chapter twelve

The next morning sunrise was a thin strip of apricot stretched along the horizon—like Jo’s silk lingerie still lying at the foot of the bed. Jo left for the gym before six.

I jumped out of bed and padded around the kitchen, making coffee with a smile on my face until a glance at my calendar reminded me of my psych eval with Dr. Tyler Reese Sears. A quick Google search showed he had an office on Sunset Boulevard. I’d already weathered the physical exam and eight hours of diversity training plus simulations. The sooner I cleared the next hoop, the sooner I got back on active duty. My appointment was for four-forty-five.

***

I walked into his waiting room at 4:30. The door to Sears’ office opened at 5:15. Maybe the wait was part of the test. His walls with their framed diplomas from CSUN and UCLA were pale lemon.

“Come on in, detective.” The balding middle-aged man jumped to his feet from behind his desk and held out his hand. His voice flowed with the slower music of Virginia or one of the Carolinas as he gestured to the well-worn leather club chair opposite his desk.

“You must be present to win.” I pointed to the wooden sign mounted on the wall next to the diplomas as I took the proffered seat. “Your mantra?” I recognized it as a sign from an Indian casino and wondered if Sears took a flutter now and then.

“Words to live by,” Sears said. “Along with ‘know thyself.’” The psychologist looked soft and frayed as an old stuffed toy, but his eyes were youthful and alert. There were a few more preliminaries as he sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. Then he launched into it.

“I have the results from your tests,” Sears said. “You’re in excellent physical health, detective, and you handled yourself well on the simulator. Blood tests were negative for drugs and alcohol. But . . .” He brought the palms of his hands together in a prayer-like gesture, fingers touching lips.

I waited.

Sears’ hands rotated, fingertips pointing at me now. The prayer-like gesture became a gun about to fire. “Your cortisol and testosterone levels are unusually elevated and you scored .085 on the depression and PTSD inventories.” He smiled. “I think I can help with that.”

“If you want to help, clear me to go back to work.”

Sears smile twisted into a pained grimace. “I’m afraid .085 is well over the normal range, detective. I recommend you take at least a few days off.”

“And let my partner shoulder all the work?” I shook my head.

“I thought you might say that.” Sears lifted his hands, palms out in a gesture of surrender. “Then let’s go through the checklist, shall we? How are you sleeping? Any unexpected bouts of insomnia, night sweats, that sort of thing?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” For two days after the shooting I’d woken at three, covered in a sheet of cold sweat. But little recaps were to be expected. Stress was an old friend. Why give Sears the ammunition to shoot me down?

“Are you experiencing any unusual aches or pains since the incident?”

“No,” I said.

“How much do you drink?

“A glass or two.”

“Has your alcohol consumption changed since the accident?”

“I’m drinking less.” In case of any unscheduled blood or Breathalyzer pop quizzes.

Was it my imagination or was Sears searching for the broken blood vessels and swollen nose of an alcoholic? There wasn’t anything like that on my face to find. Still, I silently cursed Claire Kidder, the civilian lawyer from the OIS interview who’d put me under extra scrutiny.

“Are you experiencing any changes in your interaction with your partner since the incident?”

“Other than my being on the desk?” I repeated my desire to get to back to active duty.

“Patience, detective. We’re almost done.” Sears glanced at his glove phone, and then his eyes drifted up to the left corner of the room.

Were there cameras? A hidden feed for the panel reviewing my actions?

“I see from your file your father was a police officer too,” Sears said. “He’s had some trouble with anger management.”

Ker-chunk! The sound of a nail gun slamming a four-inch steel nail through the flesh of my left foot echoed in my head. The hand on the nail gun had belonged to Piedmont Sr. The mere memory sent a shiver down my spine. I shoved the memory away.

“Have you been able to talk to your father about managing the stress?” Sears steepled his hands on the desk. “Maybe he could be a helpful resource.”

I suppressed the laugh, but not the memory of how the Glock had felt in my fifteen-year-old hand. Or the smell of cordite in the air. The nail gun on the floor and my father’s used syringe on the kitchen table. The lamp over the kitchen table swinging round and round like a chopper with a spotlight flying overhead.

“If you’ve read the file on my father,” I said, “you know he can’t even help himself.” Anger management and Green Ice weren’t his only problems.It was an open secret my father was dirty. He’d taken drugs, and money for drugs, in exchange for turning a blind eye to some pretty bad actors. Eventually, he’d gotten caught and sent away for a three-year stretch in prison. That was another thing we didn’t talk about, my father and I.

Sears said nothing, just held my gaze with a steady appraisal of his own.

And I suddenly knew he’d made up his mind before we’d even started the evaluation. Sears had expected resistance, and I’d given it to him.

So, I pivoted and jumped down a different rabbit hole.

“You know what, doctor?” I said. “I will take that vacation you recommended. I could use a couple days off.”

Sears slowly lifted his head and beamed. “I’m glad you see that on your own, detective. That’s a very hopeful sign. A little time to unwind can make a world of difference.”

“When will you be making your report?” I said.

“We’ll be in touch.” Sears looked at me with a calm genial expression. “Get some R&R, Detective Piedmont.”

“I’ll head straight to the beach,” I said, not waiting for the door to slam behind me on my way out.