Detective on the Hunt
Autore
Marilyn Pappano
Letto da
18,6K
Capitoli
11
Prologue
āGive me one reason why I shouldnāt fire you.ā
Quint Foster kept his gaze steady on the upturned Stetson on Sam Douglasās desk, kept his jaw shut tight and every muscle in his body wound like a spring. If he tried to answer the chiefās 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 didnāt have the courage to put himself back together again.
āDamn it, Quint, you showed up drunk at a crime scene. You assaulted a prisoner in custody. What the hellāā
Sam broke off. Quint knew the question: What the hell is wrong with you? Just as Sam knew the answer: Belinda. The day sheād died, so had Quint. His body just hadnāt 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. Heād lost everything that mattered except his job, and that was coming.
The thought echoed through the hollowness inside him. Losing his job... All heād ever been, all heād ever wanted to be, was a cop. For nearly twenty years, heād been a good one. Heād advanced through the ranks to assistant chief. If things had continued as theyād been, he likely would have succeeded Sam as chief, if he didnāt 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 didnāt have what it took to look at him, but he could feel the disapproval and disappointment and disgust radiating around him. Heād never imagined the day he would lose his bossās respect, but here it was. It was only by the grace of God that Sam hadnāt thrown his ass in jail.
By the grace of something. Quint didnāt believe in God anymore. Maybe he was real, maybe he wasnāt. Maybe he existed for other people but not for Quint. Every prayer, every plea, every moment heād spent begging on his knees had been for nothing. Linny had died. He hadnāt.
āDamn it, Quint.ā This time the words sounded more sorrowful than angry. Sam raked his fingers through his hair. āWhat am I supposed to do?ā
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 menās 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. āIāll make it easy for you, Sam. I quit.ā
Sam wasnāt surprised. āI donāt want you to quit. Youāre a good cop, and I need good cops. I just need you to...ā
If he said, āGet over it,ā Quint would punch him in the face, and if he hit him once, he wouldnāt stop until he was pulled off.
āI need you to deal with it, Quint,ā Sam said quietly. āI canāt even begin to guess how hard this is for you. Belinda was your world, and itās unfair as hell that sheās gone, but youāre not. You canāt just crawl into your grief and wait to die. Itās not what sheād want. Itās not even what you want, or you would have already done something.ā
Quint didnāt 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, heād woken up and thought, damn, heād survived another night. For a while, it had been a good damn. Everyone had told himāhis family, his friends, Linnyās pastorāthat 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 hadnāt happened.
āI donāt want you to quit,ā Sam said again, ābut I canāt 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?ā
A sound halfway between a snort and a laugh escaped Quint. He sank into the chair again, rubbing hard at his eyes. He hadnāt been in uniform since heād met Linny twelve years ago. He didnāt even own the current uniform; suits or tactical pants and polo shirts had been his work clothes. Everyone in the departmentāhell, in the whole damn townāwould know heād 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. Heād be a patrol officer again, writing tickets, filling out reports on inconsequential incidents, turning the important casesāthe cases heād handled himself the past twelve yearsāover 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 heād done, that was a hell of a lot more than he deserved.
His jaw didnāt want to unclench. His mouth didnāt want to form words, but he forced them out. āYes, Chief. Iām willing.ā
