Caldwell hesitated for one agonizing heartbeat. Then, with stiff, mechanical movements, he unholstered his Glock 17, dropped the magazine into his left hand, racked the slide to eject the live round onto the granite counter, and laid the weapon flat.
"Go to the briefing room," Marcus told him. "Stand against the back wall. Do not sit down. Do not speak to anyone."
Caldwell turned on his heel and walked stiffly through the double doors leading into the operational core of the station.
Marcus turned to the waiting room. The elderly woman was still staring at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. He walked over, stepped around the low coffee table, and crouched down so that his eyes were level with hers.
"I apologize for what you had to see in this lobby, ma'am," Marcus said gently, his voice completely different from the steel he had used on Caldwell. "What was your business here this morning?"
The woman clutched a worn canvas handbag against her lap. "My grandson... they arrested him two nights ago on Elm Street. They said he broke into a car. But he was working a night shift at the dairy, and I have his timecard right here. The officer at the desk told me if I didn't leave, he’d cite me for trespassing."
Marcus looked at the frayed timecard peeking out of her purse. Then he looked at Miller behind the counter.
Miller shrank back behind his monitors.
"What is your grandson's name?" Marcus asked.
"Darius. Darius Cole."
"Give me thirty minutes, Mrs. Cole," Marcus said, standing back up. "Sit right here. Nobody is going to ask you to leave."
He walked through the security door, letting the heavy magnetic lock click shut behind him.
The corridor of the Riverside Police Department smelled of old floor wax, damp coats, and fear. The squad room had gone dead quiet; the news had clearly rippled through the terminal messaging system before he had even crossed the threshold. Ten patrol officers and three plainclothes detectives were sitting at their cubicles, hands hovering over keyboards, eyes locked on him as he walked down the center aisle.
At the end of the hall, the briefing room door stood open.
Inside, Captain Frank Henderson was leaning against the edge of the conference table, his arms folded across a broad belly, his mustache twitching with irritation. Henderson had been the interim chief for four months following the quiet retirement of Arthur Vance—the detective’s uncle—and the rumors in the city manager’s office were that Henderson had treated the permanent appointment as his birthright.
Caldwell was standing by the corner window, his face dark, his arms pinned rigidly at his sides.
As Marcus walked in and set his scuffed leather briefcase on the mahogany conference table, Henderson didn't salute. He offered an oily, patronizing smile.
"Hell of an entrance, Reed," Henderson drawled, pushing himself off the table. "Though I’d say you brought half of it on yourself. You show up here out of uniform protocol, without notifying the desk, spooking my shift sergeant? Caldwell was just doing what he’s trained to do when an unknown entity breaches the perimeter."
Marcus looked at Henderson. He didn't return the smile. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a silver pen, and clicked it once.
"Captain Henderson," Marcus said, "you have been interim chief for one hundred and twenty days. In that time, eight formal misconduct complaints against Sergeant Caldwell were dismissed without investigative notes. Three boxes of chain-of-custody evidence regarding the downtown warehouse fire disappeared from Locker B. And five minutes ago, your shift sergeant assaulted me in front of four civilian witnesses."
Henderson's smile slipped slightly. "Those were administrative oversights, Reed. We do things a little differently out here than you did in the capital. We handle our own house."
Marcus pulled a single sheet of paper from his briefcase—the state executive order signed by the governor's liaison at 6:00 AM—and slid it across the wood until it hit Henderson's belt buckle.