Fallen (12 page)

A faint smile touched his lips. “That’s my girl.”

The familiar endearment drove a spear of pain through her. He apparently realized what he’d said, because the levity faded from his eyes, but his gaze still held hers. Seeking a change of subject, she asked, “Why were you with Narcotics? Did it have to do with Nate?”

He kept his voice low. “We had a hunch a street gang might be behind the shootings. Narco had a search warrant, so Mateo and I and a few others from Homicide went along. We’re hoping a gun confiscated in the raid will be a match.”

Ryan nodded to several officers who spoke to him as they filed out. Mateo remained, although he’d busied himself at a vending machine in the patient waiting area, probably to give Ryan and her time to talk. Lydia could see him, fishing in his jeans pocket for change.

“When will you know?”

“We’re waiting on the ballistics. We’ve got a rush on it. Probably later today.”

His shoulder holster was missing its weapon. Lydia’s stomach fluttered. “You fired your gun.”

“I missed, unfortunately. Regardless, I’m out of the field until I’m cleared.”

As a detective’s wife, she had learned the protocol. Crime scene forensics would study bullet trajectories, including the ones that hit bodies. Bullets and casings would be matched to weapons so they had a solid account of who had fired and from where. It was a necessary legality. Police work had a set of rules, as well as a culture all its own.

For some reason, she thought of Ryan’s formal police dress coat, having seen it hanging in the vestibule as she’d left McCrosky’s the previous evening. Several others had been there as well, but she’d immediately recognized his among them, knowing by heart the exact number of stripes on its sleeve indicating years of service, knowing every commendation pin, every bar. Her fingers had briefly brushed its fine wool as she exited, the nostalgia created by the tavern, the other officers, affecting her.

“Casualties on the way,” Jamaal alerted from the desk. “Two window washers fell off scaffolding onto a ledge below. Broken bones and a possible skull fracture. We’re going to need a translator.”

“How far out?” Lydia asked.

“Five minutes.”

“I’ll let you go.” Ryan took a step back. Mateo now waited for him on the ER’s covered portico. He was visible through the glass doors, pacing and drinking a can of Red Bull.

“More caffeine?”

Ryan shrugged. “In his defense, we’ve been going at it since five this morning.” His eyes turned serious again. “It hasn’t been under the best circumstances, but it’s been good seeing you these past few days, Lydia.”

She felt a dull ache in her chest.

They stared at one another for several moments. Then Lydia watched as he went through the automated doors, sidestepping a gurney being rolled inside. Looking at him as he joined Mateo, she noted the broad width of his shoulders and his lean, jean-clad hips.

The overhead intercom paged Dr. Varek to the surgical wing, hurtling her back to the flurry of activity surrounding her. She turned in time to see Ian Brandt walking through the lobby. He was headed out, apparently, but he hadn’t gone out the main hospital entrance. Instead, he’d made a point of coming through the ER. His obsidian eyes pinned hers, making her mouth go dry again.

“Stay the hell away from my wife,” he ordered in passing.

Chapter Nine

“
G
uess who I
pulled over on Peachtree last night,” one uniformed cop said to the other as they passed through the precinct bullpen, their voices carrying. “Janet Jackson.”

“No shit? What for?”

“One of her headlights was out.”

Ryan saw Mateo look up from his paperwork and roll his eyes despite the snickering around the room. It was an old joke.

Outside, a wash of eggplant and mauve had replaced the previously blue sky as day faded closer to evening. Detectives had begun to filter out while uniforms working the night shift were assembling for roll call. Ryan peered between the window blinds as he completed his phone conversation. Watching the last of the downtown’s extended rush hour, he sat on the edge of his desk, handset tucked between his shoulder and ear. Ballistics had come in on the nine mil.

“Not a match,” he said as he hung up. There had been no silencer on the firearm, something he’d hoped had meant nothing.

“Damn,” Mateo muttered. “It’s still a good bust, Ry. Two kilos of meth and other drugs, not to mention a dozen guns.”

But it hadn’t gotten them any closer to identifying Nate’s killer.

The sound of a door being closed hard caught his attention. Seth Kimmel had exited Thompson’s office. He shot a lethal glare at Ryan before stalking into the corridor, apparently aware he had been the one to speak to the captain. Ryan didn’t care. He’d had the reprimand coming. Mateo rose from where he’d been seated at his desk and walked over. He had heard about the altercation.

“I hope Thompson gave him a formal write-up and not just an ass-chewing.”

Ryan grunted his agreement. Word was that it wouldn’t be the first one in Kimmel’s file. There had already been civilian complaints about discourteousness and excessive force.

“As long as you’re cowboyed up again …” Mateo indicated the firearm that had been returned a short time ago and now lay in an open drawer of Ryan’s desk. “Want to make a last call?”

“Where?”

“Old Fourth Ward. Lamar Simmons just walked into The Copper Coin. The bartender sent me a text. He’s holed up with a bottle and two of his
ladies
in the back room.”

Simmons was a person of interest in the case of an eighteen-year-old prostitute strangled and left in a Dumpster behind Philips Arena. A known pimp, he had been lying low, and the two detectives wanted to talk to him. They had suspected he’d show up eventually at one of his regular spots and had put the word out.

Considering the news regarding the confiscated nine mil, Ryan figured they might as well make progress somewhere.

“Let’s go.” He got to his feet and returned the Glock to his holster. Since he’d had to wait for clearance following the Purvis Street raid, he’d had no choice but to spend most of the day riding a desk, completing forms and working tips by phone. He had cabin fever. On another sour note, they’d learned the shotgun house couldn’t be connected to Quintavius Roberts, since its deed belonged to the deceased grandmother of one of the lower-ranked gang members. Quintavius was safe unless the kid implicated him, which was doubtful. Pooch had made a clean break as well, so far evading capture. But with the seizure, the HB2s had lost a serious amount of revenue potential.

“How’s the arm?” Mateo asked as they walked out to the parking lot in the encroaching dusk.

“I’ll live.”

They stopped as Kimmel’s squad car wheeled past. He gunned the powerful engine and squealed its tires as he used its light bar to cut through the traffic on Baker Street.

“Dickhead,” Mateo grouched.

As they reached the Impala, another unit pulled up beside them in the busy lot. Randall Kirkpatrick, a veteran cop who was serving as FTO for one of the rookies, sat behind the wheel, his much younger charge in the passenger seat. Ryan and Mateo spoke to them as they got out.

“Heard about the raid on Purvis,” Kirkpatrick said. “Bangers jumping off roofs and shooting on the way down. That’s some real Spider-Man shit.”

“You know it.” Mateo opened the Impala’s driver-side door.

“Hey, Winter, you still on decent terms with your ex?”

The query took Ryan by surprise. “Yeah.”

“Good for you. I can’t stand mine. You might want to give her some advice, then. Stay out of Ian Brandt’s business.”

Cars horns blared on the adjacent street. The name was unfamiliar. “Who?”

“Entrepreneur—a skeezy one,” Mateo supplied. “I saw an article on him a few weeks back. The paper was kissing his ass like it does every pseudo-celebrity in
Hotlanta
.”

Kirkpatrick nodded. “That’s him. He has legitimate businesses—recording studios that cater to the hip-hop crowd, fancy restaurants and a slew of commercial real estate investments. But he also runs a few enterprises the city looks the other way on—Suede and a few other titty bars. He’s connected, and he contributes
big
to local politicians, some of the more corrupt ones, if you know what I mean. The down low is that he’s got underworld ties—drugs, money laundering, not that he’s ever been locked up for it. He’s not someone to mess around with.”

Ryan frowned. Suede was a new adult entertainment lounge. It had a growing reputation as a hot spot as well as a magnet for trouble, including prostitution and drugs. “How’s Lydia involved with this guy?”

Officer Seavers spoke. He was a P2, a boot, in the second phase of his probation period. “We went to Mercy Hospital this morning to check out a spousal-abuse situation. It turned out to be Brandt’s wife. She refused to file charges. Your wife—I mean, your ex—was pretty worked up about it.”

Brandt must be whom Lydia had gotten into a confrontation with at the hospital. “
Was
the wife abused?”

“She was banged up pretty good.” Kirkpatrick lifted his uniform cap and scratched his graying head before replacing it. “But like the kid here said, she denies her husband’s responsible. Insisted she fell down the stairs, which the good doctor wasn’t buying. You know how it is. If the wife won’t ask for help, it’s none of our business.”

He traded good-natured insults with another cop headed into the precinct, then returned to the conversation. “Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks.”

Kirkpatrick and Seavers departed. Overhead, lights flickered on around the fenced-in compound. Ryan processed the information, the air around him holding the odor of exhaust fumes from the street.

“You want to go back in?” Mateo asked. “Look this guy up?”

Ryan understood the law regarding domestic violence. But he also knew Lydia’s sensitivity to it. Such cases in the ER had always been particularly upsetting for her, reopening wounds from her past. Her mother had been a victim, her father’s verbal and physical abuse coloring much of Lydia’s childhood until Nina Costa had finally left him, taking Lydia and her younger sister, Natalie, with her. He imagined the run-in Lydia probably had with Brandt. Still, duty called. “Let’s get to Simmons before he drops off the radar again. I’ll check Brandt out when we get back.”

Inside the car, Mateo’s voice was tentative as he started the engine. “You and Lydia are talking these days. That’s good, right?”

Ryan grimaced as he used his injured arm to secure the seat belt. “It’s just the situation—Nate’s murder, the trip to the ER this morning. It’s been throwing us together.”

“But it’s a start.”

He didn’t respond, instead busying himself with looking for the antibiotic prescription he had put in the glove box, something he’d get filled at the all-night pharmacy on the way home. Still, he was aware of Mateo’s lingering gaze on him as they pulled from the lot.

Partners became close by necessity. Aside from Adam, Mateo knew him better than anyone, knew just how hard he had taken Tyler’s death. While Lydia retreated to New Orleans, Ryan had returned to work not too long after, seeking refuge in the job’s routine as soon as the on-staff shrink would clear him. He had believed it was the only way to hold himself together. But he’d also known Mateo had served as something of a babysitter for him, making sure he was stable and focused enough not to endanger lives.

The truth was, he’d been a mess.

Mateo had put up with a lot. But he was also a husband, a father … he’d understood. An empty feeling inside him, Ryan shoved the located prescription into his jeans pocket. The police scanner on the dashboard crackled to life, the provided code indicating a public nuisance complaint farther down on International. Something for the uniforms to handle.

“She still cares about you, man.” Mateo hung a sharp left, passing through the tail end of a yellow light at the intersection. He glanced over at him, his expression earnest. “She’ll come around. Evie thinks so, too. You’ve both been through the worst kind of hell, but you belong together. Anyone can see that.”

Ryan let go of a sigh, staring out through the windshield. Adam knew. Mateo might as well, too.

“She’s seeing someone,” he said quietly.

There really was no response Mateo could give. With a soft curse, he accelerated the car.

*

The interview with Simmons had taken longer than anticipated, the pimp’s uncooperative attitude earning him a trip to the precinct. And while his alibi was sketchy, there currently wasn’t enough evidence to hold him. Two hours later, he’d swaggered out onto the sidewalk, accompanied by his defense attorney. The two women he’d been with at the bar had been waiting for him out front. Ryan’s gut told him Simmons was guilty as sin, although proving it would be another matter. Nor did drug-addicted prostitutes rank high on the overworked department’s priority list. But LaShonda Butler had a heartbroken mother who wanted answers. He didn’t plan on giving up.