commiserate over their baby sister’s plight.
After yesterday’s hearing, complete with Jillian’s sullen mood and accusatory glares, he and Holly would have plenty to hash out. Tough love sucked. But coping with an addict like Jillian had destroyed the whole warm-fuzzy-family thing among the three siblings long ago. While Jillian detoxed without any outside contact for two weeks, Eli and Holly needed to do some healing themselves.
Unfazed by his surly tone, the commissioner asked, “Can you come by my office this afternoon? I’ve already cleared it with Captain Chang. He gave me your direct number.”
Running the request past his supervisor ensured cooperation, if not eager anticipation. Nothing like being master of his own destiny. Eli nipped the sarcasm and checked his mental calendar. “I can swing by about four-thirty if that’ll work for you.”
“That’s fine. I’ll have Michael take my last meeting.”
“That anxious to get my report? Or are you going to lecture me about not following the chain of command again?”
Her volume dropped to a throaty whisper. “Please. I’d rather not discuss it on the phone. I need to see you.”
Cryptic. Her hushed plea carved a delicate pinhole in Eli’s defensive armor. Commissioner Cartwright hadn’t struck him as a woman of mystery, but he couldn’t help but be intrigued.
An image of the murdering Mr. Trench Coat’s nearly opaque lenses trained down the barrel of his rifle toward Shauna Cartwright blipped through Eli’s memory.
Forget intrigued. Tension twisted a knot at the back of his neck. “I’ll be there at four-thirty.”
BY QUARTER PAST FOUR that afternoon, Eli was sinking his oxfords into the plush silver carpet on the top floor of KCPD headquarters. The receptionist at the center of KCPD’s administrative offices had offered him a seat, but Eli preferred the view at the row of windows facing into the heart of downtown Kansas City. At least he could see people moving outside.
KCPD’s limestone tower wasn’t the tallest building on the skyline. Originally built in the 1930s, the interior had been in a continuous state of refurbishing for the past six years. But it wasn’t the new decor or updated technology or even the row of commissioners’ portraits staring at his back from the long hallway that impressed him. It was the eerie quiet about the place.
There was an ominous weight to the air, a stuffy silence that lacked the relaxed comfort of a library or the creative intensity of a classroom of students taking a test.
Every floor in every precinct building he went into was a bustling hive of activity and purposeful noise. Machines. Conversations. Energy. Even the Internal Affairs division where he was based boasted more movement and warmth than this stylish tomb. Talk about your ivory tower.
It wasn’t just the uniformed officers and security gates at each entrance that made the top-brass offices feel cut off from the rest of the world. The sound-dampening choices of carpeted cubicle walls and lined drapes played their part in the silence. As did the closed doors and deserted hallways. Even with the sun shining outside—deepening the reds and golds on the trees in the park below him—Eli felt isolated.
Waiting for his appointment with the commish was a bit like being summoned to the principal’s office. Or going down to lockup at two in the morning to bail out a sister who was so zoned on booze and coke that she didn’t even realize she’d been arrested.
Eli breathed deeply, trying to dispel the tension that particular memory triggered. He pulled back the front of his suit jacket and fingered the phone on his belt. Maybe he should call the treatment center to check up on Jillian. She wasn’t allowed any personal calls during an initial probationary period, and then had to earn the privilege after that. But he could talk to one of her counselors or a nurse to see how she was settling in.
“Detective Masterson?”
Contenting his hands with rebuttoning his jacket instead of reaching for the phone, Eli greeted the receptionist with a nod. The steel-haired woman whose desk plaque had identified her as Betty Mills handed him a paper cup filled with coffee. Tepid from the feel of things. Bitter sludge that had sat in the pot all day from the whiff he got.
He still offered a polite “Thanks,” not because the woman seemed to expect it or that he looked forward to drinking her gift. But a perverse sense of irony had him wondering if kindness could soften the plastic smile she wore like a badge on her stiff expression. Nope.
“It’s inspiring to be in the company of such fine men, isn’t it?” Betty stated with awed conviction.
For a split second, Eli thought she was speaking in figurative terms, looking down at the miniature men and women outside—some in uniform, some in plainclothes—exiting down the concrete steps or entering the building for the start of their shift. But then he noted the angle of her gaze, toward the back wall and the row of portraits.
“There’s a lot of history there,” he agreed, wondering if her assessment included the commissioners who’d served in the 1920s and 1930s when there’d been suspicion of corruption among several government officials in Kansas City. But thoughts of corruption reminded him of Joe Niederhaus and soured what was left of his amiable mood.
“I’ve served with seven of them, you know. Either in the secretarial pool or as administrative assistant.”
And he’d bet she’d worn that same smile through each administration. “You’re very dedicated.”
“I still miss working with Commissioner Brent. He was destined for fine things. Loved his sense of humor.” Miss Plastic Face got humor? “Now it’s all trapped inside him. But I know he’s working hard to come back to us.”
“I hope he recovers his health. I hear that rehabilitative therapy after a stroke is tough.”
Betty straightened Brent’s portrait with tender care, though Eli hadn’t seen anything out of place. “He’s a fighter.”
The telephone buzzed on her desk and she left to answer it. Oh yeah, if she was in charge of the mood up here, no wonder it felt like such a mausoleum.
“Commissioner Cartwright will see you now.”
Eli dumped his untasted coffee in the trash and strolled toward the bank of closed office doors. “Thanks.”
But he paused when one of the double cherrywood doors opened and his I.A. supervisor, Garrett Chang, stepped out. Not the worst surprise of his life, but not a particularly good one. His captain’s dark, almond-shaped eyes instantly sought him out and flashed a warning. Eli’s mood shifted into grim. “This isn’t gonna be good, is it?”
Chang shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
This had to be about something more than a late report. Was one of the two dead men from the bank the cousin of a wealthy benefactor? Was someone suing the department? Was the lady commish p.o.’d because he hadn’t jumped the instant she gave an order? Well, he damn well wasn’t going to stand by while innocent…
“It’s not what you think, Eli.” Chang knew how his mind worked. “Whatever conspiracy theory is running around inside that head of yours, I promise, reality will be worse.”
I’d rather not discuss it on the
