What the hell was wrong with him?
And what the hell was wrong with Irving?
One of the many things I respect about you, Silva, is your strict adherence to the code of conduct. But you can’t stop yourself from having feelings. You’re not just a cop. You’re also a man.
That was true, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t responsible for his actions. Wasn’t the entire point of having a professional code of conduct to prevent officers from acting on their emotions and impulses? What good were rules and regulations if they were abandoned when they became inconvenient? If the line moved every time someone crossed it, what was the point of having any boundaries at all?
Where other cops might see shades of gray, Darius saw a slippery slope. One day, it’s a detective kissing the victim in one of his cases. The next, it’s an officer arresting someone based on prejudice or using too much physical force or accepting favors in exchange for turning a blind eye.
The code of conduct existed to protect everyone.
I trust you to use your best judgment where Ms. Dillon is concerned.
What the hell did that mean? Had that been Irving’s way of telling Darius that he wouldn’t fire him for sleeping with Sasha, provided it was consensual?
Insane.
As for Darcangelo and Hunter, they’d seemed to find the whole thing entertaining. Darius had a deep respect for both men. He would trust either of them with his life. And yet, Darcangelo had clearly bent the rules to the breaking point, while Hunter had committed a list of serious felonies. He’d eventually been pardoned by the governor, but he’d still broken the law.
Yet Irving had hired them both.
Shit.
Darius was going in circles again, his thoughts spinning.
He slowed as he entered a hairpin turn and braked hard for a cyclist who took up most of the lane as she struggled up the steep grade. A few seconds of watching the woman pedal hard told Darius it would be difficult to ID a cyclist from behind unless you already knew them and recognized their helmet or bike. This was an effective enough demonstration to convince Darius that the bastards who’d hit Sasha had passed her to be sure of her identity before they attacked.
He was still musing on this when he passed Bear in the roundabout.
“Darius Silva!” Bear called out.
Darius couldn’t explain it, but the man’s greeting touched him.
What was it about this town, about these people that had him feeling sentimental because someone recognized him and said hello?
He parked at the Inn and checked in again.
“Boss decided you weren’t done here, huh?” This time Bob was wearing jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt.
“Something like that.” Darius rode the elevator up to the third floor, let himself into the room, and dropped his duffel on the bed.
He’d stopped at his condo before leaving Denver to check his mail and change his suit for a turtleneck and jeans. He’d decided to ditch his work suits for warmer, more casual clothes—jeans, Henleys, flannel, boots. He told himself he wasn’t lowering his standards. He was adapting to his environment.
When in Rome…
He’d just gotten his laptop set up when his phone buzzed.
Austin Taylor.
“Silva here.”
“Hey, it’s Taylor. I got the footage back from my dashcam. I’m sorry to say there’s nothing. The stolen SUV must have been far enough ahead of me that the cam missed it.”
Damn.
Darius had hoped the footage would give them a clear view of the assailants. “How much of the footage did they review?”
“They scanned it starting with my check-in call when I drove up the canyon.”
