When the FBI entered the picture in the form of big shot SAC Begley?
Or when Wes Hamer, his so-called best friend, started kissing Begley’s ass as often as possible?
Or maybe when Cal Hawkins asked him the question he’d begun asking himself: Does your old lady want to be rescued?
He hadn’t felt this defeated since his last screwup in Atlanta. It had been the coup de grâce, the mistake that was too serious for a disciplinary action like suspension or probation. Only being fired would suffice. When you pulled your service weapon on a nine-year-old kid, mistaking his aluminum baseball bat for a gun because you were shitfaced drunk, the APD had no choice but to fire you. Do not pass go. Do not collect your pension. You’re outta there.
He felt equally defeated today. Betrayed by all: his wife, the weather, his best friend, his career, fate or the stars or God or whoever the hell was in charge of guiding his not-worth-a-crap destiny.
He needed a drink.
Officer Harris was leading the Gunns and the FBI agents down the short hallway toward Dutch’s private office. Begley, bringing up the rear of this parade, turned back to address him. “Are you joining us, Chief Burton?”
“I’ll be right there. Soon as I grab my messages.”
Begley nodded, then continued on and entered Dutch’s office through the door that Harris was holding open for him.
When they were out of earshot, Wes turned to Dutch and assessed the cuts on his face. “How’re you doing?”
He snatched a wad of pink memo slips from his dispatcher. “Just great, thanks.”
“Face hurt?”
“Like a son of a bitch.”
“Didn’t they have something to put on it?”
“It’ll be okay.”
“I could go over to the drugstore, pick up something from Ritt.”
Dutch shrugged. “Whatever.” He started toward the hallway, but Wes hooked his hand around his elbow.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Dutch?”
He threw off Wes’s hand. “Shit, no, I’m not all right!”
Realizing that his subordinate officer was all ears, he lowered his voice to a mumble. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s been a lousy morning.”
Wes sighed, ran his hand over his cropped hair. “Stupid question. I’m sorry. Look, Lilly is okay, Dutch. I’m sure of it.”
“Yeah.” Actually, he was more afraid that she was better than okay.
“Tell you what,” Wes said. “I’ll run over to the drugstore while you’re talking with Millicent’s folks. Pick up some salve for those cuts on your face, have Ritt or Marilee make some sandwiches to bring back.”
Dutch looked into Wes’s face and could see nothing disingenuous there. Just his old friend’s handsome features and a sincere regard that, despite their friendship, Dutch was coming to mistrust. “That would
be helpful. Thanks.”
“You bet. Now get on back there. This is your show, don’t forget.”
Wes’s parting words drilled their way through the bedrock of his defeatism. It was his show, but God. Everyone, including himself, seemed to have forgotten that. High time they were reminded.
As he headed down the hallway toward his office, he squared his shoulders and forced more confidence into his step. Harris was standing outside the door like a sentinel. Dutch hitched his thumb toward the front of the building. “Your squad car is getting cold.”
Harris looked at him stupidly. “Sir?”
“This isn’t a snow day, Harris,” he barked. “See to your duties.”