me a job. Instead, I used what I had to get the interview. Whatever it takes.”
Liz twisted in his arms to face him. “It’s not like you didn’t do whatever you had to do to get into homicide. You still do whatever it takes to solve your cases.”
“I wasn’t judging you,” he said, massaging her shoulders until she relaxed.
She stroked his face and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Sorry I got defensive. I know how hard it must be for you going back to homicide after everything you’ve been through.”
“I guess we’re both a bit defensive.”
“And overly sensitive,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he said, “a sensitive man.”
She laughed.
Liz was right about one thing. He had done whatever it took to get to homicide. The crazy hours. Working the worst parts of the city. Pushing to make the big arrests and taking risks that could have gotten him fired or killed too many times. When the emotional pain got too great, he calmed them with bourbon. When the nightmares kept him awake, he drank them away. He wondered if it was all worth it.
“Do you ever worry about what you might have to do to become the next Amy Robach or Natalie Morales?” he asked.
She shifted her body back into his. “Whatever it takes,” she whispered.
“Good for you.” He kissed the back of her neck, and her breathing slowed as she drifted into sleep.
When he and Liz had started dating, he accepted that he was part of her whatever-it-takes. He knew the inside scoops he fed her helped her get noticed as more than merely a pretty talking head. Although he never compromised a case, he still sold himself. Sure, maybe they used each other, but he rationalized it by acknowledging that nearly every man would do the same.
He knew Liz was initially attracted to him because he was safe. He was recently divorced and his tough-cop, bad-boy persona conveyed he wasn’t looking for a long-term commitment. But Sinclair had come to realize Liz wanted more than just his homicide tips. Deep down, she was insecure and craved love as much as anyone. Sure, she stuck with him after the car crash, but still he knew what they had was temporary. She had mentioned Barbara Walters, who had married three times and had a series of relationships with married senators and other prominent officials, as someone who never allowed love or relationships to interfere with her career.
Liz never considered she could have both; however, Sinclair had. It seemed a lifetime ago when he got married and discussed children and growing old with someone. But he couldn’t put Iraq behind him and instead immersed himself in his work. He assumed his wife would let him deal with the war in his own way and on his own timetable and would stick around until he grew tired of homicide and took a normal assignment. A good marriage required a lot of time and energy. His relationship with Liz required neither.
He wondered now if he had lost his own whatever-it-takes motivation. That drive that took him to the top of thehomicide ranks, that singleness of purpose to go through any barriers, to stop at nothing to take a killer off the street. He used to have it. That was why he hadn’t given up on bringing Alonzo Moore to justice, even after his cases fell apart in court. His drive and tenacity was what had made him a great detective. But it also came with a price, and after he killed Moore, he began to question whether he went too far.
He was drifting off when his cell phone buzzed.
Chapter 11
Sinclair jockeyed his car into a space between two marked units and spotted a broad-shouldered man with a gold badge on his uniform striding toward him. As the midnight-shift watch commander, Lieutenant Beck was responsible for all uniformed police working the city at night. He was in his midforties but sported a buzz haircut like most of the twentysomething officers working under his command.
“You got here quick,” said Beck.
“I was close.”
“You had the one from last
Liz twisted in his arms to face him. “It’s not like you didn’t do whatever you had to do to get into homicide. You still do whatever it takes to solve your cases.”
“I wasn’t judging you,” he said, massaging her shoulders until she relaxed.
She stroked his face and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Sorry I got defensive. I know how hard it must be for you going back to homicide after everything you’ve been through.”
“I guess we’re both a bit defensive.”
“And overly sensitive,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he said, “a sensitive man.”
She laughed.
Liz was right about one thing. He had done whatever it took to get to homicide. The crazy hours. Working the worst parts of the city. Pushing to make the big arrests and taking risks that could have gotten him fired or killed too many times. When the emotional pain got too great, he calmed them with bourbon. When the nightmares kept him awake, he drank them away. He wondered if it was all worth it.
“Do you ever worry about what you might have to do to become the next Amy Robach or Natalie Morales?” he asked.
She shifted her body back into his. “Whatever it takes,” she whispered.
“Good for you.” He kissed the back of her neck, and her breathing slowed as she drifted into sleep.
When he and Liz had started dating, he accepted that he was part of her whatever-it-takes. He knew the inside scoops he fed her helped her get noticed as more than merely a pretty talking head. Although he never compromised a case, he still sold himself. Sure, maybe they used each other, but he rationalized it by acknowledging that nearly every man would do the same.
He knew Liz was initially attracted to him because he was safe. He was recently divorced and his tough-cop, bad-boy persona conveyed he wasn’t looking for a long-term commitment. But Sinclair had come to realize Liz wanted more than just his homicide tips. Deep down, she was insecure and craved love as much as anyone. Sure, she stuck with him after the car crash, but still he knew what they had was temporary. She had mentioned Barbara Walters, who had married three times and had a series of relationships with married senators and other prominent officials, as someone who never allowed love or relationships to interfere with her career.
Liz never considered she could have both; however, Sinclair had. It seemed a lifetime ago when he got married and discussed children and growing old with someone. But he couldn’t put Iraq behind him and instead immersed himself in his work. He assumed his wife would let him deal with the war in his own way and on his own timetable and would stick around until he grew tired of homicide and took a normal assignment. A good marriage required a lot of time and energy. His relationship with Liz required neither.
He wondered now if he had lost his own whatever-it-takes motivation. That drive that took him to the top of thehomicide ranks, that singleness of purpose to go through any barriers, to stop at nothing to take a killer off the street. He used to have it. That was why he hadn’t given up on bringing Alonzo Moore to justice, even after his cases fell apart in court. His drive and tenacity was what had made him a great detective. But it also came with a price, and after he killed Moore, he began to question whether he went too far.
He was drifting off when his cell phone buzzed.
Chapter 11
Sinclair jockeyed his car into a space between two marked units and spotted a broad-shouldered man with a gold badge on his uniform striding toward him. As the midnight-shift watch commander, Lieutenant Beck was responsible for all uniformed police working the city at night. He was in his midforties but sported a buzz haircut like most of the twentysomething officers working under his command.
“You got here quick,” said Beck.
“I was close.”
“You had the one from last
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