A DOUBLE SHOOTING in their own command building. Whitt couldn’t fathom it. He sat dumbfounded at the table in an interview room after giving his statement. He’d been told the CCTV had switched off ten minutes before the shooting. The concrete walls had suppressed the sound of gunfire.
“Harry’s personnel file is missing, isn’t it?” Whitt asked his chief.
Chief Morris and Deputy Commissioner Woods were the last detectives to interview Whitt. He had given his statement three times over. They sat across from him, reading his statement.
“Details of the crime scene aren’t your concern right now, Detective,” Woods said. “You’re signed off for the day. Go home. Walk it off. We’ll resume interviews in the morning.”
“It was him.” Whitt couldn’t stop the words tumbling out. “Banks. I think I passed him on his way out. He came to get Harry’s records. That means he’s got everything we have on her. Her childhood. Her academy results. Her disciplinary—”
“Whitt,” Morris said.
“He was here. Banks. He was in the building.”
“That’s enough, Detective.” Woods stood, towering above the men still sitting at the table, his bulk casting a shadow over Whitt. “Shut up and go home. That’s an order.”
In the men’s change room, while collecting his belongings, Whitt jumped at the touch of a hand on his shoulder.
It was a female detective he’d not met before, her black cotton top cinched at the underarms by her holster.
“Edward Whittacker?” she said.
“Oh, yes, hi.” He closed his locker. “Sorry—you’re from Forensics? Is there more I need to—”
“No, I’m Detective Vada Reskit.” She put out a hand. “I’m your new partner on the Banks case.”
A partner. That made sense. Someone to lean on while he dealt with the events of the morning, someone to keep an eye on him for the top brass as he carried on with the case. Leave time was not in abundance right now. He’d be expected to suck it up and keep looking for Banks and Harry.
Whitt shook the offered hand. Vada’s grip was firm, warm. The first comforting thing he’d felt in hours. He focused on her bright white teeth. Her red hair. Her ponytail. “I see. Chief Morris assigned you, did he? Or was it Woods?”
“Woods. But Morris approved it.”
“Right, right.”
“Come on, let’s get going. You’ve had yourself a pretty hard day. We all have. We’ll have a few drinks, blow off some steam. You can talk about it, or not talk about it, as you like.”
“Oh,” Whitt said. He never had “a few drinks.” Not anymore. It had taken years to climb his way out of the hole drinking had sunk him into after a bad case he’d worked on back home in Perth. A little girl had died, and Whitt had not been able to bring her killers to justice. Worse yet, he’d planted evidence and all but secured their freedom.
Old tingles of desire rippled through him at just the mention of a few drinks. He said nothing about his problem. It was too awkward to bring up at the outset. His ritual was to allow himself a single standard glass of red wine at 5:30 p.m. Not a drop more. Sometimes, on his worst days, he had a Scotch. Just one.
He’d have that drink with his new partner and explain it all to her then.
“Let’s go,” he said, the dread almost choking off his words.