The Silent Wife (Will Trent #10) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,148
her own. Even assuming Caterino had been the victim of an accident, Truong was a kid. She’d just found a dead body. You took care of people like that.
Frank was silent except for the whistle of air through his congested lungs. “Look, there’s a reason I didn’t want your job. It sucks.”
“You think?”
“You’re a good chief. I can’t vouch for the other parts of your life. If you were fucking my daughter, a broken nose would be the least of your worries.” Frank smiled without smiling. “When you were in Birmingham, how many murders did you roll up on?”
Jeffrey shook his head. Birmingham was ten times the size of Grant County. There were over one hundred homicides a year.
“Probably dozens, right? And even without the DOAs, you saw blood every week, maybe every day. Stabbings, shootings. All kinds of shit. While here in Grant County, we get some ODs, some vehicle fatalities, a few tractor accidents, maybe a couple of knocked-down women.” Frank shrugged again. “You’re bringing Birmingham thinking to Grant County situations.”
Jeffrey had never seen anything like what had happened to Tommi Humphrey and Leslie Truong in Birmingham. “That’s what I was hired to do.”
“Then do it. Lena’s got potential. She’s got the instincts to do the job the way it has to be done. You can either be the chief who molds her into a good cop or you can be the asshole who shreds her into nothing because it makes you feel better.”
“I never took you for a psychiatrist.”
Frank gave Jeffrey’s shoulder that squeeze you give a man when you’re bringing him to heel like a dog. “I never took you for a cheat, but here we are.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Frank.”
“Anytime, Chief.” Frank graced him with another demeaning shoulder pat before taking his leave.
Out of habit, Jeffrey flipped the whiteboard toward the wall before following him out. He gathered his notes off the podium. He was rewarded with another pulsing throb in his face. He gently traced the line of his nose. There was definitely something sticking out that should not be sticking out. He held his breath, upping the pressure, trying to click the bones back into place.
His eyes watered. The pain was too intense. Unless he wanted to look like a 1930s gangster for the rest of his life, he was going to end up having to go to a doctor three towns over who would actually see him.
“Chief?” Marla walked in with a bag of frozen French fries in one hand and a bottle of Advil in the other. “I got the fries from Pete at the diner. He wants them back.”
Jeffrey pressed the bag to his nose. He nodded for Marla to open the bottle. “Is Lena back yet?”
“Saw her car pull in when I was toodlin’ back from the diner.”
“Thanks.” Jeffrey dry-swallowed four Advil as he walked back into the squad room.
Lena was taking off her bulky coat. She did her usual deer in the headlights when she saw him. He didn’t like the fear he saw in her eyes. Ninety percent of being a cop was dealing with angry men. If she couldn’t handle it from her boss, she wasn’t going to make it on the street.
He told her, “In my office.”
Lena followed him inside. She closed the door without being told. She started to sit down, but he stopped her.
“On your feet.” Jeffrey tossed the frozen bag of fries on his desk as he took a seat. The change in altitude made his nose throb harder.
“Chief—”
He jabbed his finger into the photocopies of her notes. “What is this bullshit?”
Lena sucked in a breath. She had clearly hoped that her earlier ass-chewing was over.
“Look at them.” He handed her the copies. “You’re a cop. You want to be a detective one day. Tell me what’s wrong with your notes, future detective.”
She stared at the neatly printed words, the carefully outlined steps of her various actions. “There are—” Lena cleared her throat. “There’s no mistakes.”
“Right,” Jeffrey said. “No run-on sentences, no stray marks, no cross-throughs, not even a misspelled word. You’re either the smartest fucking cop in this building or you’re the stupidest. Which one is it?”
Lena placed the copies back on his desk. She shifted on her feet.
“Which notes do you want me to keep, Lena? Which set do you want subpoenaed by Gerald Caterino’s lawyers? Or Bonita Truong’s, because her daughter was murdered when you told her to go back to the school on her own.”