“It matters to me,” Kiernan persisted.
Matt ignored him as he found black leather gloves in the pocket and pulled them on.
Finally Sheila leaned toward him. “He’s got issues with how Matt conducts his personal life,” she whispered.
Matt sent her an ominous look, but she wasn’t cowed.
“Ah,” Kiernan said. “He’s a homophobic asshole.”
“Precisely.” Sheila smirked into her cup.
Matt headed toward the door, then hesitated, his eyes on Kiernan. “I…um. I need to go.”
“I figured.” Kiernan replied.
Matt still didn’t leave. “It’s been—interesting.”
Kiernan laughed, straight white teeth shining. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
Matt fidgeted, ignoring Sheila’s amused expression. “If you get tickets out, and I don’t get to see you before…” He stopped. “Well, I…it was nice to meet you.”
Kiernan’s eyes warmed. “You too, Matthew,” he murmured, and the soft intimacy of his voice filled Matt with a surge of longing. “You’ve got my number still. I hope you’ll use it.”
Matt felt his cheeks heat even as he studied the handsome face. After another few moments, he excused himself and went out through the door.
During the extremely slow drive to the station, in spite of his best efforts, Matt’s mind kept going back to tousled black hair and sleepy eyes. He didn’t want Kiernan to leave and fervently hoped the trains wouldn’t be running and the buses would be stranded in the terminal. He and Aidan could stay at the house for a few more days. Maybe that would give him time to figure out what it was he was feeling. As the traffic crawled, Matt constructed a detailed fantasy involving the curling black mass of hair against the white of a cotton pillowcase, blue eyes half-lidded with arousal instead of sleep. He wondered what the compact body might feel like beneath his, a leg riding high on his bare hip, an answering hardness pressed against his own.
From the moment Kiernan had admitted he was attracted to Matt, his own feelings had been impossible to ignore. He felt things in his body, longings he hadn’t had since Brad died, and the voice in his head that had reminded him of his bereavement was strangely silent.
Sheila would be thrilled to know his libido had reappeared. She’d been trying to get him to go out for months.
“You need to meet people,” she’d said one memorable Friday night. “Go to a club, pick someone up. Get laid, for Christ’s sakes. Brad died, Matt. You didn’t.”
At the time, he’d been so angry at her they hadn’t spoken for two weeks, their longest estrangement ever. Now he was no longer angry, but he doubted it would matter. By the time he got done with Branson, Kiernan would probably be on his way out of town.
When he arrived he found the detective’s squad room mostly deserted. Eddie wasn’t at his desk, Matt noted with a twinge of disappointment. The only man in the large room glanced up and looked away pointedly. Dale Conrad had never liked him, so Matt wasn’t surprised. Matt squared his shoulders and straightened before walking resolutely to the back of the room. He was at least five inches taller than Conrad, and he had no problem reminding the self-conscious man of it. He might be queer, but he was a tall queer. He paused before Branson’s office door and glanced through the glass. The room was empty, and he looked at his watch. It was eight-fifty-eight. He hesitated before turning back.
“Any idea where Branson is?” Matt asked the top of Conrad’s head. “I’m supposed to meet him here at nine…”
Conrad shoved back from his desk, his chair legs dragging loudly on the floor. “It’s not my day to watch him,” he snarled without looking up. He scooped up the file he’d been working on and stalked out of the room.
“You’re a prick, Conrad,” Matt said, loudly enough that his voice carried through the door after him. Left alone, he scowled and settled into one of the chairs outside Branson’s office.
He crossed his ankle over his knee, bouncing his foot in irritation. Branson had ordered him to present himself at nine, but apparently felt no need to adhere to the schedule himself. Matt checked his watch every few minutes, growing more irritated as time passed. Nine-fifteen came and went, and nine-thirty. By quarter to ten he was actively considering walking out the door when he heard the elevator slide open out in the hall. Male voices drifted to him through the quiet building and he straightened in the chair. His heart sank when Branson strode purposefully around the corner. He wasn’t alone.
Matt recognized Rawlins from Internal Affairs and his mouth went dry.
Branson had been looking for a reason to fire him for months, but Matt hadn’t thought he’d find one. His superior had issues with his orientation, but Matt was a good cop. His rate of solved cases and convictions was one of the highest in the squad. Branson would have to have cause in order to fire him. The presence of the I.A. officer indicated he thought he’d finally found it.
Rawlins strolled with his hands in his pockets, studying Matt with mild interest. Branson’s movements were brisk and jerky, and he ignored him completely. He reached the office door and unlocked it, allowing Rawlins to precede him inside, before he finally turned and addressed Matt.
“Bennett, inside.”
Matt bristled at his tone, but stood and strode into the office behind his captain.
“Close the door,” Branson barked at him, walking around his desk to drop into his chair.
Matt had to bite his lip to prevent himself from saying something he would regret, and managed not to slam the door. He shut it softly, carefully controlling his growing anger, before he turned and lifted his chin, waiting. Rawlins was standing in a corner, and Matt could feel his eyes. He kept his own focused on Branson, who still refused to look at him.
“I’ve asked Officer Rawlins from Internal Affairs to be present so that there can be no allegations made about the way this was handled.” Branson opened the file already in place on his blotter. He clasped his hands together on top of what Matt could see was his own employment record and finally looked up. His gray eyes were hard. “You have exactly one minute to explain to me what you were doing at the Reynolds residence yesterday, when you had been placed on administrative leave and removed from the investigation.” He arched his brows, waiting.
Matt met the steady gaze unflinchingly, fury beginning to vibrate through him. “I don’t believe there is any point, sir.”
“I beg your pardon?” Branson’s eyes were glacial.
“I don’t believe there is any point in my explaining, when you so clearly have already decided on a course of action.”
“You don’t believe there is anything you can say to salvage your career, Detective?” Branson’s voice lowered dangerously.
“No,” Matt answered, his jaw tight. “It appears to me that by having Officer Rawlins present, you’ve already reached a decision about my career.”
“It’s just procedure, Bennett,” Rawlins said mildly.
“For termination,” Matt retorted, shooting him a dark look. “I’ve been on the job for almost ten years. I’m not a rookie. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“Bennett,” Branson growled. “You went to the home of a murder victim while on forced leave, in the company of some ghost chaser. For Christ’s sakes.”
There was no chance for Matt to reply.
Rawlins straightened abruptly, his eyes going past Matt’s shoulder to the door behind him. “You’re about to have company, Captain,” he said sharply.
Branson’s eyes widened as he looked toward the bank of windows at Matt’s back. He pushed back his chair and was rising when Matt turned.
He didn’t immediately recognize the tall, distinguished older man walking through the squad room, but he recognized the expensive cut of his suit and his undeniable air of authority. He had his graying head angled to one side, listening intently to a fair-hair
ed woman dressed in a stark black suit. Matt wondered what Karen Reynolds was doing in the squad room. Surprise filled him when he spotted the dark-haired man not much taller than she just behind her.
Branson came out from behind the desk, brushing past Matt in his hurry to get to the office door before those approaching from the other side did.
“Commissioner Mitchell,” Branson said, opening the door in unspoken welcome.
Matt blinked. No wonder he looked familiar. Matt had voted for Commissioner Patrick Mitchell during the previous election.
The handsome man looked at Branson, the harsh overhead lighting shining in his silver hair. “Captain Branson,” he said, his expression polite. “Just the man I’d hoped to see. You know Karen Reynolds, I believe?”
A rust-colored stain crept up the back of Branson’s neck above his stiff white collar. Matt noted his discomfort with interest. Branson acknowledged Karen Reynolds, who was eying him coolly, with a quick nod.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” he said carefully.
“I know you haven’t met this rather extraordinary young man,” the commissioner went on. “Captain Branson, allow me to introduce Kiernan Fitzpatrick.”
Kiernan took a step forward, hand extended, eyes bright. He looked eager and rested, square jaw now devoid of stubble. He was wearing fitted jeans and an impeccably cut dark suit jacket. When Kiernan offered Branson his hand, his jacket swung open and Matt could see the front of the T-shirt he was wearing beneath. A simple illustration of a police car appeared above the words The Police Never Think It’s as Funny as You Do.
Matt sputtered and belatedly reached up to cover his mouth with his hand. Kiernan glanced at him as he shook Branson’s hand, and his cheeky wink was unrepentant.
“What can I do for you, Commissioner?” Branson asked. Matt glanced over at Rawlins, who appeared distinctly uncomfortable.
“Well, Captain,” Mitchell said in a friendly voice. “I had a call from Mrs. Reynolds just a bit ago. She seemed very concerned there might be disciplinary action taken against one of your detectives for something that was, in actuality, her doing.” Mitchell looked at Matt and offered his hand. Matt was startled, but returned the handshake. “You would be Detective Bennett?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, young man,” the commissioner said. “Mrs. Reynolds tells me you are the officer who found Abigail.”
Matt glanced at Karen Reynolds, who was watching him stoically. She looked pale but composed. “Yes, sir,” Matt said carefully. “I was.”
“I want you to know how much I appreciate the compassionate and considerate way you dealt with the family during this tragedy,” the man went on, still holding Matt’s hand. “It’s good to know our public servants are so caring in the midst of such an awful situation. I wanted to thank you, personally.”
“I was just doing my job, sir.”
“You’re too modest, Detective.” Mitchell released his hand and patted Matt on the shoulder. “We need more like you.”
Matt thanked him, sparing a glance at Branson. If ever anyone looked as if they’d just been fed ground glass, it was his boss. His face was red and his jaw was tense. When the commissioner turned to him, Matt saw him shift nervously.
“Now, Captain,” Mitchell went on, “is Mrs. Reynolds correct? Were you in the process of taking disciplinary action against this detective?”
Branson cleared his throat nervously. “Commissioner Mitchell, however compassionately Detective Bennett might have behaved in regards to the family, he went to Mrs. Reynolds’ house yesterday afternoon after he had been put on administrative leave.”
“Administrative leave?” Mitchell said, looking thoughtful. “Why is that?”
Branson glanced at Matt, who returned his look impassively. He wasn’t going to help him.
“The detective suffered a personal tragedy last year, and it was the opinion of the department psychologist that he needed some time off.”
Matt felt his face fill with color as the commissioner looked at him again. He didn’t want to discuss Brad, not now. Not with Rawlins standing there watching him.
“Whether he was on administrative leave or not isn’t the point.” Karen Reynolds spoke softly, but with determination. “He was not at my home in his capacity as a police officer, but at my invitation as a family friend.”
Matt looked at her, as startled as Branson was.
“Family friend?” Branson said, disbelief clear on his face.
“Yes, Captain,” she retorted. “Difficult as it may be for you to understand, when someone is as kind to you as Detective Bennett was to my husband and me in the face of our loss, they become your friend. As he is no longer assigned to my daughter’s case, I felt no hesitation in inviting him to my home to thank him properly.”
“Be that as it may, Mrs. Reynolds,” Branson said, clearly trying to remain polite and having difficulty, “he should have declined. And he certainly had no business bringing a…whatever you are—” he glanced at Kiernan, “—no offense, to your home.”
“None taken,” Kiernan said lightly, crossing his arms.
“Even if he did so at my express request?”
Matt licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. That wasn’t strictly true. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about her lying for him.
“You asked him to bring Fitzpatrick to your home?”
“I did. I knew Mr. Fitzpatrick was in town, and I wanted…” She hesitated, her masterful calm beginning to fray around the edges. She took a shuddering breath. “You may not believe in what he’s able to do, Captain. But I do. And I wanted…” Tears filled her eyes and she fumbled with the clasp on her bag. Commissioner Mitchell withdrew a pristine white handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it into her hand.
“Mrs. Reynolds, while I understand how you’re feeling…”
She shot him an outraged look through her tears. “Is that right, Captain Branson? You understand how I feel? Some monster murdered your daughter in your home while you slept through it upstairs? And then, to add insult to injury, the local police department seemed intent on blaming your spouse instead of looking for the person who was actually responsible?” Branson had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Unless those things have happened to you, I’d say you have absolutely no idea how I’m feeling. And the only police officer in my home who did not act as if the one and only suspect is my husband was Detective Bennett, who you’ve conveniently removed from the case. If you would just take five minutes to listen to what Mr. Fitzpatrick has to say…”
Branson’s jaw stiffened. “It is not the policy of this department to use the testimony of a…questionable source in its investigations.”
“Ouch,” Kiernan said mildly. “Okay, now I believe I’ve been insulted.”
Branson’s color went from flushed to deep russet in a heartbeat. Matt watched his discomfort with satisfaction.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Branson said, his voice constricted, “as I’ve already stated, I mean no offense or disrespect for what you do. However, it can hardly be categorized as hard evidence. We prefer to limit ourselves to what can be proved beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“It’s all right, I understand,” Kiernan said, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I was teasing, Captain. You wouldn’t be the first skeptic I’ve encountered, believe me. And my credibility isn’t really the issue, is it? I’m merely here to verify that Detective Bennett invited me into Mrs. Reynolds’ home at her request, which she’s already told you.”
Branson turned and pinned Matt with a hard look. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
Matt looked pointedly at Rawlins before swinging his gaze back to Branson’s rigid face. “Your course of action seemed predetermined.”
The two men stared at one another as the atmosphere in the room chilled.
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br /> “Well, now that you know all of the facts, Captain, I’m quite certain any misunderstandings can be cleared up, can’t they?” Commissioner Mitchell said, his voice persuasive. “Surely this matter can be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Branson’s mouth tightened into a flat line, his expression saying more clearly than any words he wasn’t happy about being overruled. He chewed the inside of his lip and moved to sit heavily behind his desk.
“Given that Bennett was at the Reynolds residence at Mrs. Reynolds’ request, there will not be any disciplinary action taken in regards to his actions. However—” Branson pinned Matt with a narrow-eyed look, “—you should keep your distance from this investigation while you’re on leave, and I expect you to do so from here on out.”
Matt clenched his teeth. He wasn’t ten years old, and he didn’t appreciate being spoken to as though he was. He nodded once, the gesture terse.
“Fine. That will be all then.” Branson flipped the folder on his desk closed with an angry swat. He rose to shake Commissioner Mitchell’s hand, ignoring Matt completely.
Clearly dismissed, Matt turned and strode from the office. He stabbed his index finger at the down button next to the elevator and ran his hand roughly though his hair.
“That went well.” Kiernan came up beside him, his hands in his jeans pockets, his arms holding his jacket back, leaving the front of his shirt clearly on display. He leaned his shoulder into the wall, a smile on his face.
“You think?” Matt asked, his tone dry. “Nice shirt, by the way.”
Kiernan’s dimples appeared. “Like it? I thought it was appropriate.”
Karen Reynolds approached, her expression taut with concern. “I’m afraid I may have made things worse for you rather than better, Detective,” she said, her brow furrowed. “He seems very angry. I am sorry.”
“Mrs. Reynolds, the fact I still have my pension tells you everything you need to know about your contribution.” Matt held out his hand. “He had every intention of firing me. Your argument is the only thing that stopped him. Thank you for coming. I know it can’t have been easy for you.”
A Reason to Believe Page 11
