Page 41

Dinah

I’m sitting in the clinic’s lounge when my cell phone shrills loudly, Freddie’s name on the display. I silence it and wonder how deep my culpability is.

The good news is, the LAPD is investigating this.

If the department is horrible at anything, it’s assembling a case for prosecution.

I might be fired as a result of this investigation, but they would have to dig really deep to find any obstruction of justice or witness tampering .

.. and honestly, what detective doesn’t do both of those things on a regular basis?

Every detective I know does. Oley did. Hell, Oley taught me how to cover my tracks.

And then he called and turned me in. He wouldn’t have done that over something small. He knew what an IA investigation does to a detective’s reputation and career. If he took that step, it means he suspected me of something heinous. Something worth going against the credo of the blue shield.

I rise from the couch and stretch, then slide my cell phone into the pocket of my hoodie. Turning off the television, I drop the remote on the couch and push on the swinging door to the kitchen area and storage room.

I need to just confess all this to Joe and see what he says. He’ll know what to do. He’ll form a strategy and hire an attorney and have them tap-dancing so much they won’t have the time or the awareness to catch me in anything.

That’s the smart thing to do: push back and stand my ground.

An innocent woman would be offended and aghast at the idea that my performance is being questioned; she wouldn’t dodge calls and hide in the break room of her husband’s work.

I move through the kitchen and stick my head into the hall, double-checking that Joe is still in with Jessica.

The patient across the hall is singing, her voice warbling through an Adele song that used to be popular. I tune her out and listen for a hint of what is happening in Room 1, where we put the new arrivals.

It’s quiet down there, and I glance at the clock that hangs at the end of the hall, calculating how long Joe’s been in there. Almost twenty-two minutes, in a session that will last at least an hour. I pull the door closed.

I should call Natalie first. Our chief is a bitch on steroids, and she loves a fight. Whether or not she’ll be on my side is up for debate, but she’ll want to know this as soon as possible, so I might already be too late.

I pause at the fridge and open it, scanning the contents for something to calm my stomach.

Each patient has a section, their medicated smoothies lined up in neat rows, all prepped and ready for the weekend.

The bottom shelf holds the good stuff, and is reserved for staff and the occasional treat for patients.

There’s an eight-pack of red Gatorades there, and I twist one free, then grab a raspberry yogurt out of the drawer.

I get a spoon, then take one of the seats at the table and peel off the lid.

I pull my phone out and scroll down to Natalie’s name in my Contacts. I initiate the call.

She answers on the second ring, her voice shrill and cracking, as if she’s been up all night screaming at someone. “Marino, what is it? I’ve got a dead hooker in Santa Monica whose coochie I’m staring at right now, and Belkis doesn’t know his ass from his armpit.”

I inhale, then let it out. “I just found out that IA is looking into my cases.”

She lets out a string of expletives, then pauses for a moment. “You certain?” she finally asks.

“Yes.” I dig the spoon into the yogurt. “I’ve had a trainee following me around on a suicide I’m investigating for Rita Perez. Turns out he’s an agent for Internal Affairs.”

“What’s his name?”

“Freddie Hodgkins.”

“And he was shadowing you on the ... Is it Reese Bishop?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s pretty cut and dried,” she says flatly. “Nothing to get you on there, especially if we find the daughter.”

I put the spoon in my mouth. Finding the daughter is not going to happen, at least not on a timeline that will help with my investigation.

I swallow a mouthful of yogurt, and a knot of stress in my chest relaxes a little at the confirmation that Natalie’s on my side.

Calling her seems to have been the right move.

“I just want to keep you in the loop,” I say, “and see if there’s anything I should do.”

“Yeah, don’t help them out,” she snaps. “I’ll call the union and get you a rep. Stay superclean on the Bishop case, you hear me? How deep are they digging in your past cases?”

“Ummm ...” I try to remember which names were on the folder in Freddie’s file. “Some of the ones are a few years old. It’s a bunch of my unsolves.”

“Fuck them and their grandmas. Show me a detective in this town without unsolves. Better than false convictions. I swear, they aren’t happy unless we’re eating shit and smiling.

Okay, let me get on it. But don’t forget what I said, ’kay?

Super squeaky on Bishop. Everything aboveboard.

So far aboveboard your tits are in heaven.

And focus on the missing daughter. Find her and make a splash when you do.

Press conference, lots of photos—you know the drill.

Call Kelsey in publicity and have her go big. ”

I look at the patient board, where each name is listed in neat alphabetic order along with their admittance date.

Jessica Bishop is the second name.

Everything aboveboard. My tits in heaven. Find her and make a splash.

“Okay,” I manage. “Got it.”

“All right, stop yakking so I can call the union and deal with this hooker. Let me know as soon as anything happens.”

“Will do.” I hang up the phone and stare at Jessica’s name, then sigh and heave to my feet. Chucking my yogurt into the trash, I push through the door and out into the hall.