Fallen (5 page)

It had been a freak accident. Tyler could have drowned on her watch, just as easily as Ryan’s. She was able to admit that to herself now. They had been two busy people juggling too many tasks. But it didn’t quell the emptiness in her heart.

Finishing her second glass of wine, she’d become unsure of how long she’d been standing there, just staring off into space. Leaving the empty goblet on the counter, Lydia went into the bathroom to prepare for bed. She took a sleeping pill, too, aware of the dangers of mixing it with alcohol. Turning down the comforter, she slid under the sheets and turned off the bedside lamp. The hazed glow of the city outside was her nightlight.

As she drifted to sleep, Lydia wondered what she always did—if Tyler had struggled, been afraid. If he’d felt any pain as his lungs filled.

His cries sometimes still woke her at night, the ghost sobs of a child who didn’t exist anymore.

Chapter Four

A
popular hangout
with police, McCrosky’s was a pub in a renovated brick building near Olympic Centennial Park. Entering the cool tavern, Ryan spotted his brother seated at one of the tables in back, near a windowed wall overlooking the park’s plaza and lawn.

“Could’ve used you on the courts today,” Adam said as Ryan slid onto the wooden bench across from him. Adam was thirty-three, younger than Ryan by five years and a uniformed police officer in another zone. However, he was currently dressed in basketball shorts, high-tops and a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a popular sporting goods manufacturer.

“Cops versus bucket boys,” he continued, referring to the traditional rivalry between police and firemen. He took a sip of his beer. “We got our asses kicked. It was a tragedy.”

“Sorry, I had to work.”

Adam’s expression turned serious. The brothers had similar features, but the younger Winter had inherited their father’s decidedly
Black Irish
genes. Where Ryan’s eyes were blue, Adam’s were a deep amber that complemented his dark hair. “You were assigned Nate Weisz’s murder?”

“Mateo and I are taking the lead,” Ryan said. In fact, they’d requested it despite an already full caseload. “But you know how things like these are. It’s pretty much a precinct-wide investigation. IA’s involved, too.”

The tense morning meeting had turned into an all-day event. After being briefed by Forensics on crime scene evidence, Ryan and Mateo had returned to the condominium building to re-canvass the area, looking for witnesses who might have been in or near the parking garage during the time of the shooting. They hadn’t fared well. Only a meth head loitering outside the building claimed to be a witness, and after a few questions it had become clear he was just looking for some cash. They’d also gone to Mike Perry’s home to discuss the current cases he and Nate were working, in hopes of identifying someone who might have posed a threat. Mike had been red-eyed and disheveled, smelling of whiskey and clearly grieving. But no one had stood out to him—at least no more than the next perp. No one had made any overt threats.

“Any leads?” Adam wanted to know.

Ryan shook his head. “I thought we had one, but it didn’t pan out.”

He’d gotten Nate’s phone records from the wireless carrier. Nate
had
received a call in the timeframe Ryan had seen him outside the precinct, but the number was a dead end, traced back to a payphone in the downtown’s Fairlie-Poplar District. He’d asked Mike about it, but he knew nothing about the mysterious call or any disagreements Nate might have been having with anyone. As much as he wanted to spare her, Ryan knew he would have to interview Kristen Weisz next. Perhaps Nate had confided in her about something he felt he couldn’t share with his partner.

Nate’s files were in Ryan’s vehicle. He planned to pore over them to come up with a list of arrestees—both recent and past—who might be worth looking into.

“Where’s Mateo?” Adam asked.

“He went home to spend time with his family. Thanks for meeting me.”

“Not a problem.” Adam took another sip of beer, his lips quirking up in a grin. “You
are
buying, right?”

“Hi, Ryan.” He looked up. Molly, one of the bar’s waitresses, stood next to the table. Her normally bright smile was missing. “We’re all so sorry to hear about Nate.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“They’re having the wake here on Wednesday night, after the funeral. Just police. Frank’s closing the place down,” she said, referring to the bar’s owner. Frank was a retired officer himself. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have one of those.” Ryan indicated Adam’s beer. “And a club sandwich.”

“Coming up.”

Adam waggled his near-empty bottle. “Bring me another, Mol? And some chips with queso?”

She nodded amicably and tossed her long, blond hair over one shoulder, turning and heading back toward the kitchen. Adam made a point of admiring her retreat.

“You’re not ordering a meal?” Ryan asked, adding, “I mean, with me
buying
and all.”

“I’ve got a dinner date in a few hours. A girl from my gym.” He gave his brother a pointed look. “I take it you
have
heard of dates?”

Ryan pressed his lips together, not liking where he knew the conversation was headed.

“Maybe you should try having one yourself.”

He met his brother’s stare. He expected to see a teasing light in Adam’s eyes, but his expression was hard. “It’s been nearly a year, Ry. Just forget her, all right? You need to stop acting like a dead man.”

He didn’t respond. Through the window, Ryan could see the Fountain of Rings inside Centennial Olympic Park. It was late afternoon, and children ran and splashed in its sprays, taking a reprieve from the sweltering heat. He recalled bringing Tyler to the fountain on a summer’s day much like this one. He and Lydia had both been off from work, and they’d packed a picnic lunch, part of a
staycation
inside the city. His chest tightened as he stared out. Tyler had always loved water, had never had any fear of it.

“I might as well be talking to one of the barstools,” Adam grumbled. “Why
did
you want me to meet you?”

Ryan thought about what to say. He didn’t want to spread unfounded rumors or create undue fear, but Adam was his little brother. Their father had died in the line of duty when Ryan himself was barely a teenager, and in many ways he had raised Adam as much as their mother had.

“Look,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s merely speculation at this point, but there’re some similarities between Nate’s murder and the shooting of an off-duty police officer six weeks ago—”

“The rent-a-cop at the package store on Howell Mill.”

“Same type bullets. Both guns probably had a silencer. The MO’s similar, too.” Ryan frowned, thinking of the newest thing they’d learned. Nate’s shield was missing. It hadn’t been among his personal effects.

“What does this have to do with me?” Adam asked.

He sighed. “Nothing, really. I just want you to be careful. Wear a vest—”

“I do when I’m on duty. Or at least most of the time. It’s like, what? Ninety outside? You try wearing one in this heat and chasing a perp down some alley.”

“It’s protocol, and I
have
tried it,” Ryan reminded. “I wore a uniform for four years.”

Adam had always been an adrenaline junkie, which was why he’d stuck with patrol for so long. It was where most of the action was. After high school, he’d gone straight into the military. There had been no talking him out of it. After two tours in Afghanistan, he’d worked in counternarcotics special operations in Costa Rica before returning to Atlanta, completing college and joining the force.

“Just do what I say for once?”

Adam rolled his eyes.

“Beers for the Winter boys.” Molly reappeared at their table bearing two bottles and the chips and queso Adam had ordered. She laid a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and smiled at him. “Your food will be right out.”

Once she’d moved to another table, Adam grinned, his dimples deepening as he dunked a tortilla chip into the gooey cheese. “Hey, what about Molly? She likes you. It’s pretty obvious. She’s always asking about you. If you’re looking to get back in the saddle …”

Ryan shook his head, irritated.

“What?” Adam wanted to know. “On the hot scale she’s at least a nine, maybe a nine and a half—”

“Then why don’t you ask her out? She’s what? In her mid-twenties? She’s too young for me, and she’s more your type, anyway.”

Adam raised his hands in defense. “Sorry, all right?” His dark eyes grew somber. “I just want my brother to stop hanging on to a life that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“I’m not hanging on to anything.”

It was Adam’s turn to sound annoyed. “Yeah. You keep telling yourself that.”

His words stuck with Ryan as he made his way to his parked vehicle a little more than a half hour later. The sun had dropped in the sky, allowing the tall city buildings to provide some shade, although it had little impact on the humidity. Heat roiled from the interior of his black Ford Explorer as he climbed inside. Adam meant well,
he did
, but Ryan knew he was angry with Lydia. He didn’t like the way she had shut down on him after Tyler’s death, or that she’d been the one to finally walk out of their marriage.

Deep down, he knew Adam had a point about him needing to move on with his life.

On the Downtown Connector, he took the exit for Freedom Parkway and the Jimmy Carter Center, traveling under the covered bridge and past a row of old warehouses toward Inman Park. Containing Victorian-style cottages, Craftsman and Arts and Crafts bungalows interspersed with contemporary lofts, the historic urban neighborhood was in the midst of revitalization. Ryan and Lydia had bought the house before Tyler was born, and they’d spent nearly all their free time renovating and repairing the single-story home that was nearly a century old. Even now, a few projects remained.

As Ryan pulled onto Blue Willow Lane, his stomach did a small somersault. Lydia’s Volvo sat on the street in front of the house. Parking in the single-car driveway, he extracted the cardboard box of Nate’s files from the SUV’s rear, then walked up the front steps onto the covered porch and went inside. Lydia was seated at the breakfast table with Tess Greene.

“Lydia’s here,” Tess announced to Ryan, smiling brightly as she pushed her long, silver braid behind her back. Active and vibrant although well into her sixties, Tess leased the small studio apartment over the house’s detached garage. She also did some housekeeping for Ryan in exchange for a reduced monthly rent.

“I see that.” His heart beat a little harder as his eyes held Lydia’s.

She indicated the plastic baggie on the table in front of her, which contained syringes. “I brought insulin and needles for Max. They were in my backpack last night, but I forgot to give them to you. I put the insulin in the fridge.”

As if on cue, the tabby’s yellow eyes peered over the table’s edge. He sat on Lydia’s lap, purring like a motorboat as she stroked his fur.

“Thanks.” Ryan walked to the butcher-block counter and heaved the heavy cardboard box onto it.

“We’re having sweet tea,” Tess said. “You want some?”

Ryan clasped the back of his neck. His dress shirt was damp from the day’s oppressive heat, and the beer at McCrosky’s hadn’t done much to relieve his thirst. He removed his shoulder holster and laid it with the gun still inside next to the box of Nate’s files. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

Tess rose and went to get him a glass. She wore black leggings and a blue smock top splattered with paint. Tess was an artist, although she sold most of her paintings and drawings at flea markets and festivals, or in the funky shops in Little Five Points, as opposed to one of the upscale galleries in Buckhead or downtown. Ryan also suspected the former hippie indulged in a little weed, and he ignored the faint smell like burning rope that sometimes wafted across the yard from Tess’s apartment. Although Tess hadn’t moved in until after the divorce, she’d gotten to know Lydia during her occasional visits to the house.

“Lydia,” Tess fretted as she stood at the refrigerator, her eyes on the window over the table, “there’s a wasp in here.”

The wasp buzzed and bumped against the pane, angrily trying to find a way out. Lydia remained perfectly still, appearing unfazed, although Ryan knew she was probably recoiling internally. The insect’s presence caused a dart of apprehension to sail through him, too. Lydia was highly allergic to bees of any kind. A single sting could send her into anaphylactic shock.

“Don’t move,” he instructed. He picked up the copy of
The
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
from the table. Rolling it up, he used it to smack the wasp, which dropped to the black-and-white tiled floor.

“I knew the
AJC
was good for something,” he said cynically, a cop’s joke.

“Thanks.” Lydia watched as he stepped on the wasp to ensure it was dead, then scooped it up with the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket.

“Do you still carry your EpiPen?”

“It’s in my purse.”

Tess handed Ryan his tea. She’d placed a slice of lemon in it, which floated on top like a yellow wagon wheel.