Double Indemnity (16 page)

“Sleep it off, buddy,” she replied, shutting the barred door behind her with a clang.

There were two other men in the relatively spacious cell. One of them had pissed his pants and lay with his soggy ass pointed in Sam's direction, completely passed out. The other, a younger man with a scraggly beard, mumbled incoherently and shuddered as a tremor shivered through his body. He seemed to stare right through Sam with his wide, bloodshot eyes.

Sam chose the least offensive corner and sat on one of the peeling benches. If he'd expected to find someone to talk to, he'd been sadly mistaken. The younger man suffering the DTs turned to Sam and murmured.

“What?” Sam asked, unconvinced the man even knew he'd spoken.

The man muttered again, and Sam realized he'd asked for booze. His eyes grew wider still as anticipation filled them, and then they shuttered, the hope going out like a light. He let out a quiet, broken moan that chilled Sam's blood, and Sam looked away.

He didn't want to see this. His head started to pound as the rancid smell of vomit and urine filled his nostrils. He tried not to breathe too deeply. He wished he were home and not sitting numb assed on an unpadded metal bench. This wasn't why he'd come.

He must have waited for an hour, maybe more. After the initial commotion, the station quieted down, and only an occasional officer was visible in the adjacent room. Sam started to get used to the sound of his companion's incomprehensible mutterings.

And then a few cops, Petersen and McCormick among them, reentered the squad room. They seemed to be arguing. One cop looked incredibly distraught, and Sam recognized her as a friend of Emma's. Sam's buzz had long worn off, leaving him tired, but not terribly so. He moved closer and strained to hear what the cops were saying.

“I'm so tired of this,” said someone to McCormick. “This city is like hell on earth sometimes.” McCormick shrugged and stayed quiet.

“Petersen tossed his cookies like a rookie,” said another guy.

“Yeah. Even McCormick held it together.”

“Shut up.” Petersen's voice.

When he finally got a look at Petersen's face, though, Sam almost thought he had the wrong guy. Under the fluorescent overheads, Petersen was white as a sheet, tending toward green, and gripping the back of a chair with both fists. His whole face had broken out in a cold sweat, like he'd had the shock of his life. Grief.

He'd never known Petersen to regret anything.

The chief entered a few seconds later, cutting the chatter short.

“We've all seen something terrible tonight,” he said. “But that's no reason to fall apart.” He directed a pointed look at Petersen, who responded by straightening up. “In fact, it's the reason you have to keep it together. Remember you represent this station, this precinct. No matter what you do, always remember. Now excuse me. I have to call the jumper's family.”

Jumper. So it had been a suicide, after all. A chill ran down Sam's spine. Over the past five years he'd written many obituaries, and it was never fun, but a suicide brought a whole new level of pain to the survivors. All of that wondering about what they could have done differently, if they could have stopped it. He wondered who the jumper was and what family would have the misfortune of receiving Sheldon's call. Sam wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy, and he could sympathize with Petersen's reaction.
That
was something new.

“I get what the chief's saying,” said Emma's friend. “I do. But I can't see how we're supposed to not feel anything, or act like we don't feel anything. I mean, this woman's husband just died, and now she's dead too. And they both did so much for this community.”

“It's terrible,” someone else agreed.

Sam wondered if they even knew he was still there or if they'd gotten so used to people in the drunk tank being wasted that they didn't worry about being overheard.

“People die in this town almost every day,” said the guy who'd teased Petersen. “I don't know why we should feel worse because the person had a lot of money. I mean, the Feldmans were loaded, but who cares? What makes them better than anyone else?”

Sam's breath caught at the name. Feldman. Had Patricia Feldman jumped?

Emma's friend spoke again. “It doesn't make them better. But at least they've tried to do something to help. Listen, they're calling in the Coast Guard to search for the body, and I'm going home to bed. You guys can do whatever you want.”

 

 

A
T
SOME
point during the night, Sam must have dozed off. He woke to the sound of unoiled hinges screeching. He blinked and remembered where he was. Oh yeah. Jail.

His companions were still asleep. The guy with the DTs seemed to be having fitful dreams, and Sam hoped he'd sleep for a long time, at least until it didn't hurt to be awake.

“You're free to go now.” A grim-faced Chief Sheldon stepped into the cell. “I'm sorry I had to do this, but it was for your own good.”

Sam was too tired to muster indignation or anger. He turned back to the guys on the floor. “What's going to happen to them?”

“What happens to all addicts, son. They get clean, or they die.”

 

 

A
FTER
S
AM
retrieved his truck from the bar, he went back to his apartment to shower and change. His voice mail had two messages, including one from an unfamiliar number. It was Nathan, asking him to meet at a diner downtown. His stomach squirmed at the prospect of telling Nathan what had happened the night before, like a naughty child who wasn't sure how his parents would react.

He spied through the thick, dirty glass of the diner's front window before going in. Nathan sat at the counter sipping a cup of coffee. The relief of seeing him there, safe—although Sam had no idea why he wouldn't be—almost bowled him over. He'd missed him.

“Did something happen to your phone?” Sam asked, sliding onto the vacant stool next to Nathan at the counter. He'd texted Nathan back to say he'd received the message and gotten no response.

“Yeah, in a manner of speaking.” Nathan gave him a tired smile. He looked like he'd been up all night. Sam hadn't gotten much rest in the tank either. He'd spent most of the night remembering the smiling middle-aged woman in the photo Emma had given him when he'd been writing Mark Feldman's obit. Thinking about the kids too. It pissed him off that they'd grow up without a mother or father. He hated thinking badly of the dead, but suicide seemed so cowardly and selfish with kids in the picture. When you had someone depending on you, how could you just throw in the towel?

“I take it you heard about Patricia Feldman?” Sam asked. Nathan nodded and gestured to the television hanging on the adjacent wall. Sam squinted at the words. “A bereaved lover's suicide?”

“That's what they're calling it.”

“Have they found the body?”

Nathan took another sip of his coffee. “Not yet.”

They watched the rest of the newscast in silence, but once the reporter gave his over and out and topics turned to other news, Nathan nudged Sam. “Are you hungry? Get whatever you want.”

They ordered, and Sam gratefully downed some coffee while he tried to think of the best way to broach the subject of his arrest. He didn't want to keep secrets. “I was there last night.”

“What?” Nathan's face paled. “What are you talking about?”

Sam quickly realized his error. “No, not at the bridge. Sorry.” He winced. “I went out to a bar and I… sort of got arrested.”

“What do you mean, you sort of got arrested?” Nathan whispered harshly.

“I thought maybe I'd be able to help get some intel for you about Emma. So I pretended to be shitfaced and I got in a fight with the bartender. On purpose. A little.” Thinking about his stupid not-plan in the light of day made him flush. He started fidgeting with his napkin to distract himself from Nathan's piercing gaze.

“Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. Anyway, once they hauled me to the station I had a conversation with the chief. I think he was trying to give me some tough love.”

Nathan's mouth formed a thin, angry line as their food arrived, sparing Sam for a moment. He took the opportunity to deflect.

“What's up between the two of you, anyway?” Sam asked. “He doesn't seem to like you very much.”

“I told you to stay out of this. You promised me—”

“I didn't actually. Technically. But yeah. It was stupid, and I shouldn't have done it. It was pointless, anyway.”

“Sam—”

“Please spare me the lecture, okay? I know it was stupid, but I'm fine. Fine except for the fact I spent last night in the drunk tank with two guys who'd pissed themselves. I did see the cops come back, though. They were pretty shaken up about it, especially Petersen.”

Nathan paused. “Oh?”

“Yeah, one of the other guys teased him for puking on the bridge. He looked as upset as I've ever seen him, but that's not saying much. Apparently McCormick kept it together, which is interesting, given he's new to the job.”

For a long time, Nathan didn't speak. He stabbed his eggs vigorously and ate, staring straight ahead. Sam got that naughty puppy feeling again, but he didn't know what he could do to make it better. He ate his breakfast, even though the toast tasted like cardboard.

The local news had turned to weather, showing a bleak ten-day forecast. November had never been Sam's favorite month, and ever since the accident, it had gotten worse. Christmas seemed to come earlier and earlier each year, and now the whole damn month seemed to be a lead-up to the worst day of his life. The weatherman smiled cheerily and spoke of rain, rain, and more rain. Sam wanted to punch him in the face. Sam gave Nathan a sideways glance. He looked like he might be on the verge of telling Sam off again. Or leaving.

“Nathan?”

Nathan put his fork down. “I understand why you did it. But Jesus, this isn't a game. I don't know if I can trust you anymore.”

The statement hurt worse than a slap. “Of course you can.”

“Can I?”

“If you would tell me what's going on, I wouldn't have done it in the first place.”

They whispered, leaning close, and the waitress gave them a curious look as she refilled their coffees. Sam tried not to pay attention to how Nathan smelled, woodsy and warm, or the way Nathan's thigh occasionally grazed his under the counter. It was already difficult enough to muster righteous anger, since he knew he'd messed up.

“What did you say to Sheldon? You talked about me?” Nathan asked.

Sam brought his mug to his lips. He could only remember scraps of conversation. “No. I didn't. I didn't say anything. He was going on about me getting arrested, said I was hanging out with a bad crowd. He meant you.” Something didn't sit right. “But come to think of it, how did he even know we've been—”

“I'm under surveillance.” Nathan sighed.

“What?”

“My phone has been tapped. That's the reason I called you from a pay phone. And I'm being followed. Or I was, at least, the other day. I probably shouldn't be seeing you at all.”

“You're still under suspicion.”

“It would appear so.”

Sam glanced around the room. An old couple sat in a booth behind them, and a few kids were crammed into another, probably skipping school. No one looked like a cop. Still, his scalp prickled at the thought of being watched. Maybe Nathan was right. Maybe Sam had been treating this too much like a game. It certainly didn't seem like one anymore. “What about your alibi?”

An almost imperceptible shake of his head let Sam know this wasn't the time or place. He let the subject drop—almost. He hated the idea of Nathan not being able to trust him.

“I am sorry, you know. I wanted to help you with the case. I never wanted to jeopardize it. So, if that's what I did, I apologize. I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't seem to be able to help people. Or when I do, it turns out wrong. My friends think I'm a fuck-up. I can't even help my little brother.” Sam stared into his half-empty mug. “I won't try to get involved again.” He waited for a laugh or scoff. Neither came.

“It's not about the case, you know. I don't want you to get hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it, Sam. And I don't think you're a fuck-up. I admire your courage.”

“Courage?” Sam snorted. “It takes a real hero to get himself thrown in a drunk tank.”

“I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the fact you've been taking care of your brother all of these years by yourself. You lost your parents, but you built a life for yourself anyway.”

Sam's eyes burned. “I did what I had to do.” And according to Yuri, it wasn't much of a life.

“You don't know how to take a compliment, do you?”

“If he would wake up, I'd feel like I'd done something to be proud of, you know? Speaking of….” Sam glanced at the wall clock. “I've got visiting hours in a few.”

“Let's get out of here.” Nathan wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it neatly on the counter. He gestured for the check.

Sam grabbed for the bill when it arrived, but Nathan's hand covered his. “I've got this.”

“It's okay. I can pay for breakfast.” The rough warmth of Nathan's palm made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

“All right. Thank you.”

Outside the diner, the gray sky had begun pissing rain, fulfilling the weatherman's prophecy. Nathan popped the collar of his jacket against the rain. “I've gotta catch a cab. I didn't want to risk driving.”

“Do you want to come with me to see Tim?” Sam asked before he had a chance to think about it.

Nathan didn't hesitate. “I'd like that.”