Fallen (6 page)

“Well, I’m going to get on upstairs. Ryan, there’s a load of clothes in the washer. Don’t forget to move them into the dryer,” she said, rinsing her glass and placing it in the dishwasher. “Lydia, honey, good to see you again.”

Ryan heard the door in the foyer close as Tess went onto the porch and made her way down the steps, leaving Lydia and him alone. Outside, a soughing breeze—rare on a sunny, summer day—jostled the wind chimes that hung from the bungalow’s rafters. Max leapt from Lydia’s lap and went to investigate something in another room.

“I like the flooring in the sunroom,” Lydia said, breaking the silence as she crossed her bare legs. She wore sandals, khaki shorts and a blue scoop-necked top.

“Tess showed you?”

She nodded. Ryan was proud of the work he’d done. He’d sanded away the layers of dark varnish to reveal the warm heart of pine panels original to the house, working on it on his days off. It served as a distraction.

“I guess you saw her painting then, too. It was a gift.”

She smiled softly. “It’s not half-bad.”

Ryan leaned against the counter, sipping his tea. It seemed strange to see her again, twice within twenty-four hours. “Mateo and I are taking the lead on the investigation into Nate’s murder. I’ve been working today, actually.”

“I wondered.” Lydia looked at his white dress shirt and dark trousers, his gold detective’s shield clipped to the belt at his waist. “You’re not exactly dressed for a Saturday.”

She stood then, folding her slender arms over her chest, and paced slowly around the kitchen, her eyes seeming to take in the changes Ryan had made since she’d moved out. There weren’t too many—a hanging copper pot rack, a stained-glass panel above the window over the sink. Ryan had bought the latter at an antique and salvage shop in the city’s Castleberry Hill arts district and trimmed it to fit the space. He noticed Lydia had stopped her pacing at the kitchen’s arched threshold, not braving the hallway that led to the two bedrooms that had been theirs and Tyler’s.

“Is there any new information?”

“Not really.” He indicated the cardboard box he’d brought inside. “Those are Nate’s case files. I’m going through them tonight, looking for someone—anyone—we might need to talk to.”

Looking at the box, Lydia bit her lip. “Be careful, all right?”

He knew what she was thinking. That if one of the people in Nate’s files was the shooter, he would likely feel threatened by another detective showing up and asking questions. Leaving his glass on the counter, Ryan walked to where she stood, deciding to ask what had been on his mind pretty much nonstop since the previous evening.

“Are you seeing Rick Varek?” he asked softly.

She looked up at him, surprise in her brown eyes. “Why would you—”

“Because he approached me last night at the hospital.” Ryan shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant, although he wasn’t certain he was pulling it off. “He made a point of telling me that you and he had become
good friends
. I got the impression he wanted me to know it was more than that.”

Lydia released a breath, her expression telling. “Ryan, I …”

He stepped a little closer. “You have a right. It’s just that I don’t like being blindsided by something like that.”

“I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Rick had no right to tell you.”

He felt a pain in his chest. “So you
are
together.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I mean, we’ve been out a few times, but it’s been casual. Dinner out, mostly. We talk about work.”

Ryan pressed his lips together to keep from asking the question that was nearly choking him.
Have you slept with him?
He swallowed down the hurt and jealousy. “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”

“He’s fifty. That’s not that old.”

It was growing later in the day, making the sunlight entering the room softer and more diffused. Lydia looked beautiful standing there in it, her complexion porcelain and her dark hair framing her face. Ryan suppressed a sigh. He realized if it weren’t Varek it would eventually be some other man who wanted to claim her. He’d better learn to deal with it.

She pushed her hair behind her ear in an almost nervous gesture. Then she walked back to the table and reached for her purse. “I should get going.”

Ryan shoved his hands inside his pockets, watching as she placed the bag’s strap over her shoulder and turned to face him. He didn’t want her to go, and he guessed his query had made her uncomfortable.

“Nate’s funeral is Wednesday,” he said. “Are you going?”

“I have to work. I might be able to get someone to trade shifts with me, though.”

He nodded, understanding the often-inflexible schedules of ER physicians. “There’s a wake being planned at McCrosky’s that night. Police only. You’re welcome to come by after your shift if you can’t make it to the funeral. You’re still considered part of the family.”

“Thanks. I might.” She sounded sincere.

Lydia touched his arm, her fingers lingering for a bare moment, and then left the house. Eventually, he heard her car start up and pull away from the street curb. For several long seconds, Ryan stood in silence, listening to the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. Then taking the cardboard box from the counter, he moved it into the sunroom, which contained cushioned rattan furniture and a desk he used for the glut of paperwork that came with his job. He would grab a quick shower and get started.

A wall made almost entirely of windows provided a view of the bungalow’s rear flagstone patio that was surrounded by a fence of low shrubs. Dogwoods and a massive, red-leafed Japanese maple shaded the area. Ryan crossed his arms over his chest, looking just beyond the backyard. A neighbor’s swimming pool caught the sunlight, its water dappled with gold.

He felt a familiar, dull ache fill him.

Following Tyler’s death, the pool had remained covered by a black tarp. But a few months ago, the former residents had sold the house. A new family had moved in and reopened the pool. Ryan hadn’t met them, and he had no idea whether they were unaware or insensitive to what had occurred on their property. He wondered if Lydia had seen it uncovered.

The lump in his throat grew larger.

He would gladly give his own life to bring Tyler back.

He’d been so focused on completing an investigational report that chilly January morning. He hadn’t heard the mudroom door opening, hadn’t noticed their sweet little boy had slipped out.

Belly knotted with guilt, he stared out at the tranquil-looking water until his cell phone rang. Clearing his throat, he dug into his pants pocket for the device, answering it.

“Ryan, it’s Darnell Richardson. I hear you and Mateo are taking the lead on Nate’s case.”

“Yeah.” Ryan squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not sure whether to offer my gratitude or condolences.” He added, “Look, I’ve got some information for you. I checked out John Watterson’s vehicle today, like you asked. Brand new Honda Accord that’s collecting dust now in his mother’s garage. The poor woman got it all cleaned up but says she can’t bear to sell it.”

He paused expectantly. “Thought you might want to know there’s a big key scratch on the driver’s side.”

Ryan felt a small jolt.

“Do you know if Watterson’s shield was missing after the shooting?”

“No.” Darnell sounded puzzled. “I didn’t ask.”

“That’s all right. I’ll find out.”

“What’re you thinking?” Darnell asked. “Gangbangers?”

Ryan glanced at the cardboard box. “I think it’s a good place to start.”

Chapter Five

Someone had placed
a single rose on Nate’s desk, a gesture marking the sense of loss that hung over the zone five precinct. It lay on the paper blotter amid the brown stains of coffee rings and nearly illegible notes Nate had made to himself while on the phone. Nearby, paperwork threatened to overflow his plastic in-box. Ryan leafed through the forms and memos even though he’d already gone through them after the briefing on Saturday, searching for something that might stand out.

There was also a framed photo of Kristen on the desk. He felt a tug of emotion.

Around him, the bullpen bustled with activity, some of it related to the investigation into Nate’s shooting, the rest focused on the dozens of other cases that screamed for attention. Ryan himself had three open homicides, now four including Nate’s.

“Hell of a start to a Monday,” Mateo commented over the shrill of a ringing phone. Looking at Nate’s desk, he shook his head and sipped from a mug of coffee, his third that morning. “I keep thinking he’s going to show up here, bitching about the traffic on Peachtree.”

Ryan had checked with the zone two detectives who’d caught Watterson’s murder—unlike with Nate, his shield had been accounted for. He’d been buried with it, in fact. Regardless, Ryan still believed the key scratches on both cars suggested some correlation. But in case his theory was wrong, he wanted to cover all potential avenues.

“Did you get hold of Hoyt and Chin?” he asked, referring to another pair of detectives.

“Yeah. They’re on their way to talk to Leo Moore and his PO.”

He’d identified Moore and a handful of others from Nate’s files over the weekend. Ryan had been searching for new arrests and pending indictments requiring the detective’s testimony, as well as older enemies possibly looking to settle a score. Leo Moore fell squarely into the latter category. Nate had arrested him for Schedule 1 drug possession with intent to distribute five years earlier, before he’d been partnered with Mike Perry. Moore had a long rap sheet, and word was he’d threatened Nate outside the courtroom at his hearing. According to the Georgia Department of Corrections, he’d been released from prison six weeks ago, which in Ryan’s mind was good enough reason to talk to him.

Done shuffling through the in-box, he turned, meeting Mateo’s evaluating gaze.

“Why do I get the feeling you sent Hoyt and Chin to see Moore because we’ve got bigger fish to fry?”

“We’re going looking for Quintavius Roberts.”

“Great,” Mateo grumbled. “Can we try to keep the tally to one dead detective?”

Quintavius Roberts was the leader of HB2, Atlanta’s most notorious street gang whose turf extended from the edges of the downtown to the shabby neighborhoods bordering the Braves’ Turner Field. Its illegal activities, primarily drug trafficking and car theft, kept it in continual conflict with law enforcement. The keyed vehicles—Nate’s and Watterson’s—suggested the possibility of gang involvement, since such vandalism against police was a common HB2 initiation rite.

What Ryan wanted to know was whether the initiation requirements had been upped a few levels to murder.

A short time later, he sat at his desk returning a phone call from a prosecuting attorney in the Fulton County DA’s office when he heard Captain Thompson’s gruff bark.

“Winter.” An older, African American bear of a man with a smoothly shaved head, he motioned Ryan to the corridor. Ryan wrapped up the call and met him.

“Nate’s wife is here to pick up his things. She asked for you.”

Ryan nodded. Yesterday, he’d called the relative’s house where Kristen was staying, but had been told she was at the funeral home finalizing arrangements. “Where is she?”

“I put her in interview room two.”

He headed through the lobby, then down the precinct’s corridor to the second room with a glass-panel observation window, pausing outside it. Through the blinds he could see Kristen, arms hugged around herself as she slowly paced. A cardboard box sat on the table. Ryan already knew what it contained since he had been through Nate’s locker, as well. As the investigation’s lead, in fact, he’d been the one to give the okay for the items’ release.

This wouldn’t be easy. He took a breath and entered.

“Kristen,” he rasped as he embraced her. She clung to him for a long moment, then pulled away and wiped her eyes. Her auburn hair was uncombed, and her face appeared to have aged a decade in the space of a few days.

“My brother-in-law told me you called. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, but I wasn’t up to talking.”

“That’s all right,” he said gently. “We can talk now. Why don’t you have a seat?”

He pulled out one of the chairs and waited for her to sit down. “Could I get you some coffee? Or water?”

When she refused, Ryan sat at the table across from her. “I’m sorry to have to do this, but I need to ask you some questions about Nate.”

“I understand. Oh …” She opened her purse and removed a cell phone. “Steve said you asked for this.”

She handed it to him. Although the wireless carrier had turned up little in Nate’s phone records, Ryan still planned to look through the device’s personal address book and calendar.

“I’ll get it back to you,” he promised. “Did anything seem out of the ordinary with Nate lately?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Any unusual hours?”

“Nate was a cop. All his hours were unusual.” She sniffled softly.

“What about phone calls?” Ryan was thinking of the heated exchange he’d heard Nate having on his cell the day before his murder. “Did he receive any unusual calls at home? Maybe a discussion or argument you overheard?”