Denise and Jesse have only been gone two days, but the hollowness of Steve’s life returned the moment the plane lifted off the tarmac. The decision that followed took only one minute more.
“Gelson,” Steve says, walking into Mitch Gelson’s office, “I’ve decided to put in for a transfer.”
Gelson looks up from his desk and leans back. He folds his hands on his lap, and a rat’s smile spreads across his face. This is probably the best news Gelson’s gotten since his promotion. Though Steve stepped down as assistant director three years ago, his previous rank and reputation garner far more respect than Gelson will ever get, which is a constant thorn in his side.
“You know,” Gelson says, the smug look still in place, “your position is not transferable.”
“I understand that. I’ve decided to return to being a field agent.”
“Field agent?” Gelson scoffs. “Assistant director to special investigator to field agent. You do realize you’re going the wrong direction?”
Steve ignores the jab. “I’d like to be involved in finding my replacement.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I know it’s not necessary,” Steve says, straining for patience. “But I created the position, and I know what it takes, so I’d like to find my successor.”
The rat’s smile twitches. “It won’t be necessary because, once you’re gone, I see no reason to continue it. The position was only created as a sympathy bone thrown to you because of your son.”
“A bone?” Steve hisses, hating the emotion that’s crept into his voice. “You know how many cases I handle and the amount of work there is. Who the hell’s going to take care of it?”
“It will get taken care of the way it did before.”
“It didn’t get taken care of before. That’s why the position was necessary.”
“Steve, this is your own personal crusade, no one else’s.”
“It’s the crusade of the law . . . of the constitution.”
Gelson shrugs. “I guess that’s the way it goes. When you leave, so do the rights of the bottom-feeders you’ve made it your mission to save.”
“And damn the Fifth Amendment?” Steve says.
“Damn your holier-than-thou attitude toward saving the scourge,” Gelson spits.
Steve’s hands ball as blood rises to his face, and his first thought is to reach across the desk and smack the smarmy grin from Gelson’s face with his fist. In his younger days, he would have. But older and wiser, instead, he wheels away, angry for allowing the worm to get to him.
He returns to his desk, which is littered with dozens of new cases unattended to because of the time he spent with Denise and Jesse. Before setting to work, he searches the Orange County papers and blotter to check on Dick. It’s been nearly a month since their beer, and though there’s been no sign that he’s up to his old tricks, Steve is certain it’s only a matter of time.
His search turns up nothing. The weather in Irvine is sunny and beautiful. Ramirez is still missing. Two more recently released sex offenders have settled in Orange County.
Feeling cantankerous, he decides to send Dick a text:
He smiles as he presses send, then returns to his work.
At eight, he calls it quits, grabs a bite at his favorite Italian restaurant, and returns to his apartment.
Three large boxes block the door. He checks the Pottery Barn labels, certain there must be a mistake. The addresses are correct, so he pulls out one of the packing slips. Next to “Gift Sender’s Name” is: “Denise Raynes.”
Steve carries the boxes into his living room and, like a kid at Christmas, tears into them, embarrassed by his eagerness. The first contains new bedding, a soft duvet in blue with matching pillowcases and a set of crisp white sheets. There’s even a dust ruffle, which Steve needs to look at the photo to know what that is. The second box contains towels and a bathmat. And the last is filled with a rust chenille throw and four pillows for his couch.
The gift message reads, “I love you too much to see you living in such sorrow.”
Steve, still sitting on the floor, leans back against the couch and hugs one of the pillows to his chest. He buries his nose in its softness and breathes in its warmth. He can’t remember the last time he cried. It wasn’t when Danny died. He often wonders about that. The unforgettable saline taste touches his lips, and he’s certain it hasn’t been since he was a boy.