Badge of Honor Read online

  "You look awfully happy to be here so late again."

  The familiar voice yanked her out of her thoughts and made her realize she'd walked past the chief's office as he was leaving. She stopped and, looking at him, knowing he would understand, said, "I was thinking about Gage."

  The smile that instantly curved his mouth warmed her. "That is enough to warrant a smile," he agreed.

  "Seems almost epidemic around here lately, doesn't it?" she said, then looked away from him as she realized with some shock that she'd sounded almost wistful.

  "Yes," he agreed, his voice even, as if he had not noticed her tone. "With the Butlers, and with Ryan and Lacey getting back together, and Cruz and Kelsey…"

  "It's funny," she said when he paused, "Cruz and I went to dinner once at Kelsey's restaurant. You know, the Sunset Grill in Marina del Mar, the place she ran before she opened the inn? Who would have thought that five years later he'd be madly in love and married to her?"

  "You're all right with that?"

  She realized he was watching her speculatively, and she hoped she wasn't blushing. There had been a time, when she'd been a young twenty-two and new on the force, that it hadn't taken much to rattle her. But after years in this world of frequently rough language, gallows humor and sometimes off-color jokes, she'd learned to control it. But somehow, with this man, all her normal safeguards seemed to malfunction.

  And she wondered suddenly if he knew of her short—very short—involvement with Cruz. They'd tried a couple of dates, but it had been awkward, and they'd very quickly called it off. Neither felt at all badly about it, and both of them knew it had been the right decision, the only decision.

  "We make much better friends than we ever would have a couple," she said quietly. "And we both knew it right away."

  He seemed to relax, and she wondered if he thought she would be jealous that Cruz—and his adorable daughter, Sam—had found precisely what they needed in the steady, generous heart of Kelsey Hall.

  "Kelsey is perfect for them," she said. "And besides, I get to baby-sit Sam and the critters more often, to give them some time alone now and then."

  He laughed. Sam's menagerie of wounded animals, all watched over with the girl's tender, intuitive care, was a well-known story around Trinity West, as was the tale of how the most unlikely of the creatures, a king snake named Slither, had wound up helping Cruz rescue his beloved daughter from a crazed intruder last year.

  "How old is she now?" he asked as they began, seemingly in accord, to walk toward the building's exit.

  "Samantha? Eleven. She'll be twelve in a few months."

  He shook his head. "Eleven. God, I remember when Cruz started at Trinity West, and she was just a baby, a year or so old."

  "Me, too," Kit said. "She's growing up so fast."

  "And now there are new babies," he said softly.

  She nodded. "Amanda Buckhart, and Quisto and Caitlin's little Celeste."

  "The cycle goes on," he said, and for a moment he looked so infinitely sad that Kit felt her stomach knot. Was he thinking of Anna and the children they'd never had or simply of life going on without the woman he'd so loved? Again she felt that flash of unwanted envy for the woman who had had this man so in love with her that he had almost given up when she died.

  And it seemed he had given up on that part of himself. He wasn't simply alone, he was apart, as if the fire he'd gone through had somehow made it impossible for him to regain a normal life, as if the grim reality he'd suffered had made any kind of happiness seem impossible. Or undeserved. She knew Anna would hate that, but Kit also knew she could hardly tell him that. She might have, once, as a friend, but not now, given who he was. As her chief he wouldn't appreciate her probing into his personal life, however spare it might be.

  And she was getting fanciful, speculating on things she had no right to, things she really had no way of knowing.

  "You're here late yourself," she said as they neared the door, even though she knew he rarely went home when everyone else did.

  "Budget report," he said with a grimace. "Trying to convince the city council we can't run this place on a 1980s budget."

  She shook her head. "I don't know how you deal with that stuff," she said frankly. "Or how you get as much done as you do, given what you have to work with."

  He'd been reaching for the door but stopped suddenly, giving her a lopsided grin that made her pulse take a little leap. "I'll take that as a compliment."

  Startled, she looked at him. "Of course it was. We all think you're a miracle worker."

  To her amazement, a slow, pleased smile spread across his face. "Thank you. That's … nice to know."

  Realization struck her. "I guess we all thought you knew. How we felt, I mean."

  It was a moment before he said, "One of the things I hate about this job is the barrier the title of chief puts around you. With a bit of work, I can keep on top of what's happening on a statistical level. But it's a lot more work to get the truth of what people are thinking and feeling. And since I'm the chief, it's hard to be sure what I do get really is the truth."

  She'd never thought of it quite that way. But it didn't surprise her that he had. He was that kind of man. And when another thought struck her, she couldn't help wanting to tell him. It was too important that he know. She tried to form the words in her mind, tried to remember that this was the man who had been her friend and colleague long before he'd become her chief.

  He turned the knob and pushed the door open. It was a warm evening and there was the familiar shock of heated air after the air-conditioning of the station. Kit spoke quickly, before she could chicken out.

  "I hope you know the truth about how much respect and support you have."

  He stopped dead, his hand clutching the edge of the door. She saw his knuckles whiten, realized his hand had clenched tightly. He stared at her, his expression more than a little stunned. Had he really not known? Was he that surprised to hear it?

  Or, she thought with a sudden qualm, was it simply that she had said it? It was, she supposed, hardly her place as a lowly sergeant to tell the chief how he was doing. But she couldn't quite believe he would take offense at such a thing, couldn't believe he would even if it had been criticism rather than support. He just wasn't that kind of man. And again she was a little startled at how certain she was of that. She'd always admired and respected him, but she'd never really realized how positive she was of his character until the past few days.

  "I… Thank you," he said, his voice sounding tight. "That means a great deal to me."

  She was suddenly flustered in the face of the honest emotion in his voice. "I just thought if you didn't know already, you should."

  "And that," he said quietly, "means a great deal to me, too."

  As they walked to the parking lot, she told herself not to misinterpret what he had meant by that.

  * * *

  Indecisiveness was not a condition Kit was familiar with, but she felt like she was wallowing in it now.

  She leaned back in her chair, staring at the envelope on her desk. The division was full of industry this morning, the voices of detectives using one of their primary tools—the telephone—blended together in a familiar hum. Robards was gone, signed out until noon, and there had been rejoicing in the ranks. After going through all her officially active cases, Kit had dragged the Rivas case file out yet again.

  She still had nothing to go on. There was nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary, nothing to indicate it had happened any way other than how Robards had described it. Except Carmela Rivas's passionate insistence.

  And there it was. The logical thing to do—if this was a normal investigation—would be to talk to Mrs. Rivas again. But this was not a normal investigation. It was a case five years old, and she was poking around in it against the orders of her sergeant but with the okay of the chief. She had no justification except her certainty that Jaime Rivas's mother believed absolutely that her son had been murdered by a polic
e officer.

  Kit knew if she talked to the woman again, she'd be committing herself to pursuing this to the end, whatever it might be. And if Carmela Rivas was right, Kit might not care much for what that end was.

  But if she walked away, she didn't think she'd care much for herself.

  She looked at the address on the report, wondering if the victim had still been living at home and if his mother still lived there. She turned in her office chair and grabbed the telephone book from the credenza behind her. There was a full column of Rivases, but she found the address toward the top in this year's book. Apparently she still lived in the same place.

  Kit was still in the same quandary. Knowing that the woman was findable didn't make the decision any easier. It would be beyond cruel to raise the woman's hopes if there was nothing here, if she was simply a loving but misguided parent protecting the memory of her child.

  And if she wasn't, if there was something to her story, Kit knew she'd be opening a can of snakes, not merely worms. Exposing a bad cop didn't make anybody feel good, most especially other cops. Although most of the cops she knew would welcome it, knowing that such officers only made a tough job tougher by making the public distrustful of all cops.

  But those who felt that the kinship of the uniform should be stronger than anything, including right or wrong, would despise her for violating that tenet. But then, most of that type probably despised her already for the simple sin of being female, she thought wearily. And still she sat staring at the file. Finally she put it away, out of sight.

  But she couldn't manage to get it out of her mind.

  And she knew she wasn't going to be able to. She was honest enough to admit she wouldn't mind if she could prove Robards had fluffed an investigation, but that couldn't be her goal. There was too much else to consider, including the woman who already felt betrayed by the system. Robards would say it was one of her failings, this seeing all sides, this relating to the victim, but Gage had told her it was why he loved working with her.

  Once she had gotten a handwritten commendation from Chief de los Reyes on her handling of the victim of a brutal rape who had been too traumatized to speak when they'd found her. Robards hadn't helped any with his innuendo-laden questions, trying to find out what she'd done or worn that had brought on the attack and stopping just short of saying she'd asked for it.

  By the time of the trial the victim had nailed her attacker to the wall with her furious, impassioned testimony, unassailable even in the face of his defense attorney's borderline tactics. And the change, de los Reyes had said, had been in a large part due to Kit's efforts.

  Kit had been flattered and greatly touched that he'd been aware, let alone taken the time to write the commendation himself. She had worked hard on the case. She had spent hours of her own time with Margaret, empathizing, supporting and coaching. But in the end it had been Margaret's strength and determination that had put her attacker where he belonged. It was one of those rare times when everything worked as it should, when one man who had smugly gloated about his power over one woman had found she had the power of the system behind her.

  Kit only wished it would work that way all the time, that the system would always be strong enough for the victims who didn't have Margaret's strength, for the ones who most needed it to be strong for them. But it wasn't. There were too many ways for it to be manipulated, and if there was anything that made Kit despair about her work, it was that.

  She figured it was some idea of fixing a possible wrong done by the system that was supposed to insure justice that made her, with a sigh, pick up her keys and purse, grab the small dog-eared notebook she carried on investigations and sign herself out of the office.

  As always when driving through Trinity West, the neighborhood of Marina Heights that was closest to the ocean and the wealthy, neighboring town of Marina del Mar, Kit noticed the gradual changes. The farther east she went, the more the area changed, going from new, expensive homes and tidy shopping centers to older, less well-kept examples of each, to the center of the city, where decay was more evident, with empty buildings boarded up and festooned with graffiti—a far cry from even the worst of Trinity West.

  But there were signs of change even here, she thought as she drove past where Trinity Street West

  changed to Trinity Street East

  . And she smiled as she passed Caitlin Romero's Neutral Zone, the club for kids Caitlin had started in the worst block of the worst area, determined to give the kids who had to live on these streets an alternative to gang life. No one at Trinity West had given her a snowball's chance in hell of succeeding, but she'd done it.

  And in the process, she'd been the spark that had revitalized the block. Mr. Cordero's corner grocery had been completely refurbished and freshly painted. The old gentleman had only to put out a call and Trinity West came running. They were happy to help after he'd helped them vanquish the Pack, the vicious adult street gang Ryan Buckhart had broken up last year. Other storefronts were showing signs of care, with new businesses getting ready to open. Next to Caitlin's club, another old building was gleaming with new paint and bustling with activity. Kelsey Gregerson's youth shelter was in full operation.

  Yes, Caitlin had been good for this place, and Kit admired as well as liked the gutsy woman for what she'd accomplished. She liked and admired all of them, Caitlin Romero, Kelsey Gregerson, Lacey Buckhart, Laurey Butler.

  And thinking of them did not make her feel empty inside, she told herself firmly. She was glad her friends had found women strong enough to deal with their powerful personalities, strong enough to deal with spouses in one of the most difficult jobs in the world.

  And kind enough to go out of their way to include Kit in many of their activities. She even went, sometimes, when she thought she wouldn't feel too much like an extra wheel. At least Gage's departure had given her a valid excuse for not having a social life—she didn't have time. She was buried in cases, and now this one on top of it.

  "Darn," she muttered. She'd meant to bring a photo of the missing Carlisle boy to show to Caitlin and Kelsey, to see if they'd seen him, but she kept forgetting to grab it when she was headed this way.

  She dug into her purse with her right hand, fishing for the small tape recorder she always carried. When face to face with someone, she preferred her notebook. She'd found people were less intimidated by it, perhaps conditioned by years of images in movies and on television. But while driving, she always kept the recorder handy for thoughts like this one as they occurred to her.

  She dictated the note, put the recorder in her purse, then pulled her thoughts to her surroundings as she neared the neighborhood she'd been looking for. These residences were old and small but showed signs of care, neatly mowed if tiny lawns and flowers planted near the walls or in pots on the covered porches.

  She found the number she was looking for on the front of a weathered but sturdy-looking brown house with an array of flowers—asters, maybe, Kit thought—whose colorful touch was delightful this late in the year.

  The yellow sedan she'd seen that first day sat in the driveway alongside the house, indicating Mrs. Rivas was probably at home. Kit took in a deep breath. She'd reached the point of no return. And if she continued she could soon be, in the words of one of her favorite songs, past the point of rescue. She felt a little like Pandora looking at the box, contemplating opening it despite the warnings. Her life, she thought with a sigh, would be so much easier if she didn't have this darned abhorrence for injustice.

  She got out of her car, walked swiftly up to the front door of the house and knocked before she could change her mind.

  Mrs. Rivas, clad in a crisp white uniform and shoes, answered. The woman recognized her, although Kit had to prompt her with her name. Her expression went quickly from surprise to wariness, and Kit knew Mrs. Rivas was wondering not only what she was doing on her doorstep but how she'd found that doorstep in the first place.

  "Mrs. Rivas, I wanted to talk to you some more about
what you said the other day. About your son."

  "Why?" the woman asked, clearly—and rightfully, Kit thought—suspicious. She was going to have to work to make her as receptive as possible before she admitted who she was.

  "I would like to know why you think what you think, about his death. And whether or not it's true, if there's some inequity about the way the case was handled, I want to look into it."

  The woman still clutched her half-open door as if she was ready to slam it closed at the first sign of anything she didn't like. And Kit knew that right now, finding out she was a cop could well be one of those things.

  "Why?" Mrs. Rivas repeated. "Are you some kind of nosy reporter or something?"

  "I'm not a reporter," Kit said. "I just feel very strongly about injustices, Mrs. Rivas, and if one was done here, I'd like to find out."

  "A murder was done," the woman said fiercely. "But why should you care? You did not know my boy. It was so long ago even those who did know him have forgotten."

  "You haven't," Kit said quietly.

  "No," she said, and in the single syllable was a world of mother's grief. "I will never forget my Jaime."

  "Please, Mrs. Rivas, I want to help. I want you to tell me everything. If there were things you said that were not listened to, I want to hear them."

  For a moment something changed in the woman's eyes, and Kit dared to think it might be hope dawning. She went on before the woman could ask the inevitable question.

  "If there were circumstances that were ignored, I want to know. If there is some kind of evidence that was overlooked, I want to know."

  It was hope, Kit thought as the woman absorbed what she'd said.

  "Mrs. Rivas," she said quickly, "I cannot promise you anything will change. I cannot promise you the killer will be found, especially after all this time. I can only promise you my complete honesty. Even if I don't like what I find. And whatever I find, I will tell you."

  "Who are you?"

  The question she'd been expecting, short and sharp, cut her off. And she knew the woman suspected, if she hadn't already guessed.