Badge of Honor Read online

  "Thank you."

  She knew it was unusual for a chief to look over each section's statistics reports personally, but he said he preferred it that way rather than to wait for the compilation report that wouldn't hit his desk for another week or so. That it gave him a better handle on what was happening. Kit made sure her reports were thorough and on time, and she often included comments on trends and potential problems, which he had told her he found both insightful and observant.

  "That was a good call last month, on that mobile nightclub."

  She smiled, genuinely pleased with the compliment. She'd taken a chance with that suggestion of a team to stake out possible locations for the wild, rolling parties, enhanced with illegal substances, taking place at a different location every night, but it had worked. They'd hit pay dirt at a vacant warehouse and made several arrests.

  "Thank you," she replied, meaning it. It was odd, talking to a shadowy figure she could barely see. It made her feel almost spotlighted, standing in his lit office.

  "You earned it. They've packed up for greener pastures, thanks to your foresight."

  "Thank you," she said again.

  Kit hesitated, looking toward the darkened room. She could see him now that her eyes had adjusted, could see his face, cast in light and shadow by the faint glow from his desk lamp. He truly did look like one of his aristocratic ancestors come to life, she thought. He could have been cast in some bronze metal, lovely in its sheen and color, its strength masked by the rugged beauty of his features. He sat in the dark, alone. It struck her then how alone he really was. How alone the job made him.

  They're … still my family. About all I have, now…

  His words at the airport came back to her, and she realized he was alone in his life, as well. He went to official functions alone, and from what she'd heard, rarely if ever dated. She remembered what he'd said at the time he was being considered for the interim chief position, after Lipton had been killed in the attack that had nearly killed him, as well. He'd said there was nothing else that mattered to him, so the work ahead would get his all. And in that time of chaos, that was exactly what Trinity West had needed. And it was exactly what Miguel de los Reyes had given.

  Kit wondered if Anna had meant to take his heart with her to the grave.

  She knew she needed to get out of here when she started thinking like that, so she muttered an apology for disturbing him and turned to go.

  "You didn't," he said, and to her surprise he got up, flipped on the anteroom lights and gestured an invitation at her. "I was just … thinking."

  She questioned the wisdom of this but didn't feel she could turn him down. As she stepped into the room, she saw him look at the plaques and photos that lined the walls honoring Trinity West's Medal of Valor winners, men who had risked their lives, even died to carry out the credo, "To protect and serve."

  Miguel's plaque hung in his office, but the others were here—Cruz, Ryan and a long line of others who had given above and beyond the call. Including Bobby, her Bobby, who hadn't survived to receive his honor. It was an old pain for her, more of a distant sadness than anything else.

  "About them?" she asked softly.

  He nodded. "And others. Sometimes I think every cop should be up there, just for taking on the job."

  The silence that fell seemed right somehow, in this place that was a shrine of sorts. And eventually—inevitably, she supposed—they ended up looking at the same place on that wall of honor. The place where three separate plaques commemorated the heroics of one man, the man who had become a legend, not just at Trinity West but throughout the state.

  Clay Yeager would have received a statewide commendation the very next year—if he had been here. If they'd been able to find him to give it to him. But by then he was gone, vanished as if he'd never been, leaving behind his gear, his house, his life and a stunned Trinity West. His name was spoken in hushed tones, laced with awe or sadness, depending on if the speaker had known the man or just the legend he'd become.

  And for a few, Kit knew, those hushed tones were laced with guilt. She was one of them. And it was never worse than here, standing before the undeniable proof that the man they had all failed was something very, very special.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered to the man whose heroics, commemorated here, had been only one facet of his giving.

  "We are all sorry."

  Her breath caught as the chief responded to words she hadn't been aware of speaking aloud. When she looked at him, his expression was so empathetic that she couldn't stop the rest from pouring out.

  "But I am, especially. I knew Linda. I saw her fairly regularly. I should have known, should have sensed how close she was—"

  "No, Kit," he said softly. "You can't bear the burden of this alone. We all should have known. Should have realized how bad things had gotten. We failed Clay, we failed Linda, and most especially we failed their little girl. And I doubt any of us will ever forgive ourselves for that."

  She was utterly disarmed by his quiet, gentle understanding, and for the first time she felt a little of that guilt ease. She had to look away for fear he would see the moisture stinging her eyes.

  "I … we'd have heard, wouldn't we? If anything had … happened to him?"

  She knew she was voicing the fear they all carried, all of the many who owed Clay Yeager. The fear that the memories, the guilt, the pain had become too much and that somewhere, wherever he'd run to, trying to escape the agony, he'd found relief in the way too many cops did. That, broken and alone, the man who had helped so many had found himself beyond help and had ended the pain in the most final of ways. The unspoken knowledge that Clay might have eaten a bullet was in all their minds but never admitted.

  But here, now, with the chief's quiet, compassionate and understanding words in her mind, she hadn't been able to hold it back any longer.

  "I don't know, Kit," he said softly. "He cut his ties so thoroughly, even from his family, that I don't know if anyone would know to notify us. I pray he was not reduced to that. I pray that if he ever got to that point, he would come back to those who would give anything to help him as he helped us."

  She didn't care if he saw the tears as she looked at him. "I know you send out requests to agencies across the country, asking about any contact with him."

  "Quarterly, for all the good it does," he said. He met her gaze, and she had that feeling she'd had before with him, that he was somehow seeing her soul. "And you organized that massive effort to find him."

  When a year had gone by with no contact from Clay, when all their inquiries and requests of other police agencies had come up with nothing, Kit had gathered those he'd meant the most to and suggested they dedicate a year to finding him. Each had taken one of their vacation slots and used the time—and money from the pool to which they'd all contributed—to search for him, beginning with what the person before them had discovered, and handing off what they'd learned to the next.

  Despite false leads and dead ends, they'd traced him halfway across the country before the trail petered out entirely. When the last three searchers had turned up the same dead end, they had had to face the fact that either Clay did not want to be found or there was no trail left to find.

  "I have always felt badly that I couldn't give the time," he said.

  "No!" she exclaimed. "You couldn't. You had to be here for Anna."

  She had been diagnosed by then, and the long, hard battle for her life had begun, the battle she eventually lost. There was no way this man would have left his wife at a time like that. And that had made Kit respect him all the more.

  His expression didn't change, but Kit fancied she saw the clear gray eyes darken for a moment. She wondered if the time would ever come that he could remember without pain. She doubted it. He had cared too much, felt too deeply. And she felt a flash of envy for Anna de los Reyes, a flash that made her feel the biggest of fools. Anna was dead. There was nothing to envy, except perhaps the way she had died, with more courage th
an Kit would ever have.

  And her husband at her side until the very end.

  "We all knew how much you wanted to help," she said quickly, retreating to a less volatile subject. "No one ever doubted that. And you put in more money than you should have, with all the medical bills…"

  Her voice trailed away, and she hated that she'd brought them back to the subject that caused him pain.

  "It's all right, Kit," he said gently. "It's been a long time. And it's not a forbidden subject. Not to you."

  She shivered. He'd used her first name before. He always did, treating her no differently than any of his sergeants. But somehow it sounded different now, here, alone with him, in the quiet end of Trinity West. And the way he'd said that. Not to you.

  He meant because she'd been Anna's friend, of course, but it still made her feel… She wasn't sure how it made her feel, but her throat was so tight she couldn't have spoken even had she dared.

  "So," he said briskly, giving her the change of subject she couldn't manage, "why are you here so late? You didn't stay just to do those stats, did you?"

  It took her a moment to shake off her emotional reaction and make the shift to business. In a way it was a relief. The quiet moments of deep emotion had created a bond of sorts, or seemed to, and she knew in that direction lay trouble.

  "No," she said. "There was … an old case I wanted to look into."

  "An old case? What kind of case?"

  She hesitated. This was jumping the chain of command. Any complaint she had about Robards should go to Captain Mallery first. But the chief had made it clear his door, his ear and his mind were always open to his people.

  Besides, he had asked her a direct question, and although she could probably evade giving a direct answer, she knew he would recognize what she was doing, and she didn't like the feeling that gave her.

  "Some reason you can't tell me?"

  He was looking at her steadily, and she knew if she said yes, he would probably accept it. Miguel de los Reyes put a lot of trust in his people.

  And it was that—plus, she admitted, that she was still steamed to a high heat at Robards—that decided her.

  "It's an old murder case."

  "Murder?" He lifted a brow at her.

  "I know, it's not my business."

  "You're a police officer," he said. "Of course it's your business." She gave him a startled look, and his mouth quirked. "Not all of us subscribe to the Robards division of labor, you know." She couldn't stop herself from smiling, and he winced. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Chalk it up to jet lag."

  He was right, it wasn't appropriate for him to make negative comments about one subordinate to another, especially one lower in rank, but still, it warmed Kit to know he wasn't blind to Robards's faults. Not that he could be, having been the target of the man's bigotry so often himself.

  "So what about this old murder case?"

  She hesitated, then plunged ahead. She told him the whole story from the time she'd spoken to Carmela Rivas to Robards's reaction to her questions, although she left out the nastier things he'd said to her and the implied threat to her position. She had never bemoaned prejudice and the glass ceiling or the fact that women too often had to work twice as hard to stay even. It would get her nowhere in this man's world.

  The chief listened intently. When she was focused on this single thing, she was almost able to forget how shaky she usually was around him. When she'd finished, he hesitated before speaking.

  "Do you feel there may be any validity to her claim?"

  "I don't know," she said honestly. "There are some incongruities in how the case was handled, things I'd like to pursue, but I don't know if that means what she's saying is true. All I know is that she honestly believes it. She wasn't just looking for somebody to blame."

  He was silent, considering. Kit waited. She couldn't read his expression and was terrified that she'd made a huge mistake. As offensive as Robards was, he was still a lieutenant and she a mere sergeant—

  "Go ahead," he said.

  "Sir?" she said, startled.

  "I trust your judgment. Look into it."

  Warmth flooded her, and she wanted to hug him for those words, however inappropriate the action would be, and it would be in the extreme. But after Robards's abuse, his solid faith was balm to wounds she hadn't let herself acknowledge.

  Miguel de los Reyes was indeed quite a man.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  Kit yawned. It had been a twelve-hour day, her third in a row. Figuring it was best to err on the side of caution, she had been waiting until Robards left for the day to turn her attention to the Rivas case. It wasn't so much that she didn't want to get caught ignoring his order to drop it, but if he did catch her and write her up, it would go to the chief, and she knew he would come to her defense and tell Robards he'd given her the okay. It would put the chief in the line of Robards's fire, and she didn't want that to happen, especially not because of her. So she'd do this on her own time, and Robards could go whistle.

  Not, she thought, that she was finding anything. She'd gone over the reports line by line. She'd had the coroner fax the complete autopsy on Jaime Rivas, not simply the cover sheet they'd been sent five years ago. She'd called the fire department back and gotten their complete record of the case. And so far, everything matched.

  The disturbance of trash in the alley and the presence of blood indicated the altercation had taken place where the victim had been found. The businesses on either side of the bar had been closed—no possibility of witnesses there. There were short, individual statements from the people who had been in the bar at the time, all saying none of them had seen or heard anything.

  Interviews with the victim's friends had put him last seen at a local gas station two hours before he'd been found, but no one knew—or was saying—where he'd been going. Further interviews had been inconclusive, and there was nothing that proved or disproved his gang status, despite Robards's heavy-handed insinuations that the victim being Hispanic was all the proof that was needed. Carmela Rivas was said to have been hysterical and irrational, with no real idea who had killed her son.

  It was short. Far too short, it seemed to Kit, to document the loss of a young life. But it was, if not thorough, at least complete. Robards hadn't, perhaps, gone the extra mile, but he'd done the job. True, there was his failure to call for paramedics, but in his surly way he had explained—although Kit didn't doubt his reaction might have been a little different had the victim been Caucasian. And it was hard to argue with him when the autopsy showed he had probably been right. The boy had been dead when he'd found him.

  And then there was the fact that Robards had apparently done all the reports himself. Odd, she thought, that the patrol unit that had gone to the scene, the officer who had belatedly called for the paramedics, hadn't done a supplemental report. In fact, he wasn't even mentioned in Robards's report, only in the fire department log, by his unit number. She made a mental note to have records check and see who the officer working that beat had been that night. Not that he would remember much, after all this time, if he was even still here. Although having Robards write all the reports, apparently voluntarily, might be enough to make it stick in his mind.

  With another yawn, she shoved the reports into a large envelope and put them in the right-hand bottom drawer of her desk. She would lock it, but she knew that meant little in Robards's domain. He had a master key and no compunction at all about using it if he was on someone's back—which was most of the time. Some maintained he was in violation of the police bill of rights section that protected officers from unwarranted searches in their absence or without their permission, but until it was settled whether a desk containing information on active cases fell under that section of the California government code, Kit guessed he would continue his covert searches.

  So in line with that expectation, and with a small smile curving her lips, she covered the envelope in the bottom o
f the drawer with her favorite, extremely personal feminine camouflage—a loose pile of tampons. She figured just the sight of them would make Robards run screaming. She could take the file home with her, but she didn't really think it was necessary. She was reasonably sure Robards would think she was sufficiently cowed and would follow his order to drop it.

  And if you had a brain stem, you probably would, Kit muttered to herself, knowing she'd be buying herself a world of misery if Robards did snare her.

  A third yawn told her it was time to get out of here and get some sleep. She'd been working a lot of extra hours since Gage had left, and it was starting to catch up with her.

  The thought of the former detective made her smile despite his absence. Laurey was so good for him, she thought as she stood up and stretched. Kit had had her doubts that they'd ever work it out. The fact that they'd first met years ago when he'd arrested her in a high school undercover operation hadn't made things easy on them, but Laurey had finally forced Gage to look at himself, to see what his obsession with the job was costing him. Kit had little doubt that Laurey had saved his sanity, perhaps even his life. He'd been a man on the edge for too long.

  She missed him like crazy, and not just for the massive amounts of work he'd done. He'd been her friend, her sounding board and on occasion her whining partner.

  She picked up her purse and her sunglasses. She obviously didn't need them now, but she'd be sorry if her weary eyes had to face the sun in the morning without them. She considered locking her office door, but knew that would be enough to put Robards on guard. She'd seen him show up early just to see who was locking what. It was part of what he called his "management technique."

  She turned her thoughts back to Gage as she headed down the hall. He was so darned happy she couldn't help but smile at the changes in him. Laurey Templeton Butler was a miracle worker. In place of the driven, haunted cop she'd known for years was a joyously happy man, and it would take a pretty selfish soul to begrudge him that.