"Detective Harris, on behalf of the mayor, I'd like to recognise the work you did last week locating Ivy Cartwright in the woods north of Miller's Creek. The family got in touch with the department and has made a substantial donation to our localsearch and rescue service to express their gratitude. So here we are."
He opens the box and inside is a small commendation pin which he attaches to my lapel himself, looking about as pleased to be doing this as I am to be standing here, which is not at all.
The Cartwrights gave a statement to the local paper stating they were told the official search was being called off for the night, but that their daughter was found because one officer and a local PI ignored the order to stand down. The department took a beating on social media for two days, so my medal isn't a thank-you, it's public relations. And everyone in this room knows it.
There are a couple of polite murmured congratulations before Holt, in the third row with his arms folded, gives me a slow clap while leaning back with a twisted smirk on his face.
"Thank you, Chief," I say, and step back to my place along the wall.
The chief moves into the shift handover without hesitation, asking Morrison to take over with the call list from the overnight shift. Domestic on Birch. Drunk driver on the highway. Vandalism at the high school. Reported home invasion.
"We got a request to attend a residential property on Pike. Female occupant, twenty-eight. Climbed out the bedroom window and went down the fire escape barefoot. Officers responded when the complainant arrived at Rosie's Diner in an agitated state looking for assistance."
That's two blocks from Zara's building. "Who?"
Morrison doesn't look up from his sheet, not remotely surprised by my interest. "Zara Reeves. Says someone broke into her apartment while she was sleeping."
Every conversation I've had with Zara over the past few weeks plays through my mind at once. The notes, the jewellery moved, the tentative questions over tea about whether it wasnormal to feel watched after something like this. The drive-bys I requested but was told to stop wasting resources on.
She was right.
"When? Is she injured?" My tone is sharp, and my colleagues notice the difference in my demeanour. Holt has the absolute fucking gall to roll his eyes.
I've been pushing for more drive-bys, to have a car watch her apartment in case there's somebody lurking around, but everyone here has given me shit for wasting their time.
And now look what's happened.
"Last night. Around three in the morning." Morrison finally looks at me. "She got a few bangs and scrapes getting out the window, but nothing serious."
"And nobody called me." I stare around the room in disbelief.
Everyone knows I’ve been working closely with her, and that Zara trusts me. If nothing else, it might have been nice for her to have a friendly face around.
"Didn’t have time. She was only there fifteen minutes before she was gone."
Phone in my hand, ready to call her the second this meeting is over, I frown and stare back at Morrison, confused.
Holt leans across the back of his chair, voice dropped low enough that only I can hear. "Oh, your boyfriend didn't tell you?"
I don’t allow any reaction to show on my face even though I want to throttle him. Holt has some tidbit of informational gold that he’s dangling, wanting to see me squirm or beg. Well, it’s not happening.
Morrison clears his throat, picking up the thread to fill in the rest of the room. "Someone showed up after we did a quick sweep of the location to make sure nobody was there. And took her."
I blink.Took her?
“Took her where?"
Morrison shrugs. "Beau didn't say."
Around the room, eyebrows go up. The Lennox name is already not a popular one around here. Apparently, saving a child can’t undo decades of mistrust.
"Where would she have gotten his name, I wonder?" Holt asks, twisting in his chair, arms folded across his broad chest as he eyes me with suspicion.
Nobody answers, but several other pairs of eyes drift toward me as well. Their looks aren't exactly accusatory, yet, but if they find out it was me who gave Zara his number, undermining my colleagues yet again, I could easily find myself in trouble.
Although even if they do, I'd still stand by the reason I did it. Connecting a frightened woman to a capable bodyguard when her sister has been kidnapped and she’s struggling with her mental health is entirely acceptable to me.
But I doubt this room, or my sergeant, would see it that way.