Double Indemnity (15 page)

At the end of the day, he'd turned up nothing. He wondered if Nathan was having better luck.

It turned out, he was.

“I've got a lead.” Nathan's voice on the end of the line was so whisper quiet, Sam had to strain to hear.

“What? On who? What is it?”

“I'm sorry, but I can't tell you yet.”

“What the hell, Nathan? I've been dying here all week waiting for some news, and you just randomly call and tell me you have a lead, but it's a secret?”

A sigh from the other end of the line. “I'm sorry. You have a right to be angry. I'm going to have to ask you to trust me, though, and sit tight on this one. I know you've been talking to people about McCormick, and I need you to stop.”

“How do you—”

“It doesn't matter. Listen. This is important, okay? Please, for your own safety, stay out of this. There are a few things I need to do, and I won't be able to concentrate if I'm worried about you.”

“You don't need to worry about me.”

Nathan said something softly, something that sounded like “apparently I do.”

Sam clutched the phone to his ear. “Will I see you?”

“Soon.”

The next night was a Friday. Sam wanted to see Nathan, but not for the right reasons. He needed to do something to diffuse the tension building inside him, making it impossible to sit still. He'd been good for weeks, and a night on the town would be just the distraction he needed.

Without thinking about it too much, he dialed Yuri's number.

“Hey,” Yuri said when he answered. They hadn't seen each other much since the fight, but the time had come to patch things up. Sam knew the perfect thing.

“Hey, man. What are you up to tonight? You wanna go out?”

“I can't. Sorry.”

Old stick-in-the-mud Yuri. “I thought we could hit the town, maybe check out the new bar Rachel was telling us about, the one with all the craft beers.”

“Maybe another time.”

“What? You have a date or something?” Sam snorted.

“Actually, yes. I've been seeing someone, and we're hanging out tonight.”

Sam frowned. “Who? Anyone I know?”

“No, you don't know him. Sam, I know why you're calling me, but I don't feel like being used tonight. You can't screw around forever before you burn your bridges.”

“I wasn't trying—”

The line went dead and Sam almost threw his phone across the room. He hadn't been trying to use Yuri. He only wanted to see his friend, grab a few beers, and shoot the shit.

“Fuck.”

Guilt wormed its way under his skin like a flesh-eating virus. What kind of friend was he if it had gotten to the point where they couldn't hang out without Yuri interpreting a latent, selfish motivation? He had to get out of his apartment. He wanted to go far away, somewhere he could be a stranger in a crowd. He'd go to the trendy new bar across town—by himself. He didn't need Yuri's company.

Just as Rachel had said, the bar was one of those places with a hundred different brews and homemade ketchup for fries crisped in duck fat. He took a seat on one of the dark wood stools, ordered an eight-dollar beer with a high percentage, and stared at it when it was brought over in a snifter. The bartender's rolled-up shirtsleeves displayed intricate forearm tattoos, the kind Sam usually thought particularly hot. Even though he gave Sam a pearly white, appreciative smile, Sam remained uninterested. He was too depressed—and too sober—to think about sex.

The clientele consisted of young yuppies and hipsters, mainly between twenty and forty—the type of people who shopped at organic markets with their reusable grocery bags. They all seemed friendly enough, and no one paid him any attention.

After a few minutes, Sam ordered another beer, and his thoughts drifted back to Nathan. He'd sounded so distant on the phone, and Sam wanted to see him so badly. He wanted to be a part of whatever plans Nathan was hatching, not sitting alone at a hipster bar wondering whether he should go home or find some guy to fuck. Some meaningless stranger. Sam remembered what Nathan told him about how addictive the anonymous sex had been. Sex could be like a drug, a moment of pleasure in the midst of dull existence, and it had served that purpose for him on more than one occasion. Sure, he had fun, but loneliness always returned after the rush. Yet the second a guy expressed interest in starting something more serious, he panicked. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd been sober in bed. Or the last time he'd gone a day without having at least one drink.

Yuri had said some pretty hurtful things, but they only hurt because they were true. Maybe Sam couldn't have a meaningful relationship. Maybe he wasn't cut out for it. Maybe that was the reason he insisted on believing such relationships didn't exist.

The long day of work and stress had tightened Sam's shoulders. He rubbed at the knot of muscle at the back of his neck and sighed, then drained the rest of his beer.

“You want to order some food with that, friend?” asked the bartender. “It packs a punch.”

“Nah, I'm good.”

After that, the place started to fill up, and another bartender joined the first. Sam kept to his seat and watched the ebb and flow of the crowd, anonymous on his barstool island. The beer had made his head fuzzy, but he wasn't yet drunk. He wondered if Nathan had finally found an apartment and whether it was close.

No. Sam had said he understood, and he did. Some secret part of Sam hoped Nathan would change his mind, but what did he expect? For the guy to show up and forget about his dead wife—Sam's
friend
. She hadn't even been dead for five months. What kind of asshole was he?

Another beer, and his thoughts became a little unclear, a little less focused. He stopped caring so much.

“Gimme that one,” Sam said, pointing at the bar menu on the wall behind the taps.

“Sorry, but I'm going to have to cut you off.”

“I feel fine,” he insisted, “and I want another beer.”

Hot bartender frowned, looking a little like Nathan with his dark eyes.

“It's against our policy to serve to visibly intoxicated people. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to pay your tab and leave.”

Sam shook his head and leaned forward. A half-baked plan had begun to take shape. “I'm not paying anything, and I'm not leaving. Now give me the goddamn beer.”

The guy crossed his arms over his chest. It made him look even more like Nathan. “Sir, pay up and go. I don't want any trouble.” Sam noticed he wasn't “friend” anymore.

“Well if you don't want any trouble, you should do what I tell you. I'm a paying customer.”

Playing the part of belligerent drunk didn't come naturally. Sam had always been affectionate—Yuri would say horny—while intoxicated. Still, if he could piss off the bartender enough, maybe then he'd have a chance of getting some intel for Nathan. He could help with the case after all, and show Yuri he cared about people. Yes, this was a great idea.

“I don't want to have to call the police,” said the bartender.

“You don't have the balls.”

It didn't take long. After a little more back and forth, the minor altercation turned into a scene. Patrons who'd been pretending not to stare now gawked openly. The people nearby shifted nervously in their seats. Sam could feel their disapproval reflect off his back and turn to outrage as he pulled a move he'd once seen on TV and downed another customer's drink. The guy shoved him in response, and Sam hurled back an insult about his mom.

By the time the cop showed up a couple minutes later, Sam was almost relieved. Any more time in the bar, and drunk and disorderly wouldn't be the only charge slapped on him. Luckily he'd avoided getting physical with the guy who shoved him, and he sat with his head lolling on his chest while the cop, who he only vaguely recognized, approached to question the bartender. Other patrons were whispering and sending him dirty looks. Sam pretended not to notice.

As the cop—his badge said Officer Jain—led him out of the bar into the empty squad car, he realized with crushing disappointment he'd gotten himself arrested for nothing. He'd hoped to find McCormick, or even Petersen, but they were alone. Sam slumped against the back seat as the door of the cruiser slammed behind him.

Once the car was in motion, Sam tried to kick-start his brain. Maybe all wasn't lost. It was possible he could still learn something, but he had to do it without arousing suspicion. He trailed his finger over the ripped seam of the faux leather seat and poked at the yellow stuffing inside.

“How long you been on the force?” he asked.

The cop gave him a look in the rearview. “What do you think, I'm straight off the boat?”

Sam raised his hands. “No, no! I was just wondering. I know some people at the station, s'all. I knew Emma Walker. She was a friend of mine.”

The other man's eyes flashed with sympathy. He seemed to shake off the perceived insult. “I didn't know her well. But I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.”

After a couple more failed attempts at getting Officer Jain to engage in conversation—clearly he wasn't a talkative sort—Sam gave up. Outside, the night was cold and clear. It made the window cold too. Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head against it, feeling a little woozy.

When they entered the station for processing, Sam stumbled. He was a little drunker than he'd originally thought.

“Sam.” A familiar voice startled him. When he looked up, he came face-to-face with a frowning Chief Sheldon. His blue eyes narrowed, making his big eyebrows seem even bushier. “I didn't expect to see you here tonight.”

“Sorry, Chief.” Remorse crept up the back of his neck. He looked like a complete idiot in front of a man who'd respected his father—and no doubt wondered what sorry excuse for a legacy he'd left behind. He remained quiet while Sheldon spoke with his arresting officer and then led him toward the staff offices, forgoing the normal booking procedures.

“What were you thinking getting yourself arrested, son?” Sheldon asked once he'd closed the door to his office.

“Dunno.”

“You're lucky the owner of the bar decided not to press charges.” Sheldon's chair creaked as he sat down on the opposite side of the desk. “Most places would have.”

“Does that mean I get to go home?”

“I'm afraid not, Sam. You're headed to the tank to sleep it off.”

Sam stiffened in his chair. Now that his harebrained scheme had turned out badly, he wanted nothing more than to go home, bury his head under a mound of pillows, and forget it had ever happened. When Nathan found out what he'd done, he'd be upset—especially after the previous day's conversation. “Are you trying to scare me straight?”

The chief chuckled, but Sam hadn't even intended the pun.

“I'll never understand why you do this to yourself. Is it worth it? You're going to have a helluva hangover in the morning.”

He didn't feel like talking or telling Sheldon he wasn't as drunk as he could be.

Sheldon leaned forward and cracked his knuckles, one by one. “Drinking ruins lives, Sam. Sure. You're young now, and it's all fun and games. But wait until you're forty, fifty years old. It won't be so pretty then.” He tutted and shook his head. “I always say it's the people you associate with who influence your choices. You hang out with a bad crowd, you turn bad, yourself. I've seen it time and time again. Bad choices.”

Sam didn't bother responding. When he was a kid, Sam used to wonder if dead people could still see the living. After his grandmother passed, one of the kids at school teased him after the funeral, warning she might be in the room watching, at any time. He'd been afraid to get undressed for almost a month.

He wondered if his parents could see him.

“I hope you don't mind my saying, Sam, but this association you have with Nathan Walker is a bad choice. The man is dangerous. I say this as a friend of your father, since he's not here to say it himself. I'm concerned about your welfare.”

“Nathan's not dangerous. He's a good guy.”

“Sometimes it's the ones who seem good who are the worst kind. Most people who seem too good to be true have secrets. Eventually those secrets drag you down.” Sam met Sheldon's eyes. He was about to defend Nathan when the radio on Sheldon's desk crackled to life.

Available units in the Clarksboro area report to Baptist Bridge. 10-56A in progress, repeat, 10-56A in progress.

“Jesus, lord above,” Sheldon cursed.

“What's that mean?” Sam asked as Sheldon stood and grabbed his jacket before heading toward the door and barking orders down the hall. Twisting around in his chair to watch, Sam asked again what was happening. Instead of clarifying, however, Sheldon urged him up and into the custody of another cop, a short, stocky woman with plain features.

“Get him in the tank,” he told her. “I've gotta head over to the bridge.”

The officer nodded and took Sam's arm. Her grip dug unpleasantly into his bicep, but he didn't mention his discomfort.

“What's happening on the bridge?” Sam asked.

“It's none of your business.”

The officer unceremoniously deposited Sam in the old-fashioned holding cell still used to house drunks. It was adjacent to the squad room, and from his vantage point, Sam could see a flurry of activity. He'd already begun to put two-and-two together. The Baptist Street Bridge was a favorite for suicides. Not only was it impossibly high, once a body hit the surface, waterlogged clothes would pull a person under quick. Sam had heard some jumpers loaded their pockets so they'd sink even faster.

“A suicide?” All of the blood rushed out of Sam's face. His lips felt numb. “Hey. Is it a suicide?” he asked the officer who'd brought him in.