“Angie. We’re playing phone tag here—had to make an emergency trip up to the regional corrections facility.” He refrained from mentioning why he’d come. Or with whom. His ongoing investigation with Holgersen—her junior partner from sex crimes—was going to be a minefield of personal conflict between him and her as they continued to move forward. “I’m on my return to Vic right now but could be running late for our 7:30. If you get there before me, have a drink on me, please. Will be there as soon as I can.”
He killed the call and made for his Impala. Holgersen was behind the wheel, engine warming, heater blasting. Jack-O snoozed on his sheepskin rug on the back seat. So far brass had not complained about Maddocks bringing the dog to work. He’d deal with that if and when it happened.
As they headed down the peninsula, rain lashed harder. Maddocks’s thoughts turned to Angie and the IIO ruling—and what it might do to their nascent relationship. A disquiet seeped low and cold into his stomach.
CHAPTER 9
Marge Buchanan, the union rep, was awaiting Angie beside the MVPD station doors, under the roof out of the rain, right behind the carved totem pole that served as an emblematic support column.
“Thanks for coming,” Angie said tersely, walking right past the woman. She yanked open the glass door. She wasn’t up to meeting Buchanan’s eyes right now—this woman who’d so generously and attentively sat with her through the initial IIO interrogations, who’d advised her not to exercise her right to silence in this case, who’d helped with a lawyer. Angie wasn’t so sure now that not exercising her charter right to silence had been the correct move. Because in answering questions, she’d exposed the fact that she’d had some kind of blackout during her violent shooting of Spencer Addams—she could not recall firing her weapon so many times, nor why she had done so. All she could remember was seeing that little halo of pink behind Addams—that luminous little ghost girl in a pink dress that she’d been hallucinating. And she’d snapped. All she’d wanted to do was get the ghost kid away from Addams. Save her. Of course she hadn’t confessed that part. She’d only told the IIO investigators she could not recall firing any shots after the first one. Either they’d believed this, or they might have concluded she was lying. Neither option was good.
Angie held the door open for the rep, still not making eye contact. The older woman entered the building and stopped in front of Angie, finally forcing Angie to look into her face.
“I know this is hard. Any questions before we go up?” Buchanan said.
“Probably after,” said Angie. “Depending on the ruling.” Her plan was to hear Vedder out, say little. And deal with the facts once she had them.
The older woman managed to keep pace with Angie’s clipped stride as Angie led the way upstairs to Vedder’s office, which looked out onto the sex crimes bullpen and her own desk. As they went Angie got a whiff of the woman’s hairspray—her coif was fixed in a solid steel-gray helmet around her head. Buchanan had been a cop back in the day. Is that what Angie would say about herself? I was a cop once, back in the day …
Once upstairs Angie strode swiftly past the bullpen, spine erect, chin up. She’d donned a black tailored leather blazer over slim black jeans. She wore her best boots, which had a slight heel. Hair washed and sleek down her back. She knew she looked her best. She might be a loser, but she was not going to dress like one.
Dundurn and Smith were at their desks. For the past six years, Angie had been one of the sixteen detectives in sex crimes. They were divided into teams of four. She and Holgersen were one team in her unit of four. Dundurn and Smith were the other pair. Along with a training officer, a ViCLAS coordinator, an analyst, and two project assistants, they all worked under Sergeant Matt Vedder.
Smith glanced up from his paperwork as she passed. Surprise cut through his features. “Pallorino?” He started to get to his feet. Dundurn glanced up from his paperwork, his butt-ugly brown suit jacket hanging on his chair behind him. Angie felt a clutch in her throat—she never thought she’d see the day she missed those two assholes and that stinking jacket of Dundurn’s. She gave them both a curt nod, adjusted the hem of her blazer, and kept on going. She knocked on Vedder’s glass door. He had the blinds down. Not good.
“Enter!” came his voice.
Angie braced, then opened the door. Vedder was seated behind his desk. To his left sat Inspector Martin Flint.
“Sir, Inspector,” she said. “You know Marge Buchanan?”
They nodded their greetings, and Vedder gestured toward the two vacant chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
Angie met Vedder’s eyes before doing so. They were expressionless. His features flat. Not good. Really not good. Slowly, she lowered herself into a chair. Buchanan seated herself in the remaining chair.
“How have you been, Pallorino?” Vedder said.
She dropped her gaze to his hand. It rested flat atop some folders. She recognized the IIO logo on the topmost one.
“Awaiting the decision.” She titled her chin toward the folders. “If we could cut to the chase, sir—what’s the final word from the IIO?” She felt the scrutiny of Flint intense upon her, but she refused to look his way. This was it—she could feel it. Thick in the air. The end.
“For the record,” Vedder said, “the purpose of the IIO investigation was to determine whether the subject officer—which is you, Pallorino—referred to as the SO in this report, may have committed any offenses during the fatal shooting of the affected person—Spencer Addams, referred as the AP in the report—on Monday, December eighteen, in mountainous wilderness west of the old railway trestle bridge over Skookum Gorge. I’ve made copies of the ruling for both you and Buchanan.”
He slid two files across his desk. Buchanan reached for hers. Angie just glared at the cover of her own copy, her face going hot.
“As you know, this report will be posted on the IIO website, and it will be accessible to media.”
Blood started to boom in her ears. She felt dizzy. She couldn’t sit still. She needed to get out of here, stat. She cleared her throat. “Bottom line, sir—can you please give me the bottom line?”
He held her gaze. “Based on his review of all the evidence collected during the course of the investigation, and based on the law as it applies, the chief civilian director of the IIO has determined there were significant issues and concerns regarding the SO’s tactics, primarily relating to a direct disregard of the orders of superiors, excessive use of force, a troubling gap in memory, and what was determined to be probable evidence of rage, or at the least loss of professional control.” Vedder continued to hold Angie’s gaze. “The autopsy of the AP and ballistics results from the scene are consistent with the SO having shot eight rounds into Addams’s face, chest, and neck. Apart from the one bullet deemed to have been fired from a distance of about twenty feet, and another from about six feet, the others were all fired into the AP at close range while he lay prone on the ground.”
Angie swallowed but refused to blink. A bead of sweat pearled between her breasts and began to dribble down under her bra strap.
“However, given the exigent circumstances, the CCD believes that it cannot be said that your failures rise to a level such that consideration of criminal charges is warranted.”
Relief punched her sternum so hard it stole her ability to breathe. She cast a quick glance at Buchanan, who gave a small smile and a nod.
Vedder did not look impressed. Neither did Flint. She’d gotten lucky, and she knew it.
“However,” Vedder continued, “following an additional MVPD review into the incident, as required by the Police Act, the department has determined that a grievous breach of department protocol occurred, and it goes to a historical pattern of insubordinate behavior. There remains concern over your psychological frame of mind, especially after you lost your partner last summer and have not followed through with the required counseling.” Vedder shifted in his chair. “It’s been decided that disciplinary action will include a twelve-month period o
f probation where you will work as a uniformed officer in an administrative position that does not require carrying a service weapon. We’re offering you the position of social media officer within the community and public affairs section at a pay grade commensurate with the position. The officer currently in that position will be away for twelve months on maternity leave starting next week—you will relieve her for that period commencing tomorrow.”
Angie’s throat closed in on itself. She blinked. “You … can’t be serious?”
“This was a very serious breach of protocol, Detective Pallorino. In the course of our internal review, several officers expressed concern about potentially being partnered with you. Especially after the Spencer Addams shooting coming so close on the death of your previous partner.”
“I was cleared in that investigation.”
“One investigation too many. You will also report to an approved police psychologist for a psychological assessment and will follow through on the resulting recommended course of therapy. And you will attend department anger management courses, as well as a series of workshops designed to build better team players.” He pushed the MVPD file toward her and a copy toward Buchanan. “At the end of the twelve-month probation period, another internal assessment will be conducted.”
“After which I can return to sex crimes?”
“There is no guarantee. It will be contingent on behavior during your probation.”
Angie’s vision narrowed. Blood boomed loud in her ears.
Buchanan leaned forward. “Detective Pallorino has vacation and sick days owing that amount to a period of three months at her current pay scale—”
Vedder cut in. “If she chooses to take those three months now, the clock will only start ticking on her twelve-month probation when she returns.” A pause. “The public affairs unit will have a desk ready for you to report to first thing tomorrow, Pallorino. It’s a 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. position. Start time tomorrow will however be 11:00 a.m. because Officer Pepper, whom you’ll be replacing, will be available from that time onward to show you the ropes. She has a school presentation before that.”
Silence. The atmosphere in the closed office grew thicker.
Angie stared at Vedder.
Two weeks ago she’d been gunning for a big promotion into the elite all-male homicide division. She’d gotten so damn close.
School presentations?
A uniform?
No service weapon?
She’d never been that low on the totem pole. Ever. Social fucking media? You have got to be kidding me. It was humiliating. It wasn’t even an option—everything that defined her was in being a detective. In working major crimes. It was why she got up in the mornings—how she got up in the mornings. They might as well have fired her.
Happy shitty fake birthday, Angie.
CHAPTER 10
“Hey, it’s about time I finally got through. How’s the birthday girl? Did you get my other messages?”
Maddocks.
Angie tightened her hand around her cell phone. It was 7:52 p.m. She’d been sitting here at this bar counter at the King’s Head nursing a martini since 7:25. She lifted her glass and took a sip. “You’re going to tell me you’re running even later, aren’t you?”
“I’m so sorry, but—”
“But something’s come up? The case?”
“It’s a big deal. We got a major br—”
“Yeah, a breakthrough. I get it, Maddocks.” Her attention went to a narrow mullioned window that looked out into the dark parking lot. She’d chosen this stool so she could keep an eye on the Nissan with her boxes inside. Not that anyone was likely to break in and steal her cold case files, but she had a protective urge to watch over them nevertheless. She’d been champing at the bit for Maddocks to arrive—to tell him about Vedder, her probation. Her trip to Vancouver. Her major break with the cold case files. Maddocks was the only person she could truly confide in at the moment. He’d proven she could trust him. He’d had her back, and she had his.
“So how long do you think you’ll be?” She tried to keep her disappointment from her voice.
“Another half hour max. Can you wait, please? You having a drink?”
Irritation, resentment, anger, hurt, all of it crashed suddenly through her in one powerful, uncontrollable wave. “Look,” she said coolly, “I don’t think this is going work out, Maddocks.”
He hesitated at the sharp shift in her tone. “You don’t think what is going to work?”
“Dinner. This … this thing between us.”
“Whoa, Angie, back up—hold it right there. What’s going on?” A pause. “Shit, it’s the IIO ruling, isn’t it? Did it come in?”
She inhaled deeply and glanced up at the heavy paneling on the ceiling of the bar, struggling suddenly to marshal her control. “Yeah,” she said quietly.
A beat of silence. “And?”
“And nothing. I’ll talk to you later, when you’ve got time. I’m going to hang up now, finish my drink, and go home.”
“I’m coming to your place, after—”
“No. Don’t. Please.” She killed the call and sat for a moment clutching her phone. Her own image stared back at her from the mirror behind the rows of bottles across the bar. She could see deep bruises of fatigue smudged beneath her eyes, offsetting a deathly pale, gaunt complexion. She must have lost more weight than she’d realized over the past few weeks. Her hair hung sleek to her shoulders, lips painted deep red, for Maddocks’s benefit. For the occasion of her birthday dinner. She’d made an effort, but all she’d accomplished was “haunted.”
Who are you, face in the mirror?
An old rhyme came to her mind.
Fractured face
in the mirror,
you are my disgrace …
a sinner …
She cursed inwardly. She couldn’t do this. She could not sit for one year behind a desk, doing the job of a rookie, giving talks to auditoriums full of bored teenagers or elementary school kids, when she had acknowledged skill and experience in investigating sex crimes and, more recently, in working a series of linked, high-profile homicides. She’d helped stop a serial killer. Tweeting? Facebooking? Crafting posts for the Day in the Life of a Cop blog? Yeah, that was seeking justice. That was using her skills.
Enduring the punishment wasn’t even a guarantee of regaining her position in sex crimes.
But if she didn’t do it—if she quit the MVPD before swallowing her twelve months of discipline—she’d never get a letter of reference. She’d never work as a detective again.
She tossed back the dregs of her martini.
“Another?”
Her gaze shot to the barkeep. He was maybe thirty, eyes liquid obsidian and densely fringed. Thick, dark, tousled hair. Olive-toned skin, smooth. Lean and muscular in the way of a triathlete. Fuckable, she thought suddenly. And she felt hot. She held his eyes and gently turned the stem of her martini glass in her hand.
“Who’s asking?” she said.
He waited a beat, not breaking eye contact. “Antonio.”
She snorted softly. “Of course. Antonio. Yeah, please, another.”
“Same?”
“Yep—martini, dirty.”
“Rough day?” he said, taking her empty glass from her hand, allowing the backs of his fingers to brush against her skin. The contact shot a crackle of electricity up her arm, and it felt nice. She imagined how he might look naked and cuffed to a bed with a hard-on. How she might sheath his erection with a condom. Open her thighs. Sink down on to him. Rock her pelvis, gentle at first … Her heart beat faster. Heat rushed to her groin. That old urge to hit the club serpentined low into her belly and sank claws deep into her throat. A good, mind-numbing, anonymous fuck—that’s what she needed right now. Better than a drink. Better than coke. Better than dope.
“You could say it was rough,” she said.
“Anything I can do?”
Hell yeah. “The drink.”
“Be ri
ght back.”
Antonio sauntered in an overtly casual fashion to the far end of the bar, where he began to fix her drink. She watched his gluteal muscles moving beneath the fabric of his tailored black pants. Nothing like an orgasm to take one’s mind off things.
Angie forced herself to break her gaze. She knew her physical reaction for what it was. An addiction. An escape. A way of numbing other feelings. Hitting the Foxy, the adult entertainment club on the highway out of town, had been her coping mechanism for years. A place to blow off steam. All the major crimes cops had ways of doing this. The Foxy had been hers—a hunting ground where she could scope out an anonymous target, proposition him, cuff him to a bed in the adjacent motel, and screw him without exchanging names or numbers. No strings attached. And she’d leave before he could properly enjoy her in return. Power trip, yeah, but so what? She dealt with men who used women every day of her life, so this was her way of taking back control. Angie had grown increasingly addicted to this fix, the latent danger, the taste of physical and emotional strength.
Until Maddocks.
Until the Spencer Addams case.
Antonio placed her fresh drink on a coaster in front of her.
“Thanks,” Angie said, avoiding his eyes this time, instead averting her attention to the ice hockey game playing on the large-screen television above the bar. She took a hard swig of her martini and focused on the warm burn of alcohol blossoming through her chest, and she breathed in deep.
The hockey game finished, and the channel segued to the 8:00 p.m. news. An image of a small, dirty, pale-lilac sneaker suddenly filled the screen. Angie stilled her glass midair. The text at the bottom of the screen said, ANOTHER DISMEMBERED FOOT WASHES UP IN SALISH SEA.
The camera cut to a young woman with a pretty, round face, blue eyes, short blonde hair blowing in wind. The woman’s nose and cheeks were pinked, and her blue jacket glistened from rain. Behind her the sky hunkered bruised and low above a misty gray ocean. She stood on blackish sand that had been sculpted smooth from the outgoing tide, and she held a leash with a little white dog attached to the end. The blonde woman pointed to a knoll of rocks near the waterline where a pile of seaweed lay in a tangle. As she turned, Angie saw that the woman was pregnant.
The Lullaby Girl (Angie Pallorino Book 2) Page 8