Fallen (23 page)

Lydia had changed from her scrubs in the physician lounge, but now wore khakis and a short-sleeved top. “I’m hardly dressed—”

“We’ll swing by your place for a quick change.” He reached for her hand.

“Rick …” Lydia gently tugged her fingers free. “It’s been a pretty bad day. I’d really rather just go home.”

She saw his jaw tense, but he blew out a breath and nodded. “All right. If that’s what you want, we’ll go to your place. We’ll order in from that Indian restaurant you like, put on some music and unwind. But you shouldn’t be alone tonight.” He lowered his voice. “Solomon’s right about your needing to leave patients’ personal lives alone. We’re
healers
, Lydia, not counselors or policemen. That’s not our jobs.”

She felt her face heat at the scolding. When Rick had pressed, she’d told him a little about the situation with Ian Brandt, although she hadn’t revealed her true involvement in his wife’s disappearance.

“Before you get cross, lecture over,” he said lightly. He stepped closer, his hands stroking her upper arms with a familiarity that created a small knot in her stomach. “Now that I think about it, maybe a night
in
won’t be so bad. Maybe I can help take your mind off things?”

Lydia hadn’t forgotten Rick’s words in the limousine—eventually, they would talk about taking their relationship further. And by further, he meant sex. She couldn’t fault him for that, and she felt remorse for putting things off,
for
stringing him along,
as her mother would say. But what had happened at the gala had given her a realization. Despite her best attempt, she didn’t feel anything for Rick beyond friendship and a deep respect for his skill as a surgeon. Lydia had tabled that reality due to the crisis with Elise, but it was time she dealt with it. It wasn’t fair to him otherwise.

“You … don’t understand.” She hesitated before clarifying softly, “I’d like to go home
alone
.”

The vertical line between his eyebrows deepened. “Have I done something?”

“No,” she assured him, voice pinched. “Not at all. This is about
me
. I’m … just not ready for this.”

His posture grew rigid. “I take it you’re talking about more than tonight.”

Lydia’s pulse kicked up a beat. Surgeons had egos. They had to in order to make the life-and-death decisions they did daily. She knew that what she was telling him, no matter how gently delivered, was a blow.

“I don’t believe this.” He let out a small laugh as he dragged a hand through his peppered hair. “You’re actually breaking up with me?”

Guilt filled her, but she looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Rick. Truly. But I … I don’t think we should see each other outside of work anymore. It’s just that we’re at different places in our lives. We want different things—”

“Exactly what is it that you
want
, Lydia?” His face had taken on a perturbed flush. “Because I’ve been trying like hell to figure that out for a while now.”

“Rick—”

“I’ve done everything right, haven’t I? I’ve been sympathetic and patient about your personal tragedy. I’ve wined you and dined you at the best places in town. I’ve stood around like a fool, in fact, waiting for you to get on with your life.”

Lydia blinked at his harshness. “Please believe me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but I needed to be honest—”

“Is this about your ex-husband?” His pained eyes also held a jealous glint. “Did I walk in on something this afternoon? Because I got the distinct impression I was intruding.”

She swallowed hard, the question hitting close to home.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s about me.”

“This is absurd,” he muttered nearly to himself. There was silence as he studied her. Then he paced a few steps and drew in a calming breath before speaking. “You’re upset about this morning, is all. You’re overtired and not thinking clearly—”

“I am thinking clearly.”

“We’ll talk about this later.”

“There’s no need. And I
am
sorry, Rick.”

He stared at her, the cords in his neck standing out against the collar of his dress shirt. Then in a show of outrage and hurt, he shoved through the double doors that led to the elevator vestibule, leaving her standing alone. Lydia waited in the corridor, giving him time to depart before making her way out. She attempted to quell the shakiness she felt. Rick’s outburst only added to the sick feeling she’d been carrying around inside her.

Is this about your ex-husband?

She closed her eyes. These recent interludes with Ryan had confused her. She’d begun questioning every decision she had made in the wake of Tyler’s death. She had been the one to let go, to want out, unable to see past the grief that shrouded their marriage. Uncertainty and a sharp regret tightened her throat.

She had no right.

Her thoughts racing, Lydia went down the elevator and made her way out of the hospital. But as she reached her deck of the parking garage, it occurred to her that she should have asked hospital security to walk her out, especially in light of that morning’s events. Despite the humid heat, Lydia felt a chill on her skin, aware of her shadowy surroundings as she walked to her car. She stopped once, certain she heard the faint echo of footsteps behind her. Rick? She looked around but saw no one. Her nerves were on edge, she knew that, spiking her imagination. Still, her fingers searched inside her backpack for the key chain that also held the slim canister of pepper spray.

She picked up her pace. Reaching the Volvo at nearly a jog, Lydia hurried into its interior and locked it, then quickly started the engine and pulled out.

As the car went down the ramp to the next level, she thought she glimpsed the closing of a door in the stairwell.

Chapter Nineteen

Nursing a beer
as he sat at the desk in the sunroom, Ryan continued studying Matthew Boyce’s transaction records received late that afternoon from the credit card company. Tired of staring at a computer screen, he’d printed them out and taken them home, had spent the last two hours comparing them against Nate’s exhaustive records and the smaller number of charges they had for John Watterson.

So far, nothing.

Back and shoulders stiff from the work, he stood and went to peer out the window into the dark, his thoughts spearing off in a dozen different directions.

They had arrested Lamar Simmons after receiving a tip on his whereabouts, a surprisingly easy collar. But Ryan had received no similar gratification with Ian Brandt. Riding on a tide of anger, he had gone to his offices in an upscale high-rise on West Paces Ferry. Ryan had flashed his shield and demanded to see him, but had been told by the receptionist that
Mr. Brandt
had caught a flight to New York and was away on business until the following afternoon.

The likelihood Brandt had sent Lydia the package festered. Not that Ryan could back up that theory with evidence. Brandt’s prints were on file from a previous arrest—one for which the charges hadn’t stuck—but they hadn’t been a match to any of the ones on the packaging. In fact, none of the prints they’d lifted had been in the system. Undeterred, Ryan planned to have a face-off with Brandt when he returned tomorrow.

Absently, he took a pull from his beer. His mind still clung to his conversation earlier that day with Lydia. Touching her had been like a match on tinder for him, and he’d had to tamp down his defensiveness at Varek’s arrival. Ryan wondered if he would ever be fully okay that she was with someone else.

Suppressing a sigh, he went back to comparing the line items at his desk.

As the mantel clock in the living room chimed the hour, he heard the front door being unlocked and opened. Familiar footsteps on the hardwood flooring told him it was Tess.

“You shouldn’t be out by yourself this late,” Ryan reminded sternly, looking up from his work as she passed the sunroom. She carried his dry cleaning, his formal police coat covered by a clear plastic bag that advertised the twenty-four-hour service.

“Oh, pooh. I’m an old woman and poor as a beggar. No one’s interested in me. Besides, you need this for tomorrow, and I walked by the cleaners on my way home.”

It was one less thing he would have to do tomorrow, at least. Ryan planned to attend Boyce’s burial out of respect, and to be there among the plainclothes watching the mourners, looking for anyone who stood out. Unsure of the reason, maybe just because it was on his mind, he said, “Today’s Lydia’s birthday.”

Tess stood in the room’s threshold. “Did you see her?”

“Not intentionally. I was at the hospital on business.”

“You ought to be taking her out to dinner,” she admonished. “Not sitting here, still in your work clothes and frowning hard enough to make your eyebrows hurt.”

It was true he was still in his dress shirt and pants, although he’d discarded his tie along with his weapon and shoulder holster.

“We’re
divorced
, Tess,” he pointed out. Feeling a tightness in his chest, he added, “And I’m pretty sure she has plans tonight.”

Tess draped the dry cleaning over an armchair and came closer. In the desk’s lamplight Ryan could see the crow’s feet fanning outward from her eyes, as well as the faint web of wrinkles bordering her lips that were pursed in a serious expression. The long hair, worn loose tonight—as well as a pair of dangling, pyramid earrings—were her only vanities.

“Bad things happen to good people. And what happened to you and Lydia … I can’t imagine anything worse.” Shaking her head, she looked off down the hallway. “Just seeing the closed door to that room, the photos of the three of you … that sweet little boy … it breaks my heart every day. I can only imagine what it does to the two of you.”

Lungs constricted, he focused on the papers in front of him.

“
Listen to me
, Ryan. The only good thing that comes with age is wisdom, so I’m going to lay some on you, all right? Learn from my mistakes. Life goes by too fast. Don’t spend it without Lydia if you still love her, and don’t tell me she’s seeing someone else. That’s just an excuse. You need to fight for her, tell her it’s time to come home and try again.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said finally, aware of the hoarseness in his voice. He blinked away an image of Tyler—laughing, playing with building blocks in this very room. An aching guilt slipped over him.

Tess came around to his side of the desk. She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Most things worth fighting for
aren’t
. Don’t wait until it’s too late.” After a moment, she cleared her throat. “I’ve said my piece. Now I’m going to hang up that uniform in the closet, mooch a couple of beers from your refrigerator and go on up. Good night, honey.”

Ryan remained contemplative long after Tess had let herself back out. With a burning sensation in his stomach, he wondered if Varek was with Lydia right now.

He returned to the distraction of the credit card transactions. A short time later, however, he sat up straighter in his chair. Two of Matthew Boyce’s charges had taken place on separate dates at a nightspot near the Georgia Dome. He’d seen the place in Nate’s records, as well, having remembered it because it seemed an unusual place for him to go. Rifling through the separate stack of papers that comprised Nate’s transactions, he searched for it again. It took awhile to find it, but there it was.

Not wanting to wait until tomorrow, he grabbed his weapon and shield and left the house.

*

The Grindhouse was a music club located in a renovated factory building, with multiple floors connected by concrete stairs. It smelled of stale beer and sweat, although the stench didn’t appear to hurt its popularity—it was packed for a weeknight. Young adults and slightly older hipsters were pressed together in the shadowy, cavernous space where Ryan spoke with the club’s manager.

“If their credit cards say they were here, I’m sure they were, but I don’t remember them,” he said, speaking up to be heard above the noise as he handed back the photos of Nate and Matthew Boyce. He had shaggy grunge hair and multiple facial piercings. “As you can see, we draw a big crowd. Live bands seven nights a week.”

Ryan felt the heavy throb of bass coming from the floor above them. “Security cameras?”

“Parking lot only. It’s a digital system, set for auto-erase every seven days to save on media storage,” he said with a disinterested shrug, looking off to the bar area. “Sorry.”

Which meant any relevant footage had already been erased.

“Am I keeping you from something?” Ryan asked, irritated. “Because we’re talking about two dead police officers, both of whom were here in the weeks prior to their murders. Officer Boyce was here twice in May, Detective Weisz on June third.”

The manager’s brow wrinkled. “Were they on some kind of undercover assignment?”

“Should they have been?” Ryan inquired pointedly.

“This has been all over the news, Detective.” The manager nodded toward a large-screen television over the closest of several bars. “I’d like to help you out and say I remembered either of them being here, but I don’t.”