it something I said?” Bryce’s voice cracked, trying to cover up the fact that if this was on the level, it left him far from happy and somewhat surprised. He wasn’t averse to change, but he didn’t exactly welcome a major shake-up, either.
“Hell, it’s everything you said,” Phelps answered tongue in cheek as he opened one drawer after another, checking for anything he might have left behind. “But if you’re asking why I’m leaving the police department, you don’t have anything to do with it.”
Bryce took a seat on the edge of his partner’s desk, crossing his arms before him. “Then educate me, Phelps. Why are you suddenly spring-cleaning your desk two months late?”
The frown on Phelps’s long, gaunt face went clear to the bone. “Alice’s mom is sick,” he said, referring to his wife’s only living parent.
Bryce knew enough to look immediately sympathetic. “Hey, I’m sorry to hear that.” Still perched on the desk, he leaned in to get into his partner’s face. “But I still don’t see the connection.”
Phelps put down a copy of the 1983 Dodger Annual yearbook for his favorite baseball team, pressed his thin lips together and sighed. The sigh sounded as if it came straight from his toes. “The kind of sick where she needs her family around her, doing stuff for her.”
Bryce still didn’t see the problem. “So? Bring her out here. You’ve got those extra bedrooms since your kids went off to college—” He didn’t get a chance to finish.
Phelps eyed him as if he’d lost his mind. “Look, I feel bad for her, but there’s no way that harpy’s moving in with us. Not unless you wanna see my face on a mug shot posted in Homicide with the words ‘Rogue Cop’ over it.”
Bryce was trying very hard to understand what the other man was saying. “So what’s the plan? You and Alice’re moving in with her?”
Phelps shivered. “Different scenario, same results. Alice and I are renting a place up there.”
“There” being Fresno, Bryce recalled.
“She’s going to play Florence What’s-Her-Name and I guess I’m gonna see if I can finally write that crime thriller I’m always talking about.” The contented, wistful expression on his face faded and Phelps got back to the present. “Officially, for now I’m taking an extended leave of absence. Don’t look so glum. I’ll be back,” Phelps promised. “After all, you never forget your first,” he added with a wicked grin, followed by a heartfelt sigh.
Bryce shot the man a look that said he wasn’t amused. “Seriously, just how long is this ‘extended’ leave going to be?”
Bony shoulders rose and fell beneath the loose-fitting jacket. “A few months. Six on the outside. Doctors say that the old girl’s on her way out. Could be anytime now,” he said a little wistfully. And then reality set in. “’Course, she’s got the constitution of a rock. She just might hang around for another ten, twenty years just to stick it to me.” Phelps laughed dryly as he put the last of his things into the cardboard box.
He paused. “Not everybody’s as lucky as you are, partner. Your family gets along and they all have each other’s backs no matter what.” He picked up the box then put it back down again and, only half kidding, said, “Any chance I could get adopted? I wouldn’t take up much space.”
Bryce laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to ask.” And then he sobered as he scanned the squad room. “It won’t seem the same without you.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll forget about me the second I walk out the door.” Phelps saw that his partner was looking at something or someone over his shoulder. Turning, he saw a slender blonde crossing the threshold, a miniature version of his cardboard box in her hands. “Sooner, maybe,” he commented. “Well, off I go.” He put his hand into Bryce’s, shaking it. “It’s been good. Maybe with luck, I’ll see you soon.”
And then Phelps looked around. “Anyone know where I can pick up some hemlock, cheap?” he asked, raising his voice so that it carried to the rest of the inhabitants of the squad room.
A cacophony of voices answered him as he made his way, nodding through the maze of desks and detectives, toward the exit.
He passed the blonde who was walking in. Assuming that she was there to take his place, Phelps nodded in her direction and, in a low voice, said, “The desk’s in the rear of the room. So’s your partner.” And then he smiled broadly. “Good luck with that.”
* * *
Scottie’s arm tightened around the small box she was carrying. It was only half filled, but she hadn’t been able to find a smaller box when she’d cleaned out her space in Homicide.
The transfer had come through so quickly, Scottie thought, it had almost taken her breath away. She’d been prepared to make several requests and to write long petitions before she got the okay to make the transfer from Homicide to Robbery. She’d been certain she would have to plead her case and be movingly convincing before the approval was given. After all, she’d been fairly certain she had done a more than decent job in Homicide.
She’d certainly managed to clear all her cases. But then, on the other hand, Aurora was not exactly a snake pit of crime. It habitually made the FBI’s top ten list of safest US cities for its size and she liked to think she was part of the reason for that. She worked hard, kept to herself and never challenged authority. As far as she knew, that was the winning formula for a valuable employee.
She’d thought that her commanding officer would have put up more of a fuss about losing her. But to her surprise, after she’d put in her request, stating only that she felt rather burned out working Homicide—it was the only thing that occurred to her to use as her reason for requesting the transfer—it had been granted the next morning. The captain hadn’t even tried to talk her out of it.
Her partner, Joe Mathias, had appeared a little surprised as well as dismayed when he’d learned she was transferring, but not enough to try to get her to change her mind or to attempt to block the transfer.
They had worked well together, but only in the way that two cogs located on the same machine worked well. They had never socialized after hours—her choice—and they didn’t even know any personal details about one another—also her choice. Mathias had tried—he had pictures of his wife and kids on his desk and on occasion would tell her about something he and his family had done over the weekend—but Scottie had zealously kept her private life just that.
Private.
Part of the reason for her secrecy was that she didn’t want anyone to find out about Ethan. He was not only her half brother, at one point she had also been his legal guardian. Her gut instincts had her hiding their connection—just in case.
And now “just in case” had happened—maybe.
For now, it proved to her that she’d been right about deciding to keep her private life under wraps. If her hunch was right, and Ethan was involved in what was now going on, there’d be no way that she would be allowed to work on the break-ins that had suddenly begun to plague the good citizens living in some of the more upscale neighborhoods of Aurora.
If anyone knew about Ethan and the nefarious life he had supposedly left behind, she would be barred from doing any sort of investigation that could clear his name—if Ethan was part of
