Detective on the Hunt
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Marilyn Pappano
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18.6K
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11
Prologue
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t fire you.”
Quint Foster kept his gaze steady on the upturned Stetson on Sam Douglas’s desk, kept his jaw shut tight and every muscle in his body wound like a spring. If he tried to answer the chief’s question, if he relaxed his control just that little bit, he would fall apart in a way he never had before. Never could.
Because he didn’t have the courage to put himself back together again.
“Damn it, Quint, you showed up drunk at a crime scene. You assaulted a prisoner in custody. What the hell—”
Sam broke off. Quint knew the question: What the hell is wrong with you? Just as Sam knew the answer: Belinda. The day she’d died, so had Quint. His body just hadn’t been smart enough to catch on. His brain functioned enough to keep his heart beating, but not enough to make him care about a damn thing. He’d lost everything that mattered except his job, and that was coming.
The thought echoed through the hollowness inside him. Losing his job... All he’d ever been, all he’d ever wanted to be, was a cop. For nearly twenty years, he’d been a good one. He’d advanced through the ranks to assistant chief. If things had continued as they’d been, he likely would have succeeded Sam as chief, if he didn’t retire before the boss.
Now, in another ten minutes, maybe fifteen if Sam was pissed enough, he would be turning in his badge and commission. He would walk out the front door for the last time, and he would truly have no reason to get out of bed again.
Sam remained silent, his steely glare unwavering. Quint didn’t have what it took to look at him, but he could feel the disapproval and disappointment and disgust radiating around him. He’d never imagined the day he would lose his boss’s respect, but here it was. It was only by the grace of God that Sam hadn’t thrown his ass in jail.
By the grace of something. Quint didn’t believe in God anymore. Maybe he was real, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he existed for other people but not for Quint. Every prayer, every plea, every moment he’d spent begging on his knees had been for nothing. Linny had died. He hadn’t.
“Damn it, Quint.” This time the words sounded more sorrowful than angry. Sam raked his fingers through his hair. “What am I supposed to do?”
For the first time in seventy-two hours, Quint made eye contact with his boss. His gut was knotted with dread at losing that last part of himself. He wanted to go to the men’s room and puke up everything in his stomach, then he wanted to go to the nearest bar and refill it with the cheapest crap they had. He wanted to die.
What he did was stand up very carefully. He pulled his badge from his belt, took his credentials from his back pocket and unholstered the gun on his hip. He had to clear his throat twice to make his voice work. “I’ll make it easy for you, Sam. I quit.”
Sam wasn’t surprised. “I don’t want you to quit. You’re a good cop, and I need good cops. I just need you to...”
If he said, “Get over it,” Quint would punch him in the face, and if he hit him once, he wouldn’t stop until he was pulled off.
“I need you to deal with it, Quint,” Sam said quietly. “I can’t even begin to guess how hard this is for you. Belinda was your world, and it’s unfair as hell that she’s gone, but you’re not. You can’t just crawl into your grief and wait to die. It’s not what she’d want. It’s not even what you want, or you would have already done something.”
Quint didn’t know if he should argue that last statement. He felt every year of his forty years twice over. He was tired. Worn-out. Hopeless. Faithless. Alone. Every morning since her death, he’d woken up and thought, damn, he’d survived another night. For a while, it had been a good damn. Everyone had told him—his family, his friends, Linny’s pastor—that recovery was a one-day-at-a-time deal. He was supposed to be grateful for each day he made it through, and in return, God was supposed to make each successive day a little easier.
It hadn’t happened.
“I don’t want you to quit,” Sam said again, “but I can’t keep you as assistant chief. I have to put you on probation. Back in uniform. Back on the street. Are you willing to do that?”
A sound halfway between a snort and a laugh escaped Quint. He sank into the chair again, rubbing hard at his eyes. He hadn’t been in uniform since he’d met Linny twelve years ago. He didn’t even own the current uniform; suits or tactical pants and polo shirts had been his work clothes. Everyone in the department—hell, in the whole damn town—would know he’d been demoted. They would scorn him or pity him. No one would ask his opinion, respect his judgment or even acknowledge all his years of good work. He’d be a patrol officer again, writing tickets, filling out reports on inconsequential incidents, turning the important cases—the cases he’d handled himself the past twelve years—over to detectives to investigate.
But he would still be a cop. He would still have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. And given what he’d done, that was a hell of a lot more than he deserved.
His jaw didn’t want to unclench. His mouth didn’t want to form words, but he forced them out. “Yes, Chief. I’m willing.”
