The Cold Room. J.T. Ellison

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СКАЧАТЬ was the new head of the Office of Professional Accountability, and hated Taylor with a passion. They’d gone head-to-head, and for now, Taylor had lost, and big. Her team had been split apart, reassigned to other sectors and her boss, Mitchell Price, fired. Price was fighting tooth and nail to get his job back, and the Fraternal Order of Police was backing him to the hilt. They just needed time to make the case and take Metro to court.

      By breaking her away from Lincoln Ross and Marcus Wade, trying to force her sergeant, Pete Fitzgerald, into early retirement, Delores Norris guaranteed herself a spot on Taylor’s shit list. But getting Taylor demoted two spots, back to detective … Well, Taylor was fighting that with her union rep strong at her side. Totalitarianism had no place in this police force, and it would, eventually, be eradicated. All it would take would be a massive mistake on the chief’s part, or a mayor with the balls and foresight to concede his city was being torn apart.

      But for the meantime, if Taylor wanted to keep her job, she had to show up in her old office and play nice. And that’s exactly what she planned to do.

      She was about to swipe her pass card when the door swung open. A group of young Academy cadets clattered out and down the stairs, happy and joking. One solemnly stopped and held the door for her. Once the path was cleared, she smiled at the young man and entered the CJC.

      She followed the blue arrows embedded in the linoleum floor to the Homicide offices. The halls were relatively quiet and she was inside the small room within moments.

      Lieutenant Elm stood in the door to her—no, his—office. His arms were crossed, his bushy brown hair smoothed into place. He greeted her with a smile, which completely caught her off guard. She almost saw his third molars as the smile widened, a pink tongue nestled deep inside.

      “Good morning, Detective,” he said. Pleasant, non-threatening, disarming. Taylor wasn’t falling for it. Her senses went on immediate alert.

      “Good morning,” she said, stopping in front of him, arms behind her back, spine straight. She waited for the dressing-down, but it didn’t come.

      “Come into my office, if you will. I’d like to cover some ground with you.” He pivoted, and entered the tiny little space that used to be her office. She followed him, sat in the chair next to the door. There was just enough room for her to stretch her legs out; the tip of her right boot touched the corner of the door. Elm sat behind the desk. The scarred wood was free of paper, the normal detritus that built up—pens, pencils, Post-it notes, referral sheets, call sheets—was all neatly stowed away.

      Something drew her eyes to the ceiling. For as long as she could remember, by the window, there had been a ceiling panel with a large brown water stain on the corner. She’d asked the facilities manager to have it replaced countless times, and the requests had fallen on deaf ears. But this morning, the stain was gone, the panel replaced. She didn’t know if that was a coincidence or whether Elm had actually managed in one brief morning to do what she’d struggled to accomplish for years. Coincidence, she decided. No other decent explanation.

      “So, Detective. We didn’t get off on the right foot yesterday. And that’s a shame, because I see that you have an exemplary record and certainly are capable of taking orders from a superior.” He paused, looked around the room like he was speaking to an audience. His gaze finally settled back on her. “Such a shame that you’ve had so much trouble lately. I assume there aren’t any more, ahem, surprises, in your closet?”

      Taylor stared at him. “Excuse me?”

      Elm waved her umbrage away. “You might have mentioned that the FBI agent who crashed my crime scene last night was your fiancé.”

      “That has no bearing on my job. Dr. Baldwin is the leading expert in the field of criminal profiling, and has worked cases with Metro in the past. With great success, I might add.”

      “Yes, I heard that. Don’t get so defensive with me. I’m willing to let him help with this one, so long as he doesn’t get in my way. So let’s just put last night behind us and start fresh, shall we?”

      He stuck a hand out across the desk.

      “Morty Elm. I’m from New Orleans, I worked with the chief down there and was very happy to come onboard when this unfortunate situation warranted your, well, let’s just call it disciplining, shall we?”

      Before she had a chance to speak, he continued.

      “I’d like to establish a few ground rules. I like to be kept informed of everything my detectives are doing, so you’ll report in regularly. I prefer to read your updates, so if you’d be kind enough to turn in a detailed sheet every evening of your day’s accomplishments, that will make my life grand. I’d also like a full rundown of where you stand with each of your cases, and your plans for solving them.

      “I run a tight ship, so I expect you to be at your desk by eight, and to adhere to the dress code. Jeans are not suitable for my detectives. You will sign in and sign out every time you leave the office. In addition, you will find a listing of what is appropriate and what is not on your desk. I spoke with Detective McKenzie this morning, he seems like a fine young man. You have considerably more experience than he, so I trust you’ll be comfortable mentoring the detective, teaching him the ropes.”

      “Of course.”

      “Then we understand each other. No more surprises at crime scenes, Detective. That’s all I have for you right now. I’ll expect that status report by five. You may go.”

      She struggled to reconcile the man with his words. Smiling and friendly this morning, making reasonable statements, yet still lobbing comments full of allusion. The shot across the bow regarding the videotapes was uncalled for. She could just imagine Elm and Delores Norris in the Oompa’s office, lights off, watching Taylor in all her glory with her dead ex-lover. She didn’t know who to be more furious at—Norris, Elm, or David Martin, for putting her in the situation in the first place. If he weren’t already dead, she’d like to strangle him.

      Last month, after videotapes of Martin and Taylor having sex surfaced on a pay-as-you-go Web site that featured amateur, unwillingly taped pornography, she’d broken a few rules to solve the case. She was being summarily disciplined for her actions defending herself.

      Elm’s dictates were ridiculous. Written plans for solving her cases? It would take two weeks to write out her assumptions and thoughts on the forty or so open cases she’d caught over the past few weeks. And establishing the ground rules was one thing, but dismissing her without an update on the most current case? Sloppy. Just like she suspected, Elm wasn’t there to be a cop. He was going to be an administrator. At least he wasn’t fighting her about Baldwin.

      She gathered herself. “You don’t want—”

      Elm shook his head vehemently.

      “I said you may go. I have other duties to accomplish this morning.” He gave her a brief, feral smile and nodded at the door.

      She stood, biting her lip, holding back the invectives she’d prefer to spew.

      “Close the door on your way out, please,” he said.

      She pulled the door shut a little harder than necessary and walked to her desk. There was a sheet on it, color coded, with starred items. The appropriateness list, she assumed. She balled it into a wad and tossed it into the trash unread.

      She sat down hard, yanked her ponytail holder out, ran her hands through her hair, СКАЧАТЬ