Page 135 of What's Left of Us

As soon as I approach him, he says, “They’re doing it for Conklin.”

I don’t give a fuck who they’re doing it for as long as it’s getting done. “They’re going to move forward with the investigation?”

“We’re not taking lead,” he tells me quietly. “The feds have apparently had their eye on Del Rossi since his partner was put away. They know a hell of a lot more than we do. But the information Conklin put together is going to help fill in the pieces.”

“If they’ve been sitting on it for this long, what makes us believe they’re going to make a move? Because a cop died? Because they want to look good to the public?”

He pulls me into his office. “They’ve been trying to infiltrate Del Rossi for a while, Hawk. But you know this shit doesn’t unravel overnight. It takes time to build a case. I spoke to the lead detective assigned to it at the FBI, and they want us to tag along to execute the search warrant. Double the manpower means the quicker we get results. They’re not going to sit on this. Whatever the reason may be, you should be grateful it’s happening.”

I’ve been around long enough to know when people are telling you what you want to hear. I’m not keen on sitting around twiddling my thumbs until I get the phone call that it’s time.

My fingers slide over the paper in my hand, reminding me of what’s at stake.

I hold out the paper I spent twenty minutes filling out after getting home from the doctor. It’s the same form that Beaugard gave to me at the hospital.

Hesitantly, he takes it. “What is this?”

That day, it felt like he was giving up on me. I took it personally, feeling what little hope I had at a full recovery draining. I’d been in so much pain back then that I didn’t know how I was going to get through it. I refused the pills. Refused to open up. I’d wanted one thing.

To go back to work.

Not half-time.

Not as a goddamn paper pusher.

I wanted to be out there with everybody else, making sure the crime scenes were secure and the interviews were being done the right way. I wanted to be part of the action, not behind the scenes, watching everybody else get praised.

I needed that in my life.

It was all I had.

But now…

What comes after?

“You told me over a year ago that I could submit for medical retirement if I needed to. That there was no shame in that after what happened.” Even though I can taste the shame on my tongue, I know this is the only way.

To leave on my choice.

Not anybody else’s.

Beaugard’s eyebrows shoot up as his gaze darts from me to the paper. “You told me that it would be a cold day in hell before you even considered this.”

What does he expect? “The devil works at 99th Street, Beau. And I hear it’s pretty fucking cold there.”

He lowers the form. “This doesn’t change your involvement in the case, Hawk. You know that, right?”

Doesn’t it? “If the feds are taking over, they can call me as a witness. They’d be stupid not to when they find something.”

“If,” he corrects. “If they find something.”

“They will.”

His eyes narrow. “Do I want to know why you’re so sure?”

“Because Conklin died for the cause. If he didn’t think Volley was worth getting ahold of, then he wouldn’t have gone that day. He wouldn’t have compiled all of those papers and connected all the dots. But he did. And it always led back to Del Rossi.”

Beaugard’s lips press into a thin line.

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