Fuck! She touched the back of her head gingerly with her free hand. She didn’t feel any blood, but it hurt like hell. She winced and drew her hand away. Focus! The case. Falco. Jesus Christ, this was a mess.
“Sorry.” She swallowed back the rising panic. “I got caught up in something.” She closed her eyes to block the body from her field of vision. “Text me the address. I’m on my way.”
“Hurry, Devlin. I’ve got a feeling about this.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll be there soon.” She ended the call and shoved the phone into her back pocket.
What the hell should she do? Call it in? If she did . . . a new kind of foreboding slunk around her chest.
She held her aching head and fought the urge to cry. Too damned late for that. He was dead.
Okay. Okay. She had killed him. Regardless of whether she had intended to do so, he was dead, and it was her bullet that had initiated the cause of death.
She needed to think. To figure this out.
She thought of her daughter. Oh God. If Kerri went to jail, Tori . . .
She banished the thought, steadied herself. “I can’t do this right now.”
She had to go. Falco and the search team were already at the scene. She was supposed to be there. She could deal with this later. Claim temporary insanity for leaving the scene.
She stared at her hands and checked her clothes to ensure there was no blood on her. Clean.
After turning too quickly, she stumbled and almost fell rushing to the door. She closed the door behind her and moved a little more slowly across the porch and down the steps, her hands searching her pockets for her keys. If she had to go back in there . . .
She climbed into her Wagoneer and thanked God when the keys were in the ignition.
Summoning every ounce of resolve she possessed, she started the engine and shifted into drive, only then remembering to fasten her seat belt. Considering the way her head throbbed and the need to vomit along with the loopy feeling, she probably had a concussion, but that was another of those situations she couldn’t do anything about at the moment.
She held on to the steering wheel with both hands and drew in a deep breath, then another. She could straighten this out later. “It was an accident.”
The words rang hollowly in the air around her.
He’d attacked her. The weapon had discharged.
Accidental shooting. Maybe even self-defense. He had threatened her and her daughter.
What the hell had she been thinking, confronting him in the first place? Had she really expected the bastard to come clean with her? She was a better cop than this. Goddamn it.
She was losing it . . . or maybe she’d already lost it.
A man was dead. Possibly an innocent man. No way. Hell no. She refused to go that far. He was guilty of at least covering up numerous crimes, possibly even murder. Her lips tightened. Oh yes. Every instinct she had honed over the years as a detective warned that he was the one.
Curve.
Her breath stalled in her lungs. She shoved her foot down on the brake.
Too late. The car spun, sliding sideways.
She missed the curve.
The ditch rose up to meet her.
2
TEN DAYS EARLIER
Wednesday, June 6
9:15 a.m.
Birmingham Police Department
First Avenue North
Major Investigations Division
“I’m not happy about this.” Kerri shook her head, dug her fists deeper into her waist. “How did I draw the short straw?”
Lieutenant Dontrelle Brooks leaned far enough back in his chair that if not for the credenza behind him, he might have actually tipped over. The sharp creases in his white shirt stood at attention; his tie lay expertly knotted at his throat. He could land the coveted cover of GQ as the best-dressed cop in America. Too bad the look wouldn’t last long. By noon his crisp white shirt would be wrinkled and his blue-and-red-striped tie loosened the slightest bit from dealing with frustrating situations, not unlike this one, that he would just as soon ignore.
“Detective Falco needs a top-notch detective to teach him the ropes.” The LT flared his big hands—hands that had collared more than his fair share of perps before ending up pushing around pencils and shuffling resources. “You’re the best in the division, Devlin. What’s the big deal? You were once a new detective. If Boswell hadn’t wanted you as a partner, you think you’d be the next in line for a promotion to sergeant at this stage in your career?”
Trent Boswell had been her partner for seven years, until he’d retired last month. He had been the best partner any detective could ask for. A good cop, a good man. Falco, on the other hand, was rumored to be a pain in the ass who had skated on the edge his entire too-short career. He had more reprimands than anyone in the Birmingham Police Department. Frankly, Kerri didn’t see how the hell he’d made detective, much less found his way into Major Investigations. Being a good detective was about a lot more than passing a written exam. A cop’s record, bearing, and attitude came into play with equal gravity. She assumed the guy had unearthed a dirty little secret on someone high enough up to make a difference, because he didn’t have the record, the bearing, or the attitude to hold the rank—in her possibly not-so-humble and entirely unobjective opinion.
She hated that kind of double-dealing.
But she got it now. “In other words, I’m being punished for being a good cop?”
Brooks rolled his eyes. “Enough with the grief, Devlin. You know how this works.”
Before she could launch her next wave of protest, he stopped her with a caveat: “Just give this arrangement a month. If you’re not happy with him as your partner, then we’ll consider other options.”
The lie rolled glibly off his tongue, but the body language told the real story. His shoulders had slumped forward, and he immediately averted his gaze from hers. She was stuck with Falco until he quit or got himself fired or dead.
The more likely scenario was that his cocky, completely irreverent attitude would get her dead.
Damn it.
“Whatever you say, sir.” Might as well back away from the brick wall in front of her and get on with this new arrangement. Her only option at this point was to figure out the deal with Falco and how he’d reached the rank of detective in spite of his rocky record.
Learn his secrets and gain some measure of leverage.
As exasperating as it was to be stuck with the new guy, considering all she’d heard about him, she had rank over Falco, and she had every intention of using that seniority to see that he played by her rules. End of story.
Brooks nodded. “You’ve always been a good team player, Devlin. Your flexibility is duly noted and appreciated.”
Blah blah blah. She barely held her own eye roll in check.
Not trusting herself to respond, she nodded and exited the LT’s office. She walked the length of the bullpen, hesitated before reaching the cubicle she and Boswell had shared. Making detective had been her goal from the day she’d decided she wanted to be a cop. Being assigned to Birmingham’s brand-new Major Investigations Division had been the icing on the cake. This division was the first of its kind, encompassing not only Birmingham proper but the communities that surrounded it, like Hoover, Mountain Brook, Vestavia, and half a dozen others. The cream-of-the-crop detectives from those same communities had been selected to serve alongside BPD’s finest. Crimes that rose to the level of crossing local jurisdictions fell under the purview of Major Investigations.