Julie whimpered. I shot a look in the direction of her room as I said to Brady, “I take back what I said before.”
“Which is what?”
“We need the FBI. We need their resources.”
Brady said, “See you in the morning.”
We hung up, and the full weight of what I had done crashed in on me. I had withheld important, possibly critical information from Brady, and in doing so, I’d involved my partner.
I had to tell Brady about Joe.
He could fire me. And he’d be right to do it.
I hoped that by morning, I would have a theory that explained how Joe innocently fit into this case—a theory that didn’t sound like total bullshit.
Maybe he’d come home so that I could ask him tonight.
I dared to hope.
CHAPTER 20
I HATED THIS.
It made me sick to have to show anyone that questionable footage of Joe in places where logic said he didn’t belong. I wanted to ask him about it. He was my husband. And I trusted him. Right? But whatever he’d done, he’d covered it up. He’d lied. He’d put me in a jam.
I had to do the right thing. So I put on my game face and sailed through the entrance to our squad room.
The man known as Lieutenant Badass was in his glass-walled cube. Brady is brave. He’s fair. And he doesn’t play patty-cake.
When I had his job, I didn’t like being restricted to a desk and all that that entails. Now I report to him. Once in a while, I’ve taken liberties with police procedures and Brady has given me hell—with a warning.
I didn’t think I would get a warning today.
I cleared the obstacle course of gray metal desks and hardened homicide cops and knocked on Brady’s door, and he waved me in. He was working at his laptop and didn’t look at me.
“I’m busy, Boxer. Can this wait?”
When I didn’t speak, Brady jerked his head up and nailed me with his double-barreled, blue-eyed stare.
“I have a meeting with Jacobi in five, so make it quick.”
“Brady. Something I have to tell you. I haven’t heard from Joe in thirty-six hours. Then, yesterday, while Conklin and I were in Palo Alto notifying Chan’s widow, our surveillance team recorded Joe driving by the Chan house.”
“I don’t get you,” he said tersely. “What are you saying?”
Brenda, the department assistant, came through the doorway, dropped some papers on Brady’s desk, and said, “Sergeant Chi needs to speak to you, Lieu, and your ex-wife called.”
Brady said to her, “Hold everything until after my meeting.”
“We can talk about this later,” I said to Brady, getting half out of my chair.
“Sit,” he said.
I did it.
“Make me understand,” he said. “Use short, clear sentences.”
I swallowed hard and pushed through my own wall of resistance. I gave Brady the short sentences he’d asked for, covering the Palo Alto footage, Joe’s drive-by at 5:24, and the hotel security video from the day of the shootings.