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“Yep. Just sour grapes.”
Terry rubbed a hand across his forehead, his worry lines deep. “If you’re sure… The police might—”
“I’m sure.” The police might nothing. I wasn’t going down there. Not tonight, or any other night. That ship had sailed off into the darkness, caught fire, and sank. That’s how done Boston and I were before we’d even really started.
And I was balling up the anonymous letter and throwing it right into the flames as well.
15
BOSTON
Istared up at the police headquarters and contemplated how the hell I could possibly walk inside, knowing the Jayela was never going to again. Her desk would still be exactly as she’d left it, with an empty coffee mug, and chewed-on pens in the holder. Her jacket would probably be hanging over the back of her chair because it was warm enough now to not need it outside, but the air-conditioning at the station was intense. Hurt panged through my chest, and my head throbbed in sympathy. Though the headache was more about how much rum I’d drunk last night. It had taken me a long time to get off the couch this morning and drag myself into a shower. I had no idea how I’d gotten home or what time I’d passed out.
But I did remember every single second of the fight with Eve.
I closed my eyes. I was still angry. Not just with her and Augie. I was angry at everyone, myself most of all.
And that was eventually what got me off the couch. I couldn’t do another day of lying in this house, completely shut down and nursing my own misery. It wasn’t what Jaye would have wanted.
I got out of my car and took the elevator to my floor. There were pats on the shoulder and sympathetic smiles, but I ignored them all. I walked straight into the chief’s office and pinned him with a glare. “Don’t tell me to go home.”
He looked up from his morning coffee. Slowly, he put it down on the table. “Fine. I won’t. But you’re riding a desk.”
“I want in on the Heath Michaelson case.”
“You know that’s not going to happen. And besides, there’s no point. It’s open-and-shut. He had means, motive, and opportunity. His prints are all over the murder weapon. And he confessed. We’ve got video. He’s in jail waiting for a trial where they’ll sentence him to life. Or worse.”
The memory of Heath’s unconscious body being dragged out between two officers sat heavily in my mind. “I want to see the confession.”
“Camera got knocked over during the scuffle. It’s just audio.”
“I want to hear it then.”
Chief tapped his stumpy fingers against the side of his mug. “If I let you listen to it, will it ease your mind any?”
“Yes. It has to.” It couldn’t possibly make it any worse. I needed Jayela’s killer to be off the streets. I needed him to stand trial for what he did, and I’d be right there, watching when they sentenced him to life. If Johnson and Stewart had fucked this up in any way, I wanted to know now, not when it was in front of a jury.
“We’re just about to go into a meeting about it anyway. You might as well come along.”
The chief stood, and I followed the shorter man out of his office, through the bullpen, and down the hall to a large room full of chairs facing various screens and whiteboards. Most of our briefings took place here, and there were already multiple people milling about, helping themselves to a pot of coffee that had been brought in and set up by the window.
I wasn’t interested in caffeine. I sat myself in the front row without saying hello to anyone and waited for the briefing to begin. The room filled, slowly, like everybody had better things to do. My impatience mounted by the second. My right leg bounced uncontrollably, jitters coursing through my body.
After what seemed like a lifetime, the chief got up. “Good morning, everybody.” He shot small glances in my direction while he talked about the current open cases, like I was a loose cannon about to erupt.
He was right to be worried. As he walked through the events of the past forty-eight hours, detailing Jayela’s murder in graphic detail, my head swam.
He didn’t ask if I was okay. It was probably clear I wasn’t. But I’d come this far. And I wasn’t going to back down now.
Finally, he called Johnson and Stewart up to talk through Heath Michaelson’s arrest. There were claps and cheers as they stood and made their way to the front of the room. They were patted on the back, and a piercing wolf whistle came from somewhere behind me.
Johnson smiled proudly, like he’d just been awarded a first-place ribbon. The kid next to him smiled, but there was a stiffness to him. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, and when he shot a glance in my direction, he looked downright worried.
Johnson droned on, talking himself up, until I couldn’t stand it a minute longer.
“Just play the fucking recording already,” I snapped.
All eyes turned to me, their gazes judgmental. I could practically read their minds.He’s losing it. He shouldn’t be here.
