Detective on the Hunt
Autor:in
Marilyn Pappano
Gelesen
18,6K
Kapitel
11
Prologue
âGive me one reason why I shouldnât fire you.â
Quint Foster kept his gaze steady on the upturned Stetson on Sam Douglasâs desk, kept his jaw shut tight and every muscle in his body wound like a spring. If he tried to answer the chiefâs 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 didnât have the courage to put himself back together again.
âDamn it, Quint, you showed up drunk at a crime scene. You assaulted a prisoner in custody. What the hellââ
Sam broke off. Quint knew the question: What the hell is wrong with you? Just as Sam knew the answer: Belinda. The day sheâd died, so had Quint. His body just hadnât 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. Heâd lost everything that mattered except his job, and that was coming.
The thought echoed through the hollowness inside him. Losing his job... All heâd ever been, all heâd ever wanted to be, was a cop. For nearly twenty years, heâd been a good one. Heâd advanced through the ranks to assistant chief. If things had continued as theyâd been, he likely would have succeeded Sam as chief, if he didnât 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 didnât have what it took to look at him, but he could feel the disapproval and disappointment and disgust radiating around him. Heâd never imagined the day he would lose his bossâs respect, but here it was. It was only by the grace of God that Sam hadnât thrown his ass in jail.
By the grace of something. Quint didnât believe in God anymore. Maybe he was real, maybe he wasnât. Maybe he existed for other people but not for Quint. Every prayer, every plea, every moment heâd spent begging on his knees had been for nothing. Linny had died. He hadnât.
âDamn it, Quint.â This time the words sounded more sorrowful than angry. Sam raked his fingers through his hair. âWhat am I supposed to do?â
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 menâs 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. âIâll make it easy for you, Sam. I quit.â
Sam wasnât surprised. âI donât want you to quit. Youâre a good cop, and I need good cops. I just need you to...â
If he said, âGet over it,â Quint would punch him in the face, and if he hit him once, he wouldnât stop until he was pulled off.
âI need you to deal with it, Quint,â Sam said quietly. âI canât even begin to guess how hard this is for you. Belinda was your world, and itâs unfair as hell that sheâs gone, but youâre not. You canât just crawl into your grief and wait to die. Itâs not what sheâd want. Itâs not even what you want, or you would have already done something.â
Quint didnât 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, heâd woken up and thought, damn, heâd survived another night. For a while, it had been a good damn. Everyone had told himâhis family, his friends, Linnyâs pastorâthat 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 hadnât happened.
âI donât want you to quit,â Sam said again, âbut I canât 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?â
A sound halfway between a snort and a laugh escaped Quint. He sank into the chair again, rubbing hard at his eyes. He hadnât been in uniform since heâd met Linny twelve years ago. He didnât even own the current uniform; suits or tactical pants and polo shirts had been his work clothes. Everyone in the departmentâhell, in the whole damn townâwould know heâd 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. Heâd be a patrol officer again, writing tickets, filling out reports on inconsequential incidents, turning the important casesâthe cases heâd handled himself the past twelve yearsâover 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 heâd done, that was a hell of a lot more than he deserved.
His jaw didnât want to unclench. His mouth didnât want to form words, but he forced them out. âYes, Chief. Iâm willing.â
Leselisten
Alle anzeigenTauch ein in die Romantik Buchsammlungen, von unserer Lesergemeinschaft zusammengestellt.
