Redemption Road(10)

“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?”

“That’s not relevant.”

“How about the last time you slept?”

“Okay. Fine. I’ll admit that the past few days have been … complicated.”

“Complicated? For God’s sake, Liz, you have circles under your eyes that look painted on. You’re never home, best any of us can tell. You don’t answer your phone. You’re riding around in that broken-down car.”

“It’s a ’67 Mustang.”

“That’s barely street legal.” Dyer leaned forward, laced his fingers. “These state cops keep asking about you, and it’s getting harder and harder to say you’re solid. A week ago, I’d have used words like judiciousness and brilliance and restraint. Now I don’t know what to say. You’ve gone edgy and dark and unpredictable. You’re drinking too much, smoking for the first time in, what, ten years? You won’t talk to the counselor or your colleagues.” He made a gesture that took in her ragged hair and pale face. “You look like one of these Goth kids, like a shadow—”