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“Stevens filed a complaint against you.”
“Against me? What was the complaint, exactly?”
“Interfering with his crime scene. Wrecking the chain of command. You’re going to hear about this in person.”
I said, “How so?”
“Hon is holding a hearing to consider Stevens’s complaint against you and vice versa. After that he and the panel will send their recommendation to the chief.”
“When is this supposed to happen?”
“Thursday morning. IAD offices at nine.”
“You mean tomorrow?” I asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
I’d never even heard of a face-to-face IAD hearing before. I didn’t know what to expect. But this I knew: I’d stood up to Stevens before. I’d do it again.
Brady said, “Jacobi will determine disciplinary action, if any. So dismissal of charges is possible. Desk duty is possible. Suspension is possible. If Stevens is found to be bending the law, that’s something else again. Either way … th
is’ll get cleared up.”
He shook his head.
I knew what he was thinking: I told you so. I was wishing I had listened to him.
“Levant will be there,” Brady said, referring to Central’s renowned Homicide lieutenant. “I’ll be there, too. You’re entitled to representation, so if you want a lawyer or union rep, git on the phone and make your calls.”
I had estimated a full week of work ahead of me on Millie Cushing’s murder. It would have been basic door-to-door detective work, starting at the beginning. I didn’t even know if my informant’s name was Mildred or Millicent, or if Millie Cushing was a made-up name entirely.
And now digging into this case was going to be road-blocked by the IAD hearing.
I asked, “If IAD finds against me, what happens to the Cushing case?”
“It’s up to the chief. Now please leave me with all this … stuff.” He looked down at the multiple tall stacks of papers on his desk and threw up his hands.
I got out.
CHAPTER 63
IT WAS EARLY morning chez Molinari, and a shaft of sunlight was piercing the south-facing windows.
I had to present my case to a panel of Internal Affairs Division honchos in an hour. I was still in pj’s. Unbeknownst to Joe, I had thrown up that morning. While standing in the shower, I did some fourth-grade math in the condensation on the tiles, adding up days and weeks since Joe and I had made love in a danger zone.
My math was sketchy.
I might have forgotten a half-asleep morning tumble or miscalculated my cycle. It was pretty clear that somehow I’d screwed up and that I was an idiot. Correction. A pregnant idiot.
I draped Joe’s robe over my pajamas and went to the kitchen table, where he had set out a plate of buttered toast, a jar of blackberry jam, and a cup of tea.
Joe said to me, “Sit, Lindsay. How many eggs?”
“None. Thanks, though. I’m a little edgy about the hearing.”
I sipped tea. I nibbled a corner of the toast. I wondered if there would be time today to go to CVS and pick up a pregnancy kit.
Joe saw that my mind was far, far away.
