Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1) (16 page)

Almost that long since his father had died of a broken heart. "I can't believe my Mick's gone," he'd said, sitting in that sterile room, looking like warm death. The room was pungent with the smells of bleach and urine. Mixed in was the chalky scent of Maalox.

His dad had died a week and a half later, before Tony had made it back to see him again.

He heard the door open and assumed it was another cop with more coffee. It was because of Jamie. If Jamie weren't on her way right now, he'd be behind bars and no one would give a shit that his head was ready to explode. There would be no coffee, no niceties. That's what knowing a local cop did for you.

"You want to tell me what the fuck I'm doing here?"

Tony raised his head and looked at Jamie Vail. He blinked, which felt like hammering his head with his fist. Bluish circles shadowed her eyes. Tired. How long since he'd seen her? They'd been like siblings growing up—Jamie, Tony, his brother, Mick. Now, Jamie was all the family he had left.

"You hear about Mick?"

She nodded.

"And Dad?"

She nodded again. Something in her expression softened, the old Jamie still in there. At least there was that. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Shit happens," he responded.

She frowned. "Is that your excuse for my window?"

Their eyes met and she shook her head. She never could stay angry for long. Her shoulders dropped. "I didn't mean it like that. The window doesn't matter. Shit, none of it matters."

He lifted his head. "I knew what you meant."

She looked around, seemed anxious to be released from the discussion of the dead people in their lives.

"You got your hair cut," he commented. "It was longer before."

She looked back and touched her hair. "I haven't seen you in nearly a decade," she reminded him. "It's about the same. I haven't had it done in forever."

"If it was recent, I was going to suggest you ask for a refund."

"Asshole," she said, a smile tugging at her lips. It looked foreign on her face.

More awkward silence followed.

She glanced around the room, pulled out a chair, and sat. "Why did I come here again?"

"To pick me up?"

She nodded. "You ever think of calling first?"

"Breaking the window was so much easier. Plus, I didn't think you had a phone."

She stood, motioned to him. "Let's go."

He pressed his palms flat into the cool laminate surface of the table and rose. Followed. Without comment, Jamie filled out the paperwork, retrieved what was left of his worldly possessions from the police and handed the manila envelope to him, raising an eyebrow at the scar on his hand. Still, she never asked. That was Jamie. Don't ask, don't tell. It was the way they were raised.

When they got to the car, she unlocked it and they both got in. "Where to?"

He leaned back. "Home?"

"And where is that?"

"I thought you'd know how to get there. The cops drove me here and I was kind of drunk when the cabbie dropped me off."

Jamie pulled a cigarette out and lit it. He took one, too. They smoked in silence, the car unmoving until she finally said, "Can I ask what you're doing here?"

It was the question that burned in his mind, too. Why had he come? Because there was no one else. Because he needed a job, a life, and he could no longer have one in New York.

Just then, her phone rang. "Vail."

On the other end of the phone, he heard a male voice. Gruff, short. Another police officer. Jamie nodded and smoked. She glanced over at him and he knew exactly what was going on—she was checking on him, his past. When she hung up, she turned to him.

"America's KESWICK?" she asked.

He looked out the window, blew smoke and watched it curl up against the glass and roll back at him like a gray wave. Instead of talking, she ran records. How the hell had they gotten so fucked up?

"It's a residential addiction recovery center in Whiting, New Jersey."

She nodded. "Yeah, I got the little commercial on KESWICK. One hundred and twenty days for men eighteen and older. Also a Christian conference and retreat center."

"I didn't find Christ, if that's what you're asking."

"No, Tony. I want to know why you're drinking again."

Shit, he wanted to know why, too. And not just that. He had so many questions he wanted answered. Why was Mick dead? Why was he alive? Why had he come? Why had he lost his job in the first place? Why had he failed to quit the bottle? Why wasn't he the one to take the South Tower? Why, why, why. He blew out his breath. "I don't know."

"So you came here? I'm the backup to KESWICK?" She shook her head. "I don't think that's a good plan."

"I need a place to stay for a while."

She reached over and touched his collar.

He grabbed her hand.

"I want to see," she said without letting go.

He tightened his grip on her hand. "No."

"Let me see."

He finished his cigarette and looked over at her. Their eyes never quite met. There was too much to say if they finally had to confess it all. Tony gave in, unbuttoned his top button. His hands shook. He needed a drink. The spinning and pounding had finally stopped and now he was shaking. Shit, the spinning was so much better.

He pulled the collar open and let her look.

She leaned forward but didn't touch. They never touched, never had, like it might be contagious. And no one needed to catch what he had.

"What happened?" she asked.

He said nothing, feeling the warmth of their bodies and the cigarettes fill the car. He touched the back of his hand to the window, wishing he were out there instead.

"You can't do that in my house," she said. "I'll take you there if you promise."

Promise. How many promises had he made and broken?

He nodded.

"No. Look at me and swear it. Swear on something that matters. Swear on Lana's grave."

Lana. Beautiful Lana. Why did the one person who had mattered most leave first? He'd never even known his mother. Not as a person, not really. What child really paid attention to his mother? She was there. Her smile, the little shake of her head when he and Mick got up to trouble, and then she was gone. She'd been like a beautiful spirit. Only tiny pieces of her were left—her laugh and the smell of her hair. He remembered the Irish prayer she used to say before putting him to bed. He could still hear her whispery voice.

May the raindrops fall lightly on your brow

May the soft winds freshen your spirit

May the sunshine brighten your heart

May the burdens of the day rest lightly upon you

And may God enfold you in the mantle of His love.

Jesus, may the burdens of the day rest lightly. May they rest lightly. They'd stopped resting lightly after Lana. Or maybe they never had. There'd been no mantle of love for Tony. God had taken Lana and forgotten the rest of them.

He told himself that she was watching. All these years, watching. What did she think of him now? She must have been so disappointed.

"Swear," Jamie repeated.

He pulled his collar from Jamie's grip. "I swear on Lana's grave. And on Mick's. And Dad's. Your mom's." He looked over at her. "I miss anyone?"

"Shit." Jamie stubbed out her cigarette.

"Can we go now?"

"Why did you do it?" she asked.

"Why does anyone do it?"

"How did you stop it?"

He ran a finger over the scar on his hand, took the last drag of his cigarette, and then put it out in the overflowing ashtray. He couldn't do anything right. That was the real reason—not school, not be a kid, a son, a brother, fireman, husband—not even at the end.

Jamie gave up on an answer and started the car, revved the engine, and drove out of the police station lot.

He'd had the rope, the stool, but he'd had to hold that knife just in case. He'd been almost gone. The pressure in his eyes had been so strong, he couldn't see. But the rope hadn't been quite strong enough. And he'd been weak.

And at the last moment, he'd chickened out and cut it. The rope had split and the knife had sliced right into his hand.

There it was. He couldn't even kill himself right.

Chapter 15

Jamie couldn't believe Tony Galen had chosen today to show up at her house, drunk then break in. No call, no notice, he couldn't even sit quietly at the front door and wait for her. Christ. With everything else she had going on. Devlin's murder, the charges against Tim, and worst of all, Marchek. What else could possibly go wrong? She had barely pulled into her garage when her cell phone rang. "Vail."

"I've got something you'll want to see."

It took her a minute to place the caller. She finally recognized the crime tech's voice. "Roger?"

"Yeah, it's me. Can you come into the lab?"

She glanced at Tony. "Uh—"

"It's big."

"Can you tell me?"

"You've got to see it."

"Okay. I'll be there in an hour." She ended the call and looked at Tony. Then, without hesitating, she backed the car out of the driveway.

"Where are we going?"

"Station. Something's come up."

"Can't I stay here? I need some aspirin."

"They'll have some there."

"You don't trust me long enough to go to work and back? I'm not a puppy you can just drag along."

Jamie measured her breath. "You came to me, Tony. Not the other way around. My turf, my rules."

They spoke little on the way to the station. Jamie turned up the music to fill the space though the silence shouldn't have bothered her. In the Brooklyn duplex where they'd grown up, long silences were as common as honking horns on the streets below. As young kids, she and Mick and Tony had filled the air with the idle chatter of childhood. Dares and bets and arguments over whether or not Mrs. Brandigi's cat would survive the two story fall out her window and if saying about cats always landed on their feet was true even from that kind of height. But as they grew older, they, too, joined in their fathers' quiet natures. Until dinners were sometimes passed in silence aside from the occasional grunt to request someone pass the carrot and peas or the salt.

At Hunters Point, she went straight to the lab. Tony shuffled behind. When she walked in, though, Roger wasn't there.

"He left you that," Sydney said, pointing to a microscope.

She crossed to it and peered in. She had seen enough to identify the sample. It was semen without DNA. "I already saw this."

Sydney shook her head. "No. We just finished this one."

"It's not Osbourne?"

"No. Devlin."

Jamie felt her mouth drop. "Devlin? I thought she had sex with Tim." As soon as the words were out, she felt Tony's stare. Her cheeks flushed. She ignored it.

Sydney nodded. "She did. First Tim and then another guy."

Jamie whistled. "A guy with no swimmers?"

"Right."

"Just like my serial." Jamie was tracking a serial rapist with no sperm in his semen. Now, Devlin's last sexual encounter had been with a man with the same condition. She didn't like the coincidence.

"Maybe, but we're just doing an initial workup," Sydney explained. "We don't have the technology to do much with it."

Jamie frowned. "Because there were two samples, you mean?"

"Right. We're not even sure if the samples can be individually identified. This is just something Roger tried."

Jamie felt her pulse run a little quicker. "Has anyone talked to Hailey Wyatt?" She glanced around. "And where's Roger?"

"He went back to the evidence storage locker for something else."

Just then, the door opened and Roger entered carrying a cardboard file box. He set it down on the table and began rummaging through it.