Chapter 14
Love is supposed to be pure, forgiving, and free of judgment. It's supposed to cover all faults and leave no room for hate. But let me tell you something, I have hate in my heart. Not for people, not for the world, but for a few very specific things: animal liver, moringa tea, mackerel, donuts, hot weather, hot tea, and, above all, Chief Dyke. Or should I say Chief Dick? He's the devil's father no, scratch that, he's the devil's blood relative. He's the reason Russel and I were suspended, and now, to add insult to injury, here he is, standing at the crime scene at 10 p.m. like he actually gives a damn.
This man would rather pull his own teeth out than show up to a crime scene or do anything remotely related to police work. And yet, he's the Chief of Police. A walking, talking disappointment. My frustrations shifted from the case at hand to the man standing in front of me, his smug face illuminated by the flashing lights of the patrol cars. Could this day get any worse? I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they might crack.
"Oh, what do we have here!" Dyke said in that underwhelming tone of his, the one that screamed, We tolerate each other, but just barely.
"Didn't expect to see you here at this hour," I shot back, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Shouldn't you be getting your beauty sleep?"
Russell bumped my shoulder, a silent warning to cool it. I begrudgingly looked away, my jaw clenched so tight it ached.
"Hello, Chief," Russell said, ever the saint. "What brings you by?"
"You should be more like Russel," Dyke said, his eyes narrowing at me. "Mannered. Professional."
I turned my gaze away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. My hands balled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
"I was in the area when I saw the lights," Dyke continued, addressing Russel. "Thought I should check it out."
I scoffed loudly, not even trying to hide my disdain. Russel shot me a look, but I didn't care. The other detectives began briefing Dyke on the situation, and I took the opportunity to slip away. I needed to call Kyle, the officer I'd sent to the hospital to watch over the old man.
"Hey, Kyle," I said, my voice tense. "How are things going?"
"Uh, not great," Kyle replied. "They're still in surgery. The doctor said he lost too much blood. Plus, he's old. The surgery might be too much for him to handle. But I'm waiting for them to finish."
"Right," I said, kicking a stone on the ground. I turned back to watch the group I'd just left, their conversation still ongoing.
"Do you see anyone suspicious hanging around? Someone in a hoodie, maybe? Lurking in the corners?"
"No, nothing like that," Kyle said. "It's pretty quiet here."
"Is Derrick at the station?" I asked.
"Yeah, he's there."
"Cool. I need to ask him to get me the address of a possible suspect. Let me know what happens, okay? Take care." I ended the call and immediately dialed Derrick's personal number.
"Derrick here," he answered, his tone generic and detached.
"Hey, Derrick," I said, forcing a cheerful tone.
"Hi, Stacy. What can I help you with?"
"Good evening to you too. I'm doing quite well, although I'm starving," I replied, my voice dripping with playful sarcasm.
"Don't do that," he said flatly.
"Do what?" I asked, feigning innocence.
"You only call me when you need something. Just spit it out."
I sighed. "Alright, fine. There's this guy named Cole. He works at the shop across from us. Can you send me his details and where he lives?"
"That's not much to go on," Derrick said. "I don't know this Cole guy, and I don't shop there. You'll need to give me more than that."
"Can you just give me a list of all the Coles in this district? Russel and I will figure it out," I pleaded.
"Alright," Derrick said with a sigh. "I'll get back to you." He hung up before I could respond.
"Hey, Stacy," Russel called, motioning for me to rejoin the group. "The Chief is leaving."
I reluctantly followed Russel as we trailed behind Dyke to his car. His driver stood ready, holding the door open. Rich Dick, I thought, my teeth clenched so hard I thought they might shatter.
"I hear your suspension ends tomorrow," Dyke said, pausing before getting into the car. "Congrats on not making a scene throughout your punishment. Come to my office when you resume. Oh, and Stacy?" He turned to me, his expression darkening.
"Try that again, and I'll sue you for every penny you're worth."
I watched as his car disappeared into the night, my fists clenched at my sides. Part of me hoped for another opportunity to take him down this time, bigger and better. Go big or go home, right?
"Let's head back to the station," Russel said, taking the lead to the car.
Like I said earlier, I hate Chief Dyke, and he knows it. My mind flashed back to the incident that led to our suspension. Russel and I were part of the Crime and Assault Team at Headquarters, a high-stakes, high-pressure unit. We were good at our jobs, and no one could deny it. But then the Force started making budget cuts. Our allowances were slashed, our gear was replaced with cheap, faulty equipment, and the number of operation vans was reduced from five to two. It became a nightmare to coordinate responses, and morale plummeted.
The final straw came when a group of robbers took hostages in a bank. We pleaded with Dyke to release the necessary resources, but he refused. The operation was a disaster. We lost three team members and five of the eight hostages. After we finally captured the suspects, I stormed into Dyke's meeting and beat the living daylights out of him in front of the entire force. It was satisfying, but short-lived. I was arrested and put before the disciplinary committee for assault and misconduct. Russel, seeing I was in deep trouble, crashed Dyke's car in a fit of solidarity. We were suspended for three months and demoted to the patrol team. The original suspension was a year, but I threatened to go public and sue the Force. They backed down, but the damage was done.
This demotion hadn't been all bad. We had more sleep, a more relaxed schedule, and a stable routine, until this case blew everything up two days ago.
The station was practically empty when we arrived, save for the patrol team and Derrick, who was waiting for us. He handed over the folder I'd asked for and called it a night. Inside were the details of 30 residents named Cole. I hadn't expected there to be so many. Russel took half the files, and I took the other half. We had to identify the right Cole before he realized we were onto him.
My pile included Coles of all kinds. Doctors, teachers, plumbers, inmates, and even a few in mental facilities. They ranged in age from 20 to 80, and some were male, others female. It was a daunting task, but we didn't have a choice.
"Found him," Russel said suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I bolted to his desk and looked over his shoulder at the file. The name was Nick Cole, 28 years old, with Cole as his surname. He was a high school graduate who'd worked a string of menial jobs, construction, plumbing, janitorial work, garbage collection, and, most recently, as a cashier. He was an only child, and his father was dead. His mother was in a mental facility. I quickly cross-referenced the file with the one I had on the facility, and it was a match. Nick Cole was her son.
But what stopped me cold was the name that appeared under "Therapist": Dr. Lucy Quist. Jamie's therapist. My niece's therapist. My stomach churned as I remembered Jamie's tantrum yesterday. This couldn't be a coincidence.
"We'll have to talk to Dr. Quist," I said, my voice tight. "She might have answers."
Russel nodded. "Agreed. But it's midnight, Stacy. Let's call it a day and start fresh in the morning. You need sleep."
I sighed, knowing he was right. But as I packed up my things, I couldn't shake the feeling that this case was about to take a turn for the worse. And I wasn't sure we were ready for it.