Silent Reckoning

“Oh, God.”

Shameka stared down at herself then at me in surprise. He hit me.

“You’ll be all right,” I promised.

People were suddenly all around us, beat cops as well as detectives. The paramedics on standby for this op pushed me aside to clear a path to the victim.

I maintained eye contact with Shameka until whatever they’d put in her IV for pain dragged her into unconsciousness. And then I just stood there, watching as they loaded her into the ambulance and drove away.

If she died…

No. I would not think that way. That dirtbag couldn’t win. I shifted my attention in the direction where I’d last seen the Caddy. They had to catch Johnson.

Anything else was unacceptable.

The next morning I dropped into the chair behind my desk and attempted to focus on reports. It didn’t matter that it was Saturday. Cops were cops 24/7.

I’d spent most of the night at the hospital.

Shameka was in stable condition. She’d made it through surgery with no problem. The surgeon had assured me she would fully recover. Two cops were stationed outside her room for protection.

Clarence Johnson would learn that she had survived.

The scumbag had gotten away.

I couldn’t believe it.

Metro had found the Caddy. Apparently I’d hit him since there was blood in the front seat. Good. I hoped he died a slow, painful death and I didn’t even feel guilty for thinking it.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I looked up to find Jesse Holderfield hovering over me.

Chief wants to see you. He rolled his eyes. He’s in a mood.

“Thanks, Holderfield.”

Jesse Holderfield reminded me a lot of my dad. Quiet, reserved. Nothing like you’d expect a homicide detective to be. But he was good. He had thirty years under his belt in this division.

I got up and headed toward the Chief of Homicide’s office. His domain was down a long hall, just far enough away from the bull pen to maintain some of its dignity where decor is concerned.

Not that the bull pen was that bad. The place had a decent paint job even if the off-white color lacked creativity. The carpet was commercial-grade and beige. Each detective had his or her own cubicle, also beige. Standard-issue metal desks, each topped with a computer only one generation behind the current technology.

But the chief’s office, now that was a different story. A plusher grade of carpeting. A nice cool blue color on the walls. To match his eyes, I mused.

But then I wasn’t supposed to be noticing his eyes anymore.

And I knew exactly what Holderfield meant when he said the chief was in a mood.

I tapped on the door and stuck my head inside. “You wanted to see me?”

Have a seat, Detective.

Not Merri, like he used to call me, or even Walters. Just plain old Detective. This was the game we played now. The vibes he gave off confused me—at times, it felt like he wanted to pick up where we left off after our first case, with a budding personal relationship. Other times, I was almost convinced he’d never felt anything for me at all.

I stepped into his domain and sat as ordered.

Steven Barlow had risen to the position of Chief of Homicide because he was most assuredly the best man for the job. His reputation as a detective was unparalleled, though I’m working on matching that record, and his dedication was legendary.

He looked great. Still wore his dark hair regulation short and no one, I mean no one, dressed as classy as Barlow. I had to smile. Yep, he looked amazing. Made me feel a little warm and fuzzy inside. I did so love to look at him.

And then his gaze connected with mine.

Amazing morphed directly into angry. He was not a happy camper, his expression reflected the mood Holderfield had mentioned.

We’ve spoken about this before.

The warm, fuzzy feeling evaporated.

Here it comes, the talk.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said, in an attempt to derail his momentum. We’d been through this a dozen times in the past year. “I take too many chances. I shouldn’t have moved out of position. I had my orders and I didn’t follow them. Let’s cut to the chase here, Chief. Am I in trouble?”

God, I hoped not. I didn’t want to get suspended or worse, fired. I hadn’t come this far to throw it all away. I had done what I had to do. Any cop worth his or her salt would have done the same thing.

You understand that disobeying orders is a serious offense.

I understood, but I pretended not to notice. I’d found that feigning ignorance often got me off the hook.

Didn’t appear to be working this time.

I swallowed, tried to read his expression. I shouldn’t have bothered. Seeing more than what he wanted me to was impossible. He was too good at putting on the poker face. Just another skill that made him a good chief.

Made for figuring out this thing between us extra tough, as well.

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

His expression changed ever so slightly with my response. Not quite a flinch but almost. Did it bother him that I didn’t call him Barlow? At least I wasn’t in this alone. We were both still adjusting to the roller-coaster-like changes in our relationship. Sometimes it felt as if I was the only one frustrated and confused…it was nice to know he felt it, too.

Your instincts were on target, he admitted as he shifted his gaze away from me. The operation commander and I have discussed the issue and no formal disciplinary action will be taken considering the way things turned out.

Relief surged through me. Though I didn’t feel the least bit repentant for what I’d done, I recognized the need for a chain of command.

This time, Barlow added.

“Thank you, sir.” I would do better next time, maybe even ask permission to make an unexpected move. I chewed my lower lip. I hoped.

That intense gaze reconnected with mine and a brand-new flicker of fire shot through me. I shivered, hoped like heck he didn’t notice. Those awesome lips parted and for a few seconds I thought he would say something like, I worry about you, Merri, or I couldn’t live without you. He didn’t.

For a couple of months now, he said, we’ve been using you as a fill-in.