Louis was quiet.
“She’s got a lot to lose,” Mel said.
Louis rose suddenly. “Why the hell would she risk it all by screwing around?”
Mel started to say something but stopped, his eyes going to the sliding glass door.
Swann was standing there. His khakis were wrinkled, his pink polo shirt stained, his jaw stubbled with whiskers. But it was his expression that worried Louis.
“You sick, Andrew?”
Swann shook his head slowly. “No. I just called my answering machine. My chief is looking for me. He wants to see me this afternoon.”
“Did he say why?” Louis asked.
Swann shook his head again. “I guess I better go home and get cleaned up.”
His eyes, red-rimmed and empty, drifted toward the ocean. Louis knew he was thinking that when he came back, he might not have a badge.
He watched Swann walk away.
And what did a cop do when he couldn’t make it even in a place like this?
Chapter Thirty
Swann waited in the hall outside Chief Hewitt’s office. He wore clean khakis, a white dress shirt, and blue blazer. But this afternoon, for the first time since his job interview six years ago, he had a bright pink visitor’s badge clipped to his lapel.
The chief’s door opened, and Hewitt poked his head out. He was a small man, with trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and a narrow mustache so perfect in its shape and color that some of the officers joked that it was fake.
“Andrew, good of you to be on time,” Hewitt said. “Come on in.”
It was the largest office in the building, designed to make a tasteful but unquestioned statement about the importance of the man who occupied it. On one side of the room was a long glass conference table set with twelve high-back chairs of blue leather. The right side belonged to Chief Hewitt. The glass and chrome was standard in this place, but Hewitt had things that were uniquely his and, Swann realized, unique to this place, such as a framed photo of Hewitt and Prince Charles and a coat-rack with an array of “emergency” clothing: fresh shirt and jacket, a ceremonial dress uniform, and a tuxedo.
The walls held an arrangement of awards and certificates and the chief’s cherished display of celebrity letters from Douglas Fairbanks Jr., astronaut Edgar Mitchell, and Jimmy Buffett, plus one of his most prized pieces, a note from Donald Trump, thanking the chief for providing security during the renovation of Mar-a-Lago.
“This situation saddens me greatly, Andrew,” Hewitt said.
Swann looked back at Hewitt. His chief was standing near his desk, his hand resting on a green personnel file. The lettering on the tab was easy to read: SWANN, ANDREW T.
“It’s unpleasant for me, too, sir,” Swann said.
Hewitt pursed his lips, nodding as if he was mulling something over, but Swann suspected he was simply stalling. With a sliver of hope that he might remain employed, Swann stayed silent and tried to look relaxed.
“We do things a little differently on this island, Andrew,” Hewitt said. “I thought you knew that.”
“I do.”
“The people here expect a higher standard of service than you might see elsewhere,” Hewitt said.
“Pardon me, sir,” Swann said, “but what could be better service than fighting to save an innocent man?”
Hewitt was quiet, his fingers dancing lightly on the file.
“Determining Mr. Kent’s guilt or innocence isn’t up to you.”
“Making sure all the facts are brought to light is my job, sir,” Swann said.
“The case is not in our jurisdiction.”
“But Mr. Kent is,” Swann said. “I couldn’t stand by and watch that jerk in the Sheriff’s Office railroad him because of what he is.”
Hewitt’s eyes were steady on his. Swann didn’t look away. Somewhere from another part of the station, Swann could hear Muzak playing. Christmas carols.
“Before you came in today, I was having second thoughts about my decision to let you go,” Hewitt said. “But given this new attitude of yours, I think this is for the best.”
“May I ask exactly why I am being fired?” Swann asked.
Hewitt stared at him, as if that had been the last question he expected.
“Did I break a specific rule, sir?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Hewitt said. “You failed to conduct yourself in a way that reflects positively on your department and your community.”
“I was trying to be a police officer,” Swann said. “I was trying to do what was right, not just what looked right.”
Hewitt’s mouth drew into a hard line. “I’m sorry this didn’t work out, Andrew. I am a great admirer of your father. Please give him my best.”
Swann looked at the wall of letters, then at the tuxedo hanging behind Hewitt.
“I need to have your keys, badge, ID, and gun,” Hewitt said. “You know the gun’s city property.”
Swann pulled out his police wallet and keys and laid them on the desk. He unhooked his holster and set it next to his badge. Hewitt gathered them up and put everything in his desk drawer. He picked up a plain white envelope.
“Your final paycheck and two weeks’ severance,” Hewitt said.
Swann accepted it. “I need to get some personal things from my office,” he said. “Do you want to call an officer in to oversee things?”
Hewitt shook his head. “Of course not,” he said. “I trust you completely.”
Swann shook Hewitt’s hand and left. He went to his office. The drapes were still adjusted to where he liked them. No one had packed up his clock, his books, the picture of his dog, or the sweaters and jackets in the closet.
His in-box held a neat stack of yesterday’s paperwork. Apparently, his admin clerk had not yet been advised to send the daily logs and reports on to someone else.
Let it go. Just pack and leave.
Swann found an empty box in the hall and packed up his things. He took his certificates and Officer of the Year plaque down, hesitating only a second before tossing them into the trash. He took a few minutes to go through his Rolodex and pull out a few personal numbers he wanted to keep. As he stuffed the cards into his pocket, he looked again at the daily reports.
Screwed or not by the department, he felt it wasn’t professional to let the reports sit there. The detectives or the city attorney might need them to process a case, and if the reports sat too long, something might get misplaced.
Swann gathered them up and started toward the door, intending to return them to the clerk so she could redirect them to the right supervisor. Habit drew his eye to the activity log as he walked.
Out-of-service traffic light at South County and Royal Way.
Barking dog.
Intruder.
Swann stopped so he could read the details of the intruder call. False alarms and prowler calls were common enough, but few ever resulted in an actual person getting inside one of the businesses or homes.
Time: 1:34 A.M.
Address: 67 South Ocean Boulevard.
Reporting party: Tricia (Tink) Lyons.
Disposition: Intruder located and removed from property.
Tink Lyons?
Swann turned back and dumped the reports on the desk, looking for the separate report that would contain the details of the incident. He found it quickly. Across the top of the page was the officer’s name, Gavin Mead, plus Lyons’s address and the name and address of the intruder, Byrne Kavanagh.
Swann read on.
I, Officer Gavin Mead, responded to a call of an intruder at a residence on South Ocean Boulevard. I encountered Mr. Richard Lyons and unknown subject in the front yard. Subject was unarmed, cooperative and provided ID in the name of Byrne Kavanagh. Mr. Lyons declined to press charges and I removed the subject Kavanagh from the premises and took no further action. End report.
Swann sighed. Patrolman Mead was young and, like all service people here, well trained. One of his skills as a cop was the art of knowing the difference between what he saw and what he was supposed to see.