21 Weeks: Week 1

like me to say?” There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t incriminate her. One way, she was in it with the boss, classified as a loose cannon ready to blow at any moment. The other, she was in it with her new colleagues, labeled a snitch who couldn’t be trusted. Fucked every which way but up, she was beginning to think she should have just stayed at Vice North.

  When Lieutenant Martinez chuckled, the sound somewhat unfitted to his face, grizzled by years of some of the finest police work the city of Las Vegas had ever seen, Beck couldn’t tell if he was truly humored or irritated to the point of helpless laughter with her already.

  “Jesus Christ, Nash.” Guess that settled it. “You were asked onto this team because we need someone like you around here. I, for one, don’t give a damn who finds perps, or how they go about finding them.”

  Beck knew that about him. It was one of the reasons he’d been willing to take a chance on her, she suspected, and one of the reasons she had jumped at the chance to work under him. They had that in common, she and Martinez, a penchant for knowing when the rules needed bending.

  “The only thing I care about is that cases get solved, and we get the right answer every time.” Near-black eyes, a close match to his hair, staring across the desk at her, the lines seemed to deepen on Martinez’s face as he rubbed his gray-flecked goatee, the only thing on him that looked his age. “That said…” He sighed deeper into his chair. “I don’t need conflict within this team. We are a tight-knit group. That’s how we get things done. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Not for me.” Beck tried to ignore the bead of sweat that rolled down her spine. She was all for departmental cooperation, but she really didn’t want to end up practicing trust falls and singing Kumbaya.

  “Then, why would you start with Bishop?” Trap carefully laid, Beck realized why Martinez was Lieutenant. “Unless you didn’t start with him. He started, right? Did he say something to you?”

  “I can’t remember,” Beck returned.

  “Well, you’re smart, at least.” Martinez seemed to recognize she was in an unwinnable situation as he pushed up from his chair and motioned Beck out of hers. “Do you want some ice for that?”

  “It’s fine,” Beck lied. Swelling already stiffening her cheek, nose tight and crusted, she knew she couldn’t feel it, show them any sign of weakness they could exploit.

  “Williams,” Martinez called as they stepped into the light and breezy maze of desks and bodies that made up her new work habitat. The difference was stark. At her old precinct, they had computers older than the floors in this place, illuminating the budgetary discrepancies between the North Las Vegas PD that protected almost exclusively residents, and the Metro PD that had to look pretty for the constant influx of tourists.

  “Yes, Sir.” The black guy who’d made an attempt to come to Bishop’s aid earlier smiled and straightened his jacket as he walked up to them. Dimple pushing deep into one cheek, tie perfectly knotted, his vibe was more that of a beloved talk show host than a Homicide detective. Though, Beck had little room to judge. She could only imagine the impression she gave, despite her attempts at adhering to the mold.

  Staring at herself in the mirror that morning, thin gray blazer buttoned over black dress pants and a black top, golden brown hair tucked neatly behind her ear on one side, she looked the consummate professional, and wondered how she was supposed to intimidate anyone like that. Which was the thing, and the difference, and the new reality to which she had to adjust. In her old job, some measure of intimidation was vital. She stood toe to toe with drug dealers, gun runners, and furious pimps on the regular. If it came to it, Beck knew she could put them down, but they had to believe she could put them down. This wasn’t just a new position on the same field. This was a whole new ballgame, and, though she would never admit it to them, she really wasn’t sure how to play.

  “Beck Nash, this is Kevin Williams, your new partner.”

  Of course, the beloved talk show host was.

  “It’s great to finally meet you.” Handshake firm, Williams’ brilliant grin was less of a comfort. Those who’d seen a lot of action on the streets didn’t keep that look long.

  “You too,” Beck said.

  “Give her the tour, will you?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Williams nodded to Martinez, and gestured Beck the right way.

  “Lieutenant,” Beck heard someone say as they wound through the desks. “We’ve got one dead at Wooley’s Grocery.”

  “Williams. Nash,” Martinez called them back. “You take it.”

  “You don’t want me to show her around?” Williams asked.

  “I have faith Nash can find the coffee or toilet when she needs it. I’m one detective down. So, let’s see how you do in the field.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Williams responded, though Beck was pretty sure that last part was directed toward her. And may well determine how long she lasted in Homicide.

  3 - Metro Police Department Parking Garage - Monday, 9:10 a.m.

  “Do you like to drive?” Williams jangled the keys her way.

  “I’m good.” Beck slid into the passenger seat of the new coupe when the door unlocked, tugging her seatbelt across her and trying to draw full breaths in the oppressive heat.

  Engine starting smooth and quiet, it was a welcome change from the exhaust-spewer she and Trevor had driven into the ground for the past two years. Though, she did miss that Camaro’s get-up-and-go as Williams pulled the undoubtedly eco-friendly car from the space and putted toward the exit.

  “So, you worked Vice at North?”

  Air conditioner blowing hot air, it made conditions in the car even more unbearable for the first fifteen seconds, before providing some relief from the 115 degrees that displayed on the digital dash as soon as the car passed into the sun.

  Looking to Williams, he appeared perfectly unflustered, and Beck assumed he was born in a suit and tie.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “What was that like?”

  “Drugs, gambling, prostitutes, what’s not to like?”

  “How many of those major busts were you on up there?”

  “I took part in a few.”

  “Are you being modest?” Williams asked. “I know you took down the Tragafuegos.”

  “Everyone knows that,” Beck uttered. Apparently.

  The Tragafuegos. Formerly the G Street Gang. Mexican street thugs, involved in typical street thug activity. Drugs. Turf wars. Petty theft. Until they turned suddenly clever, changed their name, and started torching buildings around the alphabet streets. Once the building was burning and the people cleared out, the gang would move in, looting the apartments or offices of people who had no insurance and couldn’t afford to be robbed, before the fire spread.

  “Difficult call to make.”

  Arson and theft, it wasn’t her case. It wasn’t even Vice’s case. So many of their most wanted hiding out in that neighborhood, their cases just crossed paths with the arsons on numerous occasions, and Beck got the feeling the detectives assigned to the Tragafuegos were content to let the entire neighborhood burn before they made any real arrests.

  “I did what I had to do,” Beck said. “What about you? How did you get to Homicide?”

  “I started out in Evidence.” Blessedly, the question worked to divert Williams’ attention. “After that, I worked in PSU.”

  “Is that right?” Explained the expensive suit. “And what problem did you work on?”

  “Gang division.”

  “Tough gig.”

  “Not really.” Williams laughed, and it was everything Beck dreaded to hear. The NLVPD Problem Solving Unit was home to some of the biggest brainiacs of any city police force, but only a handful of those brilliant detectives spent their time in the field. Most of their genius took place in cushy cubicles behind guarded doors.

  “How long have you been in Homicide?” Beck asked.

  “About a year.”

  Which meant Williams had ‘about a year’ of solid field work. Eviden
ce. PSU. Beck probably had more scars than he’d had cases.

  “I’m surprised we haven’t met before,” she said. “We served a lot of warrants for you guys up there.”

  “I didn’t get out much,” Williams replied, and, taking a deep breath, Beck glanced to the window. “Did you serve them with SWAT? Lieutenant Martinez told me you used to be on the team.”

  “Some of them.” Beck nodded.

  “You know, I thought about applying for SWAT when I first joined the force. My wife hated the idea.” Beck could certainly understand why. “Then, I got pegged as a details guy, and they wanted me inside. What do you think? Think I could have made it?”

  Earliest impression, Beck thought Williams being on SWAT would be like a Boy Scout facing down a bear. He might have all the skills and fortitude, but he’d probably be too worried about hurting the bear’s feelings not to get mauled to death.

  “Do you speak any other languages?”

  “Arabic,” Williams said. “And a little Spanish.”

  “Spanish is better. I assume you can pass the physical tests.”

  “Pretty sure I can,” he said.

  “Any special skills?”

  “Tae kwon do.”

  “Then, I don’t see why not,” Beck answered. Whether sending him into a life and death situation was a good idea was a whole different matter.

  “Good to know.” Williams nodded. “So, how long have you been with the force?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Really? Me too,” Williams returned. “Did you start when you were sixteen?”

  “I’m thirty-two,” Beck told him.

  “I