I pulled into the lot of the Alhambra County Sheriff’s Office District 6 office. I parked in the front but walked around the rear entrance. That avoided the front desk, where the public would be as well as the Patrol Supervisor’s Office. The more brass I could avoid, the better, but there was one boss I wasn’t going to be able to duck—my own. I walked into the Property Detective bullpen. Each district of the Sheriff’s Office was responsible for its own Property Crimes units. Homicide, Major Crimes, and Special Violent Crimes; They all had squads at the county level. They worked out of the main office and would respond out to the districts as needed.

Three detectives were standing in a semi-circle around a television showing Sportscenter. Hard at work. Yanny Hernandez noticed me come in and turned with a smile.

“Yo, Cici! On that last pawn case, you worked. Value Pawn? Did the owner give you the video surveillance on a flash drive or a CD? The LT wanted to know.”

I was about to answer when I realized the minefield I was about to step in.

“I can’t remember off hand Yanni, but you can C-Deez nuts.” I gestured toward the ol’ wedding tackle.

Yanni’s grin split his face and the bay erupted in laughter.

“Renshaw! My office! Now!” The Sergeant’s voice boomed from the doorway. The laughter died away, and everyone scurried to find something better to do. John Reynolds, my partner in crime on the squad, gave me a worried look before he went back to sit at his desk.

I stowed my gear at my desk and ran a hand through my hair. I gazed at the cup of delicious, nutritious coffee that I had picked up on the way back to the station. It would still be there; after this ass-chewing, I was about to get. Cold, most likely. I took a sip, burned my tongue and put the lid back on. Perfect.

“Now Renshaw!”

I walked across the hall into the Investigations Supervisor’s Office. The Sergeant and Lieutenant were both already waiting for me with grim faces. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet, and I’d already had a hell of a day.

“Close the door and take a seat.” Sergeant Caroline Saunders sat at her desk. She looked pissed. Lieutenant Smith leaned up against the edge of his desk with his arms crossed.

“Would you care to explain why you aren’t booking Billy Williams in the county jail right now?” Her face was already pink. She was getting herself worked up for a big one.

“Yes, Ma’am. I made contact with him near his baby momma’s house. He fled as soon as he saw me. I chased him down. It appeared that he was going to be compliant. Right before I could secure the subject in handcuffs, he darted away and jumped another fence. I started after him again, but I slipped and tweaked my ankle. Not bad, but I wasn’t able to run on it. I know where Billy lays his head down at night; I’ll nab him.”

“BULLSHIT!” She thundered. “That little shit will go to ground. He’ll couch surf until he runs out of friends or dope. Last time it took you three weeks to track him down. We need closed cases, Renshaw. I’m not running a daycare for shitty Detectives.”

Lt. Smith seemed a bit more sympathetic, “How's the ankle, Cash. Do we need to do a first notice of injury?"

His concern made me feel guilty for the lie. "It’ll be okay, LT. I was able to walk it off.” Losing Williams was not a huge deal. This pow-wow was a disproportionate response. Something else was going on. My stomach gurgled.

The LT seemed satisfied with my answer. The Sergeant glowered. “Sgt. Saunders and I have been reviewing your file.” The LT frowned. “Your productivity is down. Way down. Especially from where you were.”

Before the fire, he left it unsaid.

LT went on, “We’re concerned. You were on the fast track and now you’re barely treading water. We use the District Investigations positions to groom young deputies for greater things. Property Crimes Detective isn’t where you end your career. It’s a launchpad to Homicide. A task force. Homeland security.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“The bottom line is that you are not performing. You rank last in the squad for the past six months in both total cases closed and cases assigned closed. Your numbers are going the wrong way.”

You ain’t cutting it, Renshaw,” Sgt. Saunders growled.

“I don’t know what to say, Sir. I am doing the best I can. It’s been hard since.” I took a breath. “Since I lost them.”

“It’s been three years.” Sgt. Saunders grunted out. Like it was hurting her to say it.

“Carol!” Lt. Smith reprimanded her. He looked back at me. “We understand that it’s been traumatic. A lesser man might have packed it in and sold insurance. But you stuck with it, and we are both proud of you.” He gave the Sergeant a stern look. She rolled her eyes.

He went on, “But we have to think of the health of the organization. We have several sharp Deputies that are chomping at the bit. We need your spot, Cash.”

I swallowed. “What do you mean, LT?” It hurt. Everything he was saying was one hundred percent accurate. I had charted for a stellar career. I heard that the feds were even interested early on, before the fire. Since then, I had been punching the clock. At first, I blamed the grief. More recently, I was afraid I had lost the drive.

“We’re putting you in for a transfer,” Sgt. Saunders concluded brusquely.

We have decided,” Lt. Smith gave Saunders another look, “that it might be in everyone's best interests if we made a change. We can offer you a choice of assignments. You have a lot to offer the Training Division. Or perhaps Community Services.”

“And of course, you could always go back to Patrol,” Sgt. Saunders sneered.

Lt. Smith looked annoyed. “Yes, you could always go back to patrol. You were one hell of a deputy and a great Field Training Officer. The pace of Training or Community Services might be a better fit for you.” He paused. “Now.” The LT looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

Training is where you went to show rookies which end of the gun the bullets came out of. It was a non-stop grind of range days, PT tests, and in-service training. It sounded like hell. Community Service wasn’t much better. It was hardly even police work. It was going to trailer parks and apartment complexes to answer questions from concerned citizens. It was distributing food at Thanksgiving and Toys at Christmas. It was an excellent job for some people, some other people.

Then there was patrol, back to humping a zone. Going back to patrol would be the end of my career. I would work a day shift zone for my remaining years. My left arm would become tan and my ass would spread in my seat. Some guys loved it—low stress. I would become a master of ducking real work and never missing a meal break. I would stretch one shoplifting arrest into a twelve-hour shift.

All three choices meant a demotion. Lt. Smith saw the look in my eye. “We got permission from the Chief Deputy to move you to the rank of Master Deputy. Given your circumstances, we all felt that fair.”

That was something. You usually had to have ten years before they would consider you for Master Deputy, and it wasn’t always an immediate get. It kept you from hitting the pay cap because it was a separate bracket and came with some extra vacation time.

“Those are your choices, Detective. We’ll need an answer in writing by the end of your shift.” The Sergeant’s tone told me the meeting was over.

Lt. Smith stood. “Think about it, Cash. And let us know. No one is angry with you. It’s all very understandable. But, we need to look out for the office, that's all.” He gave a half-hearted smile. He looked tired.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Ma’am”. I stood and left the office. Sgt. Saunders followed me out and pinned something to the bulletin board outside. It was my job posting. She didn’t meet my eyes as she walked by back into her office, closing the door behind her. I could hear the two of them arguing inside as I walked back to the bullpen.

The conversation stopped as I entered the room. John approached me with my cup of coffee in his hand.

“Well, that didn’t seem so bad. Sarge hardly yelled at all.” He smiled hopefully.

“Yeah, the LT did most of the talking. I’m out, John. Demoted.”

“What! That’s crazy! What did he say?”

“He said they need to make room for some new blood. They offered me Training, Community Service, or…” I took a sip of coffee, “Patrol.” I put my coffee down. Ice cold. God damn it.

John looked at me. “Training could be pretty cool. Or Community Service. Lots of free time. It won't be so stressful for you.” He didn’t even argue the demotion. I looked around the bullpen. Most of the detectives wouldn’t meet my gaze. Yanni looked at me with his shit-eating grin. They knew. They all knew. They knew this was going to happen. And they all agreed with the decision.

“Come on, Rennie, let’s go out to lunch and do the pros and cons. I’m buying. You'll feel better after a gutbuster burrito from Los Rancheros.”

I had been friends with John Reynolds since we sat next to each other on the first day of the police academy. He was the best man at my wedding and the godfather to my daughter. I slugged him. Not hard, just enough for him to know that I meant business. There was an intake of breath around the room. Then, I grabbed John in a hug and held on. Not hard, just enough for him to know that I meant business.