Somebody to Hold (Tyler Jamison #2) - April Wilson Page 0,42

learned the hard way never to leave without saying goodbye. The first time I made that mistake, the morning after the first time I slept over, he assumed I had simply walked out on him. Thanks to his abusive formative years, he has a deep-seated fear of abandonment. Knowing this, I’ve been more careful.

He stirs sleepily and rolls onto his back, stretching like a big cat. “You too.”

I lean down to speak softly to him. “If you go anywhere today, take Miguel with you, all right? He’s still on medical leave, so he’s probably got some free time. I’d feel better if you didn’t go out alone. Promise me.”

“Kay,” he mumbles as his eyes drift shut. “I promise.”

* * *

For most of the morning, I’m out in the field working on my current caseloads. When I’m done with serving a search warrant and conducting some interviews with eyewitnesses, I grab something at a fast food drive-thru window, eat in my car, then head back to the office to check e-mails and process some DNA and fingerprint reports that have come in.

Midafternoon, my desk phone rings. “Jamison,” I say, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

“Tyler, can you come to my office?”

It’s Jud. Something about the tone of his voice puts me on alert. “Sure. Is something wrong?”

“I—just come to my office. We need to talk.”

After hanging up, I head down the hall, past the reception desk, toward the police captain’s office. His door is ajar, and as I approach, I hear quiet voices inside. He’s not alone.

My heart rate picks up as I push open the door and walk inside to find Andrea Davis from Internal Affairs and Bill Lesko, our union rep, standing in the room, eyeing me expectantly. I nod in greeting to Andrea and Bill. I’ve known them both for years, and we’ve always had a good working relationship.

Jud is seated behind his desk, his expression flat, his dark eyes filled with something that looks a lot like regret.

Shit. This is it.

My pulse kicks into high gear. In this moment, I don’t see my boss seated behind that desk. I see my father’s best friend, a man I’ve looked up to my entire life. And now, he’s a man who’s facing what has to be an unbearable task.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” My voice is strong as I meet his gaze head on.

Jud glances out his office window, his throat muscles working as he collects himself. A long moment later, he turns back to me and, with a heavy sigh, says, “I’m sorry, Tyler.”

I can only imagine how hard this is for Jud. Ever since my dad was killed, Jud’s been there for me, advising me. And he’s a big reason why I worked toward a promotion to detective. I stare at the lines on his dark, weathered face, at his severe buzz cut that gets thinner and whiter every year.

“It’s okay, sir,” I tell him. “Just come out and say it.”

“Tyler—” He closes his eyes for the briefest moment. When he reopens them, they’re directed at me. He squares his shoulders and takes a breath. “Brad Turner has filed a complaint against you. It’s been turned over to the prosecutor’s office, and they see cause to bring charges.” He waves toward the other two in the room. “I called Andrea and Bill in so we can talk before the assistant DA arrives.”

“Do you have an attorney?” Bill asks me.

I nod. “I do. I had a feeling this would happen.”

“Then call him,” Bill says. “Right now. He should be here when the ADA arrives.”

I pull out my cell phone and send Troy a text, asking if he can come to the precinct. He texts back almost immediately.

Troy: Just need to wrap up a meeting and then I’m on my way.

“He’s coming,” I say as I pocket my phone.

Jud frowns, shaking his head. “Damn it, Tyler, my hands are tied. Based on the circumstances, I have no choice but to suspend you while there’s an investigation. I’m sorry, son.”

“I understand.” As much as it kills me, I retrieve my badge from my jacket pocket and lay it on Jud’s desk. For a long moment, I stare down at the shiny star, a symbol that represents the totality of my professional career. My entire identity is wrapped up in being a cop. It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do—the only thing I know how to do. If I lose that, I won’t know who I