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“Traffic is worse than in DC,” Michael complained.
Michael was following his GPS, though Kara could have navigated him to LAPD headquarters. Because the Harbor Freeway was backed up, GPS told him to continue on the 10 to the first exit, then drive through side streets.
Kara would have told him to just take the Harbor because it was a more direct route, and you never knew what you’d face on downtown streets, but in the months they’d worked together, she knew Michael didn’t like backseat drivers, so she remained silent.
She looked around at her old stomping grounds. She had worked here, played here, but in the seven months she’d been gone it had changed, and not for the better. So many more homeless, the tents lining the streets leading from the freeway into the downtown area. Graffiti had plagued the city for years; it hadn’t gotten better. New tags over old. Crime was always a problem, but now the smash-and-grab in broad daylight was so commonplace, most people didn’t report the theft. The homeless were both victims of crime—rape, beatings, murder, theft—and the perpetrators. People preyed on people, and drug addiction made it worse.
It was sad to see, but she didn’t have the answers.
The year before he was killed in the line of duty, Colton, her former sometime partner, had gone undercover in Venice Beach to find a killer targeting the homeless. The killer started here, in downtown Los Angeles, and moved west. Colton followed. Took him nearly two months, but Colton caught him. Justice served.
But the plight of these people hadn’t gotten better. Colton had become invested in the communities, so angry with the politicians who talked a good game but didn’t solve any problems. He’d always been tightly wound, but he’d been a damn good cop and didn’t deserve to die. She still missed him. They’d had something between them—mutual respect, trust, an attraction they scratched from time to time. Colton had been the closest thing to a relationship she’d ever had, but because of who they were it had never progressed to something permanent.
Well, the closest thing to a relationship until Matt, she realized suddenly.
As they neared the government center, the rows of tents disappeared, as if law enforcement moved the homeless along until they were out of sight from the people who might be able to do something about it.
Michael turned the corner and LAPD headquarters came into view. Her heart swelled.
Home.
“That is the ugliest building I’ve seen yet,” Michael said, “and there have been plenty of monstrosities between here and the airport.”
“Jeez, what’s this, rag on the West Coast week?” She tilted her head to gaze at the contemporary structure built fifteen years ago. “I guess I don’t really notice it anymore. It opened before I was a cop. But yeah, it’s certainly not as nice as FBI headquarters,” she said sarcastically.
“Point taken.”
Michael drove to the parking garage, showed his credentials and was directed where to park. They took the elevator up to Special Operations.
Special Operations oversaw LAPD detectives, the counterterrorism squad and certain specialty units. Kara’s squad, led by Sergeant Lex Popovich, was one of the few dedicated undercover units.
Kara had been one of his first hires, right out of the academy because she fit a need. Lex obtained an exemption for her to work undercover at a high school to ferret out a drug ring, à la 21 Jump Street, and then she had to do a year in uniform when that assignment was over, before returning to the unit full-time. She loved it. She’d found a home, a place where she belonged, people who respected her, and justice.
Then it was ripped away from her. Painfully, ruthlessly, unfairly.
She missed everything. Lex, her team, the cases, even this building.
Michael let her lead the way. Lex’s squad was at the north end of the fourth floor. She stopped outside double doors labeled “Special Operations Division III, Sergeant Alexander Popovich.”
“I’ll give you some space,” Michael said, “but don’t leave the building without me.”
She smiled at him. “Thanks.”
She appreciated Michael understanding her need to reconnect with her old squad. Trust and respect were not qualities she gave out lightly, and Michael had earned both, despite their occasional disagreements.
Kara walked in, nostalgia wrapping around her like a bittersweet blanket. The energy of the room beckoned her: ringing phones, keyboards clacking, the chatter of her fellow officers filling the space. She breathed in the familiar scents of sweat and cleanser mixed with the metallic tang of guns and the burnt aroma of old coffee.
The seven months could have been seven days or seven years. It was the same...but everything had changed. She didn’t recognize half her colleagues. Her desk, the farthest on the right, was now occupied by a young, lean, black detective. He looked sharp in his blazer, jeans and skinny tie, with his badge and gun prominently displayed on his belt. His long legs were stretched out, crossed at the ankles, as he chatted on the phone.
At her desk.
Not your desk anymore.
What’s that old phrase? Time stops for no one?
“Quinn? I’ll be damned.”
She’d recognize Detective Charlie Dean’s voice anywhere. She turned and grinned at him, so happy to see a friendly, familiar face.
