Swimsuit by James Patterson

someone called my name and that when I looked back again, he
     was closing the trunk of our car.
    “I didn’t ask Dennis what he was doing, because I was already thinking ahead. We had reports to write up, work to do. We had
     to start with identifying the deceased.
    “I was doing all the right stuff, Barbara,” I told her now. “I think it’s pretty common to block out things we don’t want
     to see. I should have confronted my partner right then and right there. But I didn’t do it. Turns out that that sneaky, half-seen
     moment changed my life.”

Chapter 23
    A WAITRESS CAME OVER and asked if we wanted to refresh our drinks, and I was glad to see her. My throat was closing up and
     I needed to take a break. I’d told this story before, but it’s never easy to get past disgrace.
    Especially when you didn’t earn it.
    Levon said, “I know this is hard, Ben. But we appreciate your telling us about yourself. It’s important to hear.”
    “This is where it gets
hard,
” I told Levon.
    He nodded, and even though Levon probably had only ten years on me, I felt his fatherly concern.
    My second club soda arrived and I stirred at it with a straw. Then I went on.
    “A few days passed. The accident victim turned out to be a small-time drug dealer, Robby Snow, and his blood came back positive
     for heroin. And now his girlfriend called on us. Carrie Willis was her name. Carrie was crushed by Robby’s death, but something
     else was bothering her. She asked me, ‘What happened to Robby’s backpack? It was red with silver reflecting tape on the back.
     There was a lot of money in there.’
    “Well, we hadn’t found any red backpack, and there were a lot of jokes about Carrie Willis having the nerve to report stolen
     drug money to the police.
    “But Robby’s girlfriend was convincing. Carrie didn’t know that Robby was a dealer. She just knew that he was buying a piece
     of acreage by a creek and he was going to build a house there for the two of them. The bank papers and the full payment for
     the property—a hundred thousand dollars—were in that backpack because he was on his way to the closing. She put all that
     money in the backpack herself. Her story checked out.”
    “So you asked your partner about the backpack?” Barbara prompted.
    “Sure. I asked him. And he said, ‘Well, I sure as hell didn’t see a backpack, red or green or sky blue pink.’
    “So, at my insistence, we went to the impound, took the car apart, found nothing. Then we drove in broad daylight out to the
     woods where the accident happened and we searched the area. At least I did. I thought Denny was just rustling branches and
     kicking piles of leaves. That’s when I remembered his face getting foxy the night of the accident.
    “I had a long, hard talk with myself that night. The next day I went to my lieutenant for an off-the-record chat. I told him
     what I suspected, that a hundred thousand dollars in cash might have left the scene and was never reported.”
    Levon said, “Well, you had no choice.”
    “Denny Carbone was an old pit bull of a cop, and I knew if he learned about my conversation with the lieutenant he’d come
     at me. So I took a chance with my boss, and the next day Internal Affairs was in the locker room. Guess what they found in
     my locker?”
    “A red backpack,” said Levon.
    I gave him a thumbs-up. “Red backpack, silver reflecting tape, bank papers, heroin, and ten thousand dollars in cash.”
    “Oh, my God,” said Barbara.
    “I was given a choice. Resign. Or there would be a trial.
My
trial. I knew that I wasn’t going to win in court. It would be ‘he said/he said,’ and the evidence, some of it, anyway, had
     been found in my locker. Worse, I suspected that I was getting hung with this because my lieutenant was in on it with Denny
     Carbone.
    “A very bad day, blew up a lot of illusions for me. I turned in my badge, my gun, and some of my self-respect. I could’ve
     fought, but I