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“Ah,” he says, his voice sounding fake. “Does someone have their panties in a wad because I stole you from the mundane world of the local PD?”
He bypasses the elevator, going to a solid steel door in the corner, pulling on the handle, he opens it.
“Wouldn’t know.” I shake my head, but he’s not looking at me as he walks through the door and into a stairwell. I follow him through where he quickly heads up the staircase. “The bitch hasn’t called or even text me since I got shot.”
Good to know where I stand with her. And maybe I’m better off now that I realize where I stand on her “give a shit” shelf. If your partner lacks care, then they’re the last person you need to have your back. Chances are, they won’t be there to have your back when all hell breaks loose.
“So, you’re the one with her panties all twisted.” He pauses halfway up the first flight of stairs, looking over his shoulder. “Let’s leave that shit down here. Okay?”
I stop just before my foot lands on the first stair, staring at his moving form.
That motherfucker!
He asked.
Why ask if he didn’t want an honest answer? So, what if I’m a little butt-hurt over the person I would have taken a bullet for without a thought? I get to be mad over this for more than two seconds.
Hell, what if it were him? I bet he would care if his “real partner” did the same to him. Bet he’d be a little pissed off too.
* * *
It takesme several minutes to cool my quickly escalating anger before I trot up the stairs, entering the only door at the top, letting it close behind me as I take in the room.
The space is open with a lot of natural lighting coming through the windows that line each side of the building. There are twelve large cubicles with plexiglass windows taking up the top half of them. There are three sections with four cubicles attached to each one, making it look like there are three teams that take up this floor.
I don’t know why that thought comes to me. In the police department, we have one partner and our desks butt up to each other with Mike being the lone one in an actual office since he’s the senior detective.
I notice a single office door in the back of the room. The office is solid glass from floor to ceiling with the blinds closed. The room is dark, telling me there isn’t anyone lurking inside. I’m guessing that’s the SAIC’s office. It would only make sense, unless the Special Agent in Charge is located on the first floor. It could be the copy/printer room for all I know.
“Yo,” Eric calls, gaining my attention. “How long does it take you to inspect the place? We got shit to do, Andrews.”
“Thought we were friends. Why the formality all of a sudden?”
I start to head toward him when another head pops up over the cubicle that is catty-cornered to Eric’s.
“He isn’t your friend, Detective. You’re just here on a consulting basis.” Summers crosses his arms, watching me with narrowed eyes as I make my way to them.
“What’s he doing here?”
“Summers is here to help,” Eric tells me, taking a seat at his desk, before swiveling in his chair to face me.
I prop my shoulder against the metal edge that connects the top and bottom half of the desks together, my eyes never leaving Summers’ deep green emeralds.
He doesn’t scare me if that’s what he’s trying to do. Sure, last week I was a little intimidated at first, but then he called me out for sleeping with Drago and getting pregnant. Maybe he did it on purpose; maybe he didn’t. Regardless, it more than stung, and the hurt I wasn’t expecting pissed me off.
“How is Internal Affairs supposed to help us find a lead on Diaz or learn if—”
“I guess you don’t understand your role here,” Summers cuts me off. “You’re only here as a consultant. Nothing more. Alders and I are going to locate Diaz.”
“Again.” I drop my eyes to Eric. “Why is IA here?” I cross my arms.
“I thought I told you to check your shit downstairs?”
“I’m here because I’m part of this team,” Summers interjects. My eyes flick back up to his. “My IA role comes into play because you, yourself, think Houston is involved with Diaz. And we happen to be in agreement. But just so we’re fucking clear, the only reason I’m not hell-bent on nailing your little ass for misconduct of a police officer is because yourfriendthere”—his eyes cut down to Eric’s before the disdain in them return to mine—“convinced me that Diaz and Houston are bigger fish to fry.”
I grit my teeth together so that I don’t open my mouth and say something I might regret.
Something in Detective Summers’ eyes soften. I guess he realizes I’m not going to come back at him with a rebuttal. It’s not like I can anyway. I am guilty of misconduct. Even I know that.
