Overkill (4 page)

The chief yanked out his chair and settled behind his desk. “Let me start by telling both of you you’re an inch away from getting your walking papers.”

Smitty pointed at her. “She waltzed in like some kind of hot shot and shoved me!”

“This isn’t grade school and you’re not a sixth grader!” the chief shouted, one-upping him in the decibel department. “You’re a cop. Act accordingly.” He shot a dark look at Marty. “Both of you.”

Marty returned her gaze to the floor. Ashamed. Humiliated. Still pissed.

“Hogan, what happened?”

She raised her head and met Settlemeyer’s gaze, wondering why he’d decided to get her version first instead of one of his own officers. “I walked in to start my shift and your crew was camped out in the break room.” The rise of fury came so quickly, she lost her breath and fell silent.

Settlemeyer waited.

A breath shuddered out of her. Grinding her teeth, she forced out the words. “They were watching the video. The clip of what happened in Chicago. Making all sorts of inappropriate comments about me.”

Settlemeyer sighed and turned his attention to Smitty. “That true?”

Smitty glanced out the window, then back to his boss. “Well, yeah.”

“How did you think that was going to go over with Hogan? Or me?”

Smitty gave her a scathing look. “She was frickin’ early. We didn’t think—”

“That’s my point, you didn’t think. It’s not the first time.” Sitting back in his chair, Settlemeyer shook his head. “Which Einstein brought in the tape?”

Smitty tightened his lips.

The chief came forward in his chair. “Spit it out or you’re fired.”

“Dugan.” Smitty met his boss’s steely gaze. “Look, it was a joke. We didn’t mean anything.”

“You see anyone laughing?”

Dropping his gaze to his feet, he shook his head.

“Who threw the first punch?” the chief asked.

“She did,” Smitty spat.

Settlemeyer pointed at Marty, and she braced. “Your probationary period just went from thirty to ninety days, Hogan. You so much as look at one of my officers like you want to hit them and you’re out of here. You can go back to Chicago and take your bad attitude with you. You got that?”

“I got it,” she said between gritted teeth.

“Right answer.” Rising, he walked to the door and swung it open. “Get the hell out of my office before I change my mind and fire both of you.”

Marty rose, unduly relieved she still had a job. If she’d been in his shoes, she probably would have ended it right then and there. Especially considering this was her first day on the job.

She waited until Smitty left, then started for the door. Settlemeyer braced his arm in front of her, blocking her way. “Not you.”

Surprised, she stopped and looked up at him. In the back of her mind she wondered if he’d changed his mind, if he was going to fire her after all. “Why not?”

“You’re riding with me today. Get your gear and meet me in the cruiser. You’ve got ten minutes.”

THREE

Marty wasn’t sure of a whole hell of a lot these days.
One thing she was utterly certain of at the moment was that she did not want to ride with her boss.

“You a small or a medium?” Jo Nell’s chicken-scratch voice tugged her from her thoughts.

“Small.”

“Thought so.” The woman thrust a plastic-wrapped uniform at her. “Locker room’s there.” She gestured toward a door at the end of the hall, her arthritic finger bending slightly to the right. “Seein’ how we don’t have no female cops on the force, guess we got us a unisex locker room now.” She leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial voice. “If I was you, I’d use a shower stall.”

Nodding, Marty started toward the locker room, hoping she’d find it empty.

No such luck.

Steam swirled and the sound of running water filled the air when she pushed open the door, telling her one of the other cops was using the shower. If the chief wasn’t waiting for her outside, she would have turned around and left. But he was, so she didn’t have a choice but to get dressed pronto.

A dozen beat-up lockers lined the tiled wall to her right. A wooden bench that was bolted to the floor ran parallel with the lockers. Two shower stalls—one of which was in use—two urinals and a toilet stall comprised the opposite wall. At the far end of the room, a sink, mirror and soap dispenser crowded into a too-small space.

Her old precinct in Chicago had separate facilities for male and female officers, so the unisex locker room had never been an issue. It was definitely an issue now. Not that Marty was unduly modest; she wasn’t. But she would never put herself in a vulnerable position. That included dressing around her fellow cops. Especially the bozos who’d been hooting it up at her expense.

Hefting the new uniform, she stepped into the single vacant shower, closed the door behind her and slipped into the clothes in record time. Not a great fit; Marty had dropped a good fifteen pounds since being fired. Along with the pounds, she’d lost what few curves she’d had, leaving her with narrow hips, a skinny waist and size A bra cups.

She was still tucking her shirt into her uniform slacks when she yanked open the shower door and stepped out. Only then did she notice the running water in the stall next to her had gone silent. Before she could get out of there, the shower door swung open, and Smitty stood naked and dripping in front of her.

Marty was twenty-nine years old; she’d seen naked men before. She’d had two serious relationships and a single, loveless affair in her lifetime. She’d dealt with more than one drunken suspect who’d thought it might be funny to take off his clothes and run from the cops.

But seeing a fellow officer—a coworker and total stranger—naked and staring at her with open hostility in his eyes was something else entirely. Marty would have preferred another verbal confrontation. At least she would have known how to respond.

Unnerved, she averted her gaze and headed toward the door. Smitty made no move to get out of her way or cover himself as she passed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the pink flash of his tongue as it flicked between his lips. She heard whispered words that could have been “suck this, bitch.” But her heart was beating so hard and fast she couldn’t be sure.

Six months ago she would have shot back something about shrinkage or maybe she would have just pointed and smirked. Today, the disrespect, the disdain, tore down her defenses. Marty didn’t respond. She didn’t look at him. And she didn’t get too close as she headed toward the exit.

She hit the locker room door with both hands. Jo Nell looked up from her desk and muttered something about paperwork. But Marty didn’t stop.

She shoved the front door and sent it flying. Outside the bright sunlight hit her eyes like a supernova. Though it was barely over eighty degrees, she broke a sweat beneath her uniform. A nerve sweat that slicked her neck and back like ice water. She sucked in a breath, only to have her lungs seize. She could feel herself shaking inside and out. Rage and what she could only identify as fear pulled her in different directions.

“Son of a bitch,” she panted. “Son of a bitch.”

Willing her heart to slow, she set her hand against the brick and leaned. Two breaths and her head began to clear. Her pulse leveled out. If only she could . . .

“Hogan.”

She glanced up to find her new boss standing a few feet away, his expression perplexed and concerned, and all she could think was
shit, shit, shit.
Busted.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she muttered.

“I can tell by the way you’re holding on to that wall.”

“I said I’m fine.” As if to prove her point, she removed her hand from the brick and straightened.

“You want to sit down for a minute?”

“No. I just . . . need to work.” She gave herself points for holding his gaze.

Frowning the way a father might frown at a child who’d just lied to him, he gestured toward the white Explorer parked curbside. “In that case, let’s go.”

 
Clay had seen a lot of different forms of emotional stress
in his years as a cop and MP. He’d always believed he was adept at recognizing the signs, no matter how well hidden by the individual. Not the case with Marty Hogan. She’d fooled him during the initial phone interview, answering all of his questions with the skill of a master interrogator herself. She’d almost fooled him again during their first meet.

But when she’d walked out of the police station a moment ago, when her guard was down, he’d caught his first glimpse of the troubled woman beneath that tough facade. Clay hadn’t liked what he’d seen. In the few moments she’d thought she was alone and unobserved, he’d seen just how close she was to the edge. He’d realized just how precipitous and slippery the slope. And he knew she was going to be a problem.

He wanted to believe he’d missed the signs because of her qualifications or because she’d come with a personal recommendation. Or maybe because he thought she deserved a second chance. But deep inside Clay knew those weren’t the only reasons he’d taken her on, and he wasn’t the least bit proud of his other, less-than-noble motives. Motives that had little to do with her marksmanship skills or SWAT training or big city experience—and everything to do with those big, vulnerable eyes and the way that uniform swept over a body he had absolutely no business noticing. The truth of the matter was he was willing to look the other way because she was a woman. Because she was attractive. Because that facade of tough she wielded with such proficiency appealed to him on a level he wasn’t prepared to ignore.

“You jackass,” he muttered to himself as he opened the driver’s-side door and slid behind the wheel.

Annoyed with himself, Clay started the engine. He was keenly aware of Marty sliding onto the seat next to him and cast her a sideways glance as he put the Explorer in gear and pulled onto the street.

She sat quietly, looking out the passenger window. Though she showed no outward signs, the tension came off of her in waves. He’d come down on her pretty hard—and rightfully so—but she’d seemed to take the dressing-down in stride. That made him wonder if something else had happened between the time he’d ordered her from his office and the time she’d gone to the locker room to dress. Clay didn’t like the answers that popped into his head. Smitty liked to shower after his shift. Had the two partaken in another altercation?

“You want to tell me what happened in there?” he began.

She shot him a startled look, but quickly masked it. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Hogan. I saw the look on your face when you walked out.”

She dropped her gaze a little too quickly. “Nothing happened.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure.”

Clay didn’t believe her, but didn’t push the issue. She didn’t know the dynamics of the department. The new kid on the block, she didn’t want to earn the reputation of being a stool pigeon, running to the chief every time one of the other officers offended her. Clay understood that. But this wasn’t the first problem he’d had with Smitty.

Harlan “Smitty” Smith had been with the Caprock Canyon PD for nearly six years. Early on, Clay had believed the man was a good cop. But Smitty had a mouth on him. As Clay grew to know him, he soon realized his senior officer had a temper—and a streak of mean in him as long as the Texas state line. Not a good combination for a small town cop. Clay had talked to him about it, and Smitty had assured him he’d keep his temper in check.

But an incident the year before had given Clay reason to doubt his word. Smitty had stopped a young female driver on a back road in the dead of night for a faulty taillight. According to his report, Smitty smelled alcohol on her breath when he’d asked for her driver’s license and registration. In turn, he’d asked her to step out of the car and submit to a field sobriety test. That was where his report and her account of the incident went in opposite directions.

According to Smitty, the driver had become belligerent and refused the test. When he detained her and attempted to place her under arrest, she’d fought him. An altercation ensued, and Smitty was forced to subdue the subject for her safety and for his. She’d sustained a bruised knee and an abrasion on her forehead in the scuffle.

That was the story he’d told, anyway.

The young woman told a very different one. She claimed Smitty had pulled her over, kicked out the taillight, then ordered her from the car. When she exited the vehicle, she claimed he’d cuffed her and proceeded to grope and touch her inappropriately. It was her word against his. Because Smitty had a spotless record at the time, Clay had believed his officer.

By the time the blood alcohol test was administered, there were no traces in her system. Clay had always assumed it was because so much time had elapsed. But a seed of doubt had been planted in his head. Doubt that, over the following months, made him remember other incidents in which Smitty had skated a thin line.

Now he wondered if his senior officer had mouthed off—or worse—to Marty. She was no hapless suspect and could hold her own as well as any man. Still, she was new to the department. She’d arrived with a dust storm of ignominy hanging over her head. She deserved a work environment that wasn’t hostile. It was Clay’s responsibility to make sure she got it.

He was going to have to have another talk with Smitty. Hell, he was going to have to talk to Hogan, too. The last thing he needed was discord among his officers. Or a rogue cop running around.

“If you have any problems with Smitty, I want to know about it,” he said.

Questions rose in her eyes, but she didn’t voice them. “Okay.”

They rode in silence for several minutes. Clay took her through the tiny downtown district, past the historic courthouse, over the railroad tracks at the edge of town, and left the city limits. As they passed lake-flat land covered with miles and miles of yellow prairie grass, Marty took in the scenery with all the enthusiasm of a bored teenager.

“So, are you taking me out here to rake me over the coals about what happened back there or are you just going to shoot me and get it over with?” she asked after a moment.

Clay couldn’t help it; he smiled. “Since I already raked you over the coals, I thought I’d ask you if you want to talk about it.”

She lifted a shoulder, let it drop. “I’d rather let it go if you don’t mind.”

“You talking to anyone?”

She swung her surprised gaze to his. “You mean a shrink?”

“Call it what you like. Shrink. Therapist. Psychiatrist. Psychologist. Pastor. Anyone but some imaginary friend.”

“I’m not nuts.”

“Nobody said you were nuts.”

“Smitty did.”

He frowned. “Look, you’ve been through a traumatic ordeal.”

“I’m handling—”

He cut her off. “Nobody handles seeing a kid’s brains blown out.”

She turned back to the window. “I guess you did your homework.”

“I read the reports.” Clay said the words gently, but he could feel the walls going up around her. The tension leaking out, filling the spaces between them. “Sometimes stress takes on forms that we don’t recognize or understand. Depression. Anger. Isolation. If you need to talk to someone—”

“With all due respect, Chief, I’ve had just about all the psychoanalyzing I can take. Work is the only therapy I need right now.”

“Just trying to figure out where your head is.”

“My head is right here.”

He’d been hoping she would be more open, more receptive to talking about what had happened in Chicago. Didn’t she realize he couldn’t turn her loose on the public if he couldn’t trust her state of mind? Talking with her was the only way for him to get to know her. It was the fastest way for him to figure out if hiring her was a mistake. Since she wasn’t cooperating, he would have no choice but to take appropriate action.

 
They ate burgers at the Dairy Dream and were back on
patrol by 6 P.M. Marty hadn’t spoken since they’d rounded up several head of Dick Crowley’s livestock that had escaped their pasture. She hadn’t complained, but Clay could tell she hadn’t liked it. That was fine with him. If she couldn’t hack rural police work, she could go back to Chicago.

But he had to admit, he liked her. She had a quick wit and a relatively healthy sense of humor that leaned toward the dry. More than once he’d found himself watching her. He was glad he’d taken the time to ride with Marty and gotten to know her a little bit. But he’d resolved that this would be the last time. He didn’t like the way he was reacting to her. Better for everyone involved if he kept his distance.

At dusk he headed south on the farm-to-market road.

“Where are we going?” she asked, as they passed by the city limit sign.

“I thought I’d show you the canyon. The places where folks are most likely to speed. We’ll drive by a couple of problem areas.”