Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,15
for a while, but eventually, as you’ve experienced, they come bubbling up at the most inopportune times.”
Sinclair looked at his watch.
Jeanne continued. “How’s your medication working?”
“I’m on homicide standby this week and have to be available when the phone rings, so I haven’t been taking the trazodone at night.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Not well.”
“I’m not a medical doctor, so I don’t want to give you medical advice. However, you know you’re not the only police officer I treat, and my experience is that trazodone will not prevent you from waking up and functioning when you need to. It’s not a sedative or depressant.”
“Okay.”
“And as I offered previously, I can work with your department and get you time off that won’t count as vacation or sick time.”
“You know I can’t do that,” Sinclair said. “People will know.”
“Your department is prohibited from taking any adverse actions against you.”
The way the city’s employee assistance was administered ensured that no one, not even the police chief, knew the names of those who used it. But the moment he hit off sick or with a so-called on-duty injury diagnosed as PTSD, the word would be out that he was mentally and emotionally incapable of handling the job, and he’d find himself at a desk.
“I’ll let you know,” he said.
Chapter 6
When Sinclair entered the office, the other nine homicide investigators in the unit were at their desks, busy pounding away at their computers, talking on phones, or reading reports. Braddock looked up. “How’d it go with your insurance agent?”
Sinclair hated lying to his partner, but he had told her he was meeting with his insurance agent about reimbursement for when the Bus Bench Killer firebombed his apartment last year and destroyed everything he owned. “I just had to sign a bunch more forms.”
“The lieutenant wants to see us when you’re ready.”
Sinclair filled his dark-blue coffee mug, which had an outline of a dead body on one side and “Homicide: Our Day Begins When Someone Else’s Ends” on the other. Lieutenant Carl Maloney was in his late forties with thinning hair and a flabby middle. Sinclair and his fellow investigators had had their doubts about Maloney when he was assigned to command the unit, fearing that he had gotten the coveted job because of his previous position as one of the chief’s hatchet men in Internal Affairs, but Maloney turned out to be a good boss. He had never investigated a homicide, and although that didn’t stop most command officers from micromanaging their subordinates, Maloney never pretended he knew more about murder investigations than the sergeants under him. In addition, despite the fact that he could be reassigned in the blink of an eye, he still stood up to the chief and defended his investigators even if it was politically expedient to do otherwise.
Maloney dug out the Oakland Tribune from under an assortment of papers. “I’m sure the chief will have some choice words to say about her being a ‘sweet girl’ when I see him later this morning. Is there anything else I should know?”
Braddock said, “The unnamed source the Trib quotes, who we all know is the PIO, said she was a prostitute, which should balance out Matt’s attempt to humanize her.”
“Not to City Hall,” Maloney replied. “To them, it sounds as if we’re not on the same team.”
Sinclair and Braddock briefed him on what little they knew at this point. When they got up to leave, Maloney said, “Matt, hang on a minute?”
Once Braddock left, Maloney leaned forward in his chair. “How are you doing?”
Sinclair chuckled. “Fine, and how are you doing, Lieutenant?”
“You know I’m not good at this, so I’ll come right out and say it. You don’t look so good. You came in late today, and that’s not like you.”
“I told Braddock and I left you a note that I was pushing back my shift and working nine to five today because I needed to meet with my insurance adjuster.”
Maloney paged through a stack of paper in his in-box. After a minute, he gave up. “Are they still denying stuff from your apartment?”
“It’s working out; they just require more documentation.”
“You’re still sober, aren’t you?”
Sinclair had been subject to a last-chance contract, where he had to submit to random urinalyses for a year after the department reinstated him as a sergeant and returned him to homicide. “Even though the contract expired over two months ago, I know damn well I’m an alcoholic and if I drink I’ll risk losing everything again.”