Page 34 of Swerve
“I have no idea. But there’s something I know about you, Helmer. I just don’t know the why.”
“What’s that?”
“When you start getting a little too good at something, you hijack it with self-sabotage.”
He tries not to roll his eyes. “Was a psych degree a prerequisite for your job, Chief?”
“No,” she says evenly. “But I know what it takes to make it to the level you reached as a SEAL. Creative thinking and teamwork under ridiculously high-stress and high-risk situations. Most of the missions you were a part of probably made what you do here look like child’s play. Are you bored, Helmer?”
“No, ma’am,” he says quietly.
“You’re up for a promotion.”
“It wasn’t my intention to mess that up.”
“You sure about that?”
He starts to nod, then stops himself because, all of a sudden, he isn’t sure at all. Does he really want this job? Is this where he’d imagined himself ending up?
He’s been with the department for four years, seen most every twisted crime the city’s been able to throw out and, until now, hasn’t questioned whether this is where he belongs or not.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly.
“Well, maybe this is your chance to figure it out. Higher-ups have agreed to six weeks suspension without pay. That’s the best I could do. Why don’t you take the time to figure out whether or not you want to come back?”
“Guess there’s no changing your mind,” he says.
“It’s not up to me,” she answers.
He stands, pushing aside his own self-flagellation long enough to show appreciation. “Thanks, Chief. I don’t deserve your loyalty.”
“You could change that if you wanted to.”
He doesn’t share her optimism.
“Give John your notes on the Benson-Marshall case. I’ll see you in six weeks.”
At his desk, he opens drawers, pulling out anything that seems necessary to his surviving his time away. There isn’t much, but he throws what there is into a leather backpack and heads for the elevator without letting himself meet eyes with anyone he’ll have to offer an explanation to.
It’s only after the doors slide closed that he slams a palm against the side wall.
The Senator
“Power does not corrupt. Fear corrupts. Perhaps the fear of a loss of power.”
—John Steinbeck
IT PAID TO have friends in law enforcement. Or at least people there who were a little afraid to cross him.
He could have gotten Helmer fired. But that was the kind of thing that created permanent enemies. He made a policy of avoiding that when possible. The suspension was good enough. He’d been right about the military background. Navy SEAL, in fact. The detective probably thought he deserved the suspension. Man of honor and all that.
At least he’s not likely to have a second go-round with Savannah. And if he does, well, he can come up with something worse than getting fired. Anyway, he has bigger things on his plate to deal with right now.
A knock sounds at the office door. He closes the file he’d made on Helmer and slides it inside his desk drawer. “Come in.”
The door opens, and Will Arrington steps into the room. He’s dressed in a crisp Armani suit, his style as effortless as it is enviable. “You wanted to see me, Senator?”
“I did. Thanks for giving me a few minutes. Come in. Sit down.”
