maybe . . .

But the police department had not just been a job.

It, and her colleagues, had sustained her through dark years, gave her a sense of purpose and self-worth. The A Team had again provided her a family.

It had saved her life.

And she wasn’t about to let Nolasco or anyone else take that from her or force her into a decision she didn’t want to make.

She’d retire when she was damn good and ready.

She stepped to the open door. Nunzio had his head down. A bald spot peeked out from what had once been a full head of red hair. His reading glasses sat perched on his head like swimmer’s goggles as he went through papers, tossing some in the nearly full wastebasket at his feet. Nunzio was fifty-eight years old, and simple math told Tracy he was retiring twenty-five years after reaching Violent Crimes, likely damn near to the day, she’d bet. Nunzio had worked on the C Team until a long and emotionally demanding murder trial took three years of his life, and no doubt a large portion of his soul.

Cold cases didn’t require a detective to be on call 24-7 or otherwise require he put his life, and the lives of his family, on hold for someone he had never met and never would, but whom he would get to know as intimately as his own family members.

Sitting in his chair, Art looked as if the office had grown around him—the scarred walls, barely wide enough to fit the desk; the metal shelving filled with black binders, each neatly labeled with a white index card bearing each victim’s name, date of death, and cold case number.