“Obviously we can’t disclose who made the complaint,” Judge Nate Fernfield said, his tone light and breezy as though his point were uncontestable. “Under the circumstances.”
He glanced at the paperwork in front of him and then ostentatiously showed it to Betty Cutter next to him. The middle-aged woman, all Nevada-leather tan and turquoise bracelets, squinted briefly and nodded her agreement. As a teenager she was briefly married to the last descendant of the town founder, and she hung on to the name and her cut of the money through five subsequent marriages.
Betty Cutter didn’t rock the boat. The boat, and the courts, had been very good to her over the years.
“Nate’s right,” she said primly. “Quite inappropriate a request. I don’t know how they do things where you are from, Mrs. Martinez—”
“Mz.,” Tara corrected through her teeth, the sibilant pointed as a wasp’s drone. “And I’m from West Virginia, ma’am, so I’m aware this isn’t an inappropriate request. How are we supposed to know if this complaint is founded or based on a grudge or homophobia?”
Betty sniffed at her, and Nate leaned forward to reclaim control of the exchange.
“The panel has thoroughly examined the issues raised,” Nate said as he sat back. He laced his fingers together on top of the file. “We’re satisfied that there is sufficient weight to them to justify this conversation.”
Harry cleared his throat. “As Maccabee’s captain, I would like to go on record that I disagree. Maccabee has an exemplary—”
A few of the panel made noises of support as they looked down at their notes and murmured to each other.
Nate held up his hand. “I think we can just assume your support at this point, Captain,” he said with a smile. “It’s admirable but not actionable. Unfortunately. Now like the mayor said, we will need a chance to discuss this hearing.”
“Panel,” Tara corrected him tartly.
He chuckled. “Fair enough. Either way, wait outside. Please.”
It was only the two of them who left. Harry, with a reassuring nod, stayed behind. Outside Tara pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her briefcase and tapped one out into her fingers.
“I see what your friend meant about an agenda,” she said. Habit made her flick the filter of the cigarette with her thumbnail, even though it wasn’t lit. “Look, they’re going to reinstate you when we go back in. The financial malfeasance was just to generate smoke, and your captain shot down the accusation that your ADHD meant you couldn’t do your job. That’s this time. If you aren’t going to let them bury the Calloway case, you need to put in for a transfer now. I hear Charleston’s looking.”
Tara glanced at the door and then down at her hand. “I need five minutes,” she said. “Don’t go back in until I’m back. It’s going to be okay, Boyd.”
She patted his arm and then walked briskly down to the hall toward the back stairs. Boyd laced his hands behind his head, stretched his shoulders back until they clicked, and bounced on the balls of his feet. He still felt his nerves tingle and misfire with the need to move, but at least his muscles didn’t feel as though they were going to burst off his bones anymore. Much.
The door creaked open behind him, and Boyd nearly gave himself whiplash as he spun around. Mac gave him a thin smile and gestured for him to calm down.
“I said my bit,” he said. “They know where I stand, and I need to have a word with you.”
“Not sure I’m supposed to talk to you right now,” Boyd said. His throat felt gluey with resentment and regret. It wasn’t fair to blame Mac for any of this—not the disciplinary, or the fact that Morgan hadn’t called him—but he still sort of did. “Because this is all bullshit.”
Mac winced and closed the door behind him. “I know. You said that already,” he noted. “But it’s not related to this… directly. Have you spoken to Donna since she left the hospital?”
“No,” Boyd said. “I meant to go over yesterday, but I didn’t want it to kick off if Shay was there, and I had this to get ready for. Thought it would be best if I stayed out the way until someone asked me to come in. Why?”
Mac ran his hand over his short-cropped hair and sighed. He tilted his head for Boyd to follow him and headed to one of the window alcoves. Once there he leaned back against the frame and crossed his arms, eyebrows drawn down in a frown.
“Donna won’t give me a DNA sample,” he said.
That wasn’t the roadblock Boyd had expected. “Doesn’t she believe Morgan could be Sammy?”
“The opposite,” Mac said. “She’s convinced that heisSammy, and she doesn’t need a DNA sample to prove it. Apparently a mother just knows.”
“What about Morgan?”
Mac’s face hardened, suddenly unreadable. “That’s not something I can talk about right now,” he said. “Not to you. This is an active investigation now, and you’re not a cop, Boyd. Even if you were, you’re too close to this.”
“Since when?” Boyd protested. “The fact that I was friends with Sammy has never stopped you from asking for my help before.”
Mac pulled the corners of his mouth down in an expressive grimace. “It’s not Sammy I’m worried about,” he said. “I already knew you’d gotten close to Morgan, and the pictures from the other day just confirm it. I don’t want you to get hurt, to get anymorehurt than you’re already going to be when this all shakes out.”
Heat flushed up Boyd’s spine and into his ears. All that energy banked in his muscles needed something to do, and anger seemed as good as anything. He swallowed the first tangle of fractured, angry curses that were sharp and scratchy against the roof of his mouth, and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet again.
