Badge of Honor Page 3

  It was, in the end, the oddities—and the curiosity they aroused—that made her hang onto the file. Occupational hazard, she told herself as she dutifully signed the file out on the log before leaving the room for the thankfully less musty air of the rest of the building.

  In her office, she closed the door and sat at the desk with the file. She glanced at the two phone messages that had come in while she'd been in the file storage room, trying to decipher Betty Serrano's handwriting. Trinity West's budget hadn't run to voice mail yet, either. If you wanted those perks, you went to work for Marina del Mar PD.

  Determining that neither of the messages was urgent time-wise, she set them aside and opened the folder. The initial report was embarrassingly brief. Robards wrote that just after going on duty for the graveyard shift at one in the morning, he'd heard the call go out of a man down, and since he happened to be close to the scene at the time he had responded. That alone made Kit's mouth twist. Robards had never been known for volunteering for actual work.

  The report said he'd found a man lying in the alley in the three hundred block of Trinity Street East

  behind a tavern. He'd thought him drunk at first, but quickly determined he was dead. Curious, she flipped to the autopsy report and found that there had been no evidence of drugs or alcohol in the victim's system.

  Interesting, Kit thought, the implications of that phrase about thinking the man drunk. And why, since it had been proven he hadn't been drunk, would Robards even mention it, unless it was to plant the idea? Especially since, according to the records check, Jaime Rivas had been clean except for a couple of traffic tickets and one petty theft years ago. She went back to the report.

  Something else caught her eye, and she thumbed through the rest of the report. There was no copy of the dispatch log attached, but she wasn't exactly sure when they'd started including that in files. She tapped her fingers on her desk, thinking. It would take their records section hours to track down a case this old. However, there was another option here…

  She looked up a number and picked up her phone. It took her a couple of transfers, but she finally got to somebody at County Fire who said they could find what she wanted.

  "It'll take a few minutes, since it's so long ago," the woman warned. "Do you want me to call you back?"

  She considered that, but decided she'd prefer the slight extra pressure of having a caller on hold. "I'll wait," she said. "I'll just put you on my speakerphone."

  She went on reading as she waited, wondering in the back of her mind how quickly the system would grind to a halt if the civilians ever went on strike. Cops needed to think about that more often, she thought.

  The phone was still silent as she finished reading. Not that it had taken long. This had to be the shortest major felony report she'd ever seen. And the most … uncaring, she supposed—it was the only word that seemed to fit. The overall impression she got was that this victim was a nobody, his murder not worth investigating thoroughly. There was no evidence, no witnesses, nothing. A boy had been beaten to death, and it was reduced to a couple of pages of useless information.

  Even the autopsy said only that the cause of death was blunt force trauma and speculated on numerous possible instruments that could have caused it. And the detective follow-up was practically nonexistent, completed by Darrel Brennan, she noted, who had retired shortly afterward. He had been one of Robards's cronies, and the two of them had often been heard bemoaning the loss of the good old days when cops were real men, not the pansies of today.

  If Robards could have gotten away with writing what he had often said, "Good riddance to one more Mexican," she supposed that would be in here, too. Lord, she despised that man. She wondered why the chief put up with him. He had more reason than most to want to be rid of him. It had been Robards who had made the biggest stink when de los Reyes had been chosen first as interim, then permanent chief after Chief Lipton had been killed, ironically in retaliation for a drug bust Trinity West hadn't even made.

  She'd heard Robards had publicly vowed he would never take orders from any greaser. She hadn't been there, but she had no trouble believing it. She had too much personal experience with the man's vitriol. He hated women as much as he hated minorities. Although to her surprise, unless she had to approach him, he left her pretty much alone. She'd never realized why until Gage Butler had explained it to her one day.

  "You confuse him," he'd said. "You're a woman in a man's job, which he hates, but you've got rank, which he respects, and you have the right skin color."

  She knew with grim certainty it was true. Not only did the man openly despise Chief de los Reyes, she'd seen Cruz Gregerson and Ryan Buckhart have to deal with Robards's other prejudices more than once, as well. Although he'd backed off Ryan considerably—she didn't think she'd heard Robards call him "Indian" or "chief" for a long time. Rumor had it that Lacey Buckhart, Ryan's wife, had somehow managed it. Kit didn't know how, but she wouldn't put it past Lacey. The woman was a tiger when it came to Ryan. And now little Amanda, Kit thought, picturing the little charmer who in less than a year had turned the solitary, taciturn Ryan into a doting, enraptured father.

  With a smothered sigh, she turned to the report. Really, she knew why Robards was still here. You didn't dump a cop with thirty years on, especially one like Robards, who would fight you ugly every step of the way, without having everything you could possibly have on the man. She could only hope the chief was building a file on him.

  "Hello?"

  Kit grabbed the receiver and turned off the speaker. She hated talking on them herself, and didn't know anybody who didn't, so she tried to avoid it.

  "Hi," she said. "Were you able to find it, Jenny?"

  "Yes," the woman said, sounding instantly more amenable, one of the reasons Kit always made sure to remember names when she asked someone to do something for her. "What times did you want?"

  Kit told her, wrote down the answers, thanked her profusely, then hung up. And stared at her notepad.

  Robards had never even called the paramedics. They didn't have that exact detail at the fire department, but they had the times, and their records showed that the paramedics were only called when the second unit, a patrol officer, had arrived on the scene. Knowing Robards, there was little question in her mind what had happened.

  That the paramedics had confirmed Jamie Rivas was dead and that the coroner's report stated he could have been dead as long as a couple of hours before he'd been found didn't really matter. What mattered was that Robards hadn't known that, and he hadn't even tried to help the boy.

  And that made her just mad enough to confront him.

  Kit knew that bearding the lion in his den would rob her of the protection she seemed to have outside it. He might not bother her much where he could be heard, but in private he unleashed the ugly beast of his attitude a little. But sometimes there just wasn't any other choice.

  She walked out of her office toward the larger office in the corner. Then, thoughtfully, she slowed.

  Cover every contingency, even when it doesn't seem necessary.

  Clay had taught her that years ago. He'd been her first training officer, her mentor and her friend, a man determined to give her an even chance at a time when there were less than a dozen women at Trinity West, and most of those were civilians. She owed her career to him, and quite possibly her sanity, as well. He'd never held back but told her exactly what to expect and what she'd have to do if she was going to make it in this job.

  And one of the things he'd taught her was to recognize enemies disguised as your own.

  With a silent thank-you, only the latest of many, to the sadly absent Clay, she made a detour into the records section for a few minutes, stopped by her own office, then once more headed for the corner office.

  She nearly gagged at the smell of the man's cigar. The chief had thankfully decreed the building smoke-free, but since Robards had a private office he was allowed to smoke inside it. And the repulsive, half-chewed, wet
stub sat in an ashtray, as if he kept it there to assure himself he could still control his own office. Fortunately the sight was partially blocked by the ornate name plaque that proclaimed him, in polished gold letters, Lieutenant Ken Robards, Commander, Detective Division.

  Her mouth twisted. Plain white letters with rank and name were enough for everyone else, but not this man. If he could have gotten away with a coat of arms above the door, he probably would have done it. Funny, she thought, she'd bet Miguel de los Reyes probably had more right to a family crest than this man. She'd heard his family line was unbroken for centuries. Maybe all the way back to those original Aztecs. Of course, that would mean nothing to Robards. "A greaser's a greaser," was one of his favorite phrases.

  Robards was on the phone, finishing a crude joke with a belly laugh at his own wit. He hung up and looked at her with narrow-eyed curiosity; he had to know she would never approach him unless it was unavoidable. But she thought of Jaime Rivas dying in an alley and Robards not making even a token effort to help him, and her determination solidified.

  "What is it, girl?" he said.

  Kit controlled her irritation at the appellation. Instead of reacting as she'd like to, she sat down without invitation, knowing that would irritate him more than anything she could say yet save her from any official discipline for being insubordinate. Even Robards wouldn't write her up for simply sitting down.

  The entire detective division spent far too much time thinking about such things, she thought in irritation, and it detracted from their job.

  But her ploy worked—he scowled at her. On his heavily owled face, emphasized by his buzz-cut blond hair, it was a fearsome expression. She could see another remark, more inappropriate and insulting words, she was sure, perking behind he man's muddy brown eyes, and she spoke quickly to forestall it.

  "Do you remember this case?"

  She held out the folder to him. She kept her eyes on his face as he took it. He glanced at the case number on the tab as he flipped it open, and she saw his small eyes narrow even further.

  She knew she hadn't mistaken the expression that flitted quickly across his heavy, square face. And her breath caught at the idea of what it would take to produce that expression in this man.

  Ken Robards was afraid.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  "Haven't got enough to keep you busy, Walker? I can change that, easy," Robards said, dropping the case file on his desk.

  "I ran into the victim's mother today," she said.

  "And she's still spouting off her crap, right?"

  She was beginning to think she'd imagined that instant when the man had looked at the file and fear had flickered in his eyes. He was certainly back to his usual bluster.

  "She had … some things to say."

  "And you listened to the old bitch and decided to ignore your current caseload and go back and dig into a case that's been closed for five years?"

  "She said—"

  "I know what she said. She's lying, like they all do. You know how those people are. They won't even tell you the truth about their names, let alone anything else."

  Kit opened her mouth to point out that many Anglos—including some cops—simply didn't understand the way Hispanic names were structured and thought they were lying when they gave more than one variation. Not that the real criminal element didn't use that to their advantage and use that ignorance to hide their real identity, but often it was just a matter of culture clash. But she stopped herself. There was no point in explaining to a closed door.

  "She didn't seem to me to be lying. I think she genuinely believes what she's saying."

  Robards snorted. "That's why women shouldn't be in this work. Too soft, believe anybody with a sob story."

  Kit clenched her jaw, fighting for control. You'd think she'd be numb to it by now, but she wasn't. "I didn't say I believed her," she corrected tightly. "Just that she believes what she's saying."

  That seemed to throw him. "What difference does that make? Look, precious, it was an obvious gang retaliation. He pissed some rival homies off, and they thumped him. Somebody found the body, I took the report, that was it. They did the world a favor, saved us putting the kid in the slam someday. We should just let those gang punks keep killing each other off until there's no one left."

  The patronizing tone of his first words gave way to a vehemence that made her want to back away from him. She held her ground with an effort. She knew his sentiment was shared by many, cop and citizen alike, and she understood the disgust and outrage that led to it. Sometimes she felt that way herself, when gang gunfire took out innocent bystanders, women and children who had never done anything except be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  But she had also broken the news of death to too many parents, seen the grief, the anger and then the resignation in their eyes, as if they'd expected it all along, that they would do what any parent dreaded—outlive their own child. She was too haunted by those eyes to ever really wish for more death and destruction, to wish for the end of the violence by way of annihilation.

  "She insists Jaime wasn't in a gang."

  Robards stood up abruptly, slamming his fist bard on his desk. "They all insist that! According to them, none of their kids are in gangs. So where do you suppose those gang bangers come from? Don't you get it? Those people all lie to the police, it's one of their favorite things to do."

  She didn't point out that he was by implication slandering his own chief. She knew he knew that perfectly well. It was the only way he could strike at the man he hated for having achieved what he never would despite a heritage Robards thought should have kept him down. And if she did call him on it, he would simply deny he'd meant Chief de los Reyes, or Cruz, or Ryan, or any of the others he held in such low esteem because they were different from him.

  "Why didn't you call the paramedics?" she asked abruptly, knowing she'd pay for phrasing it in an almost accusatory way but hoping she could rattle an answer out of him.

  "What the hell for? He was dead."

  "Isn't that for someone with medical training to decide?"

  "Listen, sweetheart," he said with a sneer, "I've seen more dead bodies than most of this department put together, and I don't need some wannabe doctor to tell me when a guy's dead." He grabbed the folder and gestured rather wildly with it. "This case is closed, and it's staying closed. There was no evidence, no witnesses, no leads … and no point! Bury it, Walker. It's none of your business."

  His vehemence seemed odd, even from him. It really was an old case, and she didn't quite understand why he was getting so wound up about it after all this time.

  "I'm a cop," she said, her voice controlled and even. In a perverse way, she found it easier to do when he was ranting. "That makes it my business."

  "Don't give me that righteous crap," Robards snapped. "You're here to deal with sex cases and juveniles, not real police work. And that's the only reason I've let you stay here, taking up a detective slot that could go to somebody who deserves it. And if you didn't have great legs, you'd be out of here, anyway."

  He sat down with a smug expression, watching her expectantly. But Kit refused to rise to the bait. She hadn't gotten where she was in this man's world without having developed a very thick skin. And she knew men like Robards were becoming the exception instead of the rule. They might still be around, but they were learning to keep their prejudices to themselves. Thankfully there wasn't another like him at Trinity West, at least.

  So instead of responding, she stood and reached for the report folder. Robards pulled it away.

  "I'll keep this so you're not tempted to waste any more of the department's time and money on a closed case. Get to work on what you should be doing—chasing down runaway brats."

  Without a word, she turned and walked out of his office. Even when the door shut behind her she could still smell the stench of his cigar, and she felt the urge to go home and change clothes and wash her hair.

&
nbsp; She walked to her office, pulled the door closed behind her and sat. She sat there for a long time, wondering. Wondering at the vehemence of his reaction. Wondering at her suspicion that he'd recognized the case number before he'd even opened the file. Wondering what it would take to engrave a five-year-old case number on Robards's mind so clearly. Wondering why he'd been so determined to divert her that he'd used sexual harassment blatant enough even for him to recognize. Wondering why he'd been so determined to keep her from looking at that file again when there was so little in it.

  And then she smiled. She opened her center desk drawer. And sent out yet another thanks to Clay Yeager, wherever he might be, for his thorough training, as she looked at the copies she'd made of the Jaime Rivas murder report.

  * * *

  It was after eight when Kit walked down the hall toward the chief's office. This end of Trinity West was quiet now. The administrative staff had long since gone home. To her surprise the chief's door was open and the desk lamp on, although the chair was empty. The door to his anteroom was also open, although the room was dark. She wondered if, in his jet-lagged, exhausted state, he'd simply forgotten to lock up. She'd do it after she dropped off the monthly stats, she thought.

  She dropped the pages she held into his in tray and glanced at the empty office. She knew Rosa Douglas, his dynamic, energetic secretary, had done the decorating. If she'd left it to the chief, the walls would have been bare, she'd joked. It was Rosa who had framed his many certificates and commendations, his master's degree in public administration, and after a fight had put up his Medal of Valor plaque, although he'd ordered her, Rosa had said, to forgo hanging the photograph. He was not, he told her, going to sit there looking at himself all day.

  "Working late?"

  Kit spun around, startled, as his voice came out of the dark anteroom at her.

  "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you, but I thought it only fair to let you know I was here."

  And that, she thought, was Miguel de los Reyes to a T. "I … was just turning in the monthly stats," she said.