Toronto Tales 1 - Cop Out (3 page)

She wrinkled her brows. The question was odd, no doubt, but he was finding he had a lot of latitude since the incident. Which was fine by him. He wanted to keep Davy and Sandra to himself for the time being—at least until he’d decided what to make of them. Not realizing Ben had a baby on the way with a wife Kurt didn’t know about was one thing, but suggesting anything about a connection to Davy, if it were untrue, wouldn’t go down well with his colleagues. He must have been mistaken about the source of Davy’s grief. Either way, Kurt had to be the worst detective ever.

“Well, mine comes around the fourth month and leaves by the fifth, but Colleen and Caitlyn both had it from about the fifth month until they gave birth.” Just like the twins, always had to be the same.

“What about Heather?” Mike was the O’Donnells’ second-eldest child, and his wife of three years was still getting used to their large brood. She didn’t share everything like his sisters did and her pregnancy last year was well advanced before she confirmed it for anyone. It was the puffiness that had his sisters and mother speculating, though, which is why he’d noticed it so quickly on Sandra.

“It was hard to tell with Heather. But I think we all suspected in her fourth month also.”

 

“So, not before you know you’re pregnant, right?”

“No. You know by then. Are you sure you’re talking about a woman at the funeral? Wait…. You didn’t get some poor girl in trouble, did you?”

Okay, not as much latitude as he thought. “No, Erin. I haven’t gotten a girl in trouble.” He had to date for that to happen, and he’d gotten so tired of the scene, he hadn’t bothered in weeks… months. His brother, Ian, was practically addicted to dating, but Kurt didn’t know why he went to all the effort. Kurt missed sex, but it wasn’t a whole lot better than jacking off, and it was always fraught with stress over whether he was doing it right and…. Fuck. He was not going to think about sex while sitting in his mother’s kitchen with his sister.

“Nothing more than a cop’s natural nosiness, I promise. But it’s not important. I thought I was supposed to play games with my nieces.”

Erin called the girls to the kitchen, and he played while she cooked. But he couldn’t shake the idea that Ben had to have known about the baby. Kurt never sensed a day of elation in him, or conversely, depression. Not once. How long had Ben been married? He positively itched to call in the plate number he’d memorized, but if his boss found out he’d used department resources for personal reasons, he’d be in deep shit.

F
OR
a week and a half, Kurt went through the motions. He went to all his physiotherapy appointments, saw the department-mandated psychiatrist, filled out forms for his short-term disability, discussed with his doctor when he could return to work, spent time with his family, and visited with friends from the force who dropped by. But he couldn’t shake the memory of Davy’s haunted brown eyes.

When he woke Tuesday morning, three weeks to the day from Ben’s death, he found his brother Mike in the living room reading the paper.

“Don’t you have to work today?” He needed to go back to his apartment. His arm was fucked up still, and his knee unsteady, but he wasn’t a baby, for God’s sake. Since getting out of the hospital, he hadn’t had one minute to himself.

“Took the morning off. I’ve got lots of time accrued.” His brother was an investment banker, and a damned good one. Like the rest of the family, he was a hard worker, and rarely took vacation. As irritating as it was, it warmed him inside to know his family was here for him. “I’ll take you to your doctor’s appointment.”

Although he didn’t need his left knee to drive, no one wanted him getting behind the wheel and risking tearing the stitches in his arm if he needed to react in a hurry. Made him feel even more like a helpless child, getting chauffeured around everywhere. This appointment was to remove the stitches, but he probably wouldn’t be cleared to drive yet.

“Can we stop by the station first?”

“What for?” Mike set his newspaper aside and narrowed his eyes. He was the most outspoken, besides their mother, about Kurt not going back to work before he was ready. But that wasn’t why Kurt wanted to go in. He wasn’t in a hurry to go back to a desk job, to sit staring day after day at the seat Ben should have filled, until he was cleared to go back on active duty. Or even worse, to sit across from a new partner.

“I need to talk to my boss. About forms and stuff. Whether Ben’s desk needs to be cleared out.”
“I’m sure that’s done, squirt.” Mike’s tone was gentle. “But just in case, let’s go after your appointment, so you don’t have to rush.”

His brother stood and gave him a quick, gentle squeeze around his shoulders.

 

“Thanks, Mike.”

H
E STARED
at the blocky building. Had he ever come here off duty? Not since he’d dropped off the final paperwork when he was hired on. “Can you pick me up later?”

Mike patted his shoulder. “No problem. There’s a coffee shop around the corner. Give me a call when you’re ready. You’ve got your cell with you?”

Kurt rolled his eyes. He was a cop, a detective, for God’s sake. His cell was almost as important as his gun. He hadn’t carried his gun since the incident, so he’d kept his phone almost obsessively close.

“Yeah, Mikey, I’ll call when I’m done.”

With the cane, he was able to maneuver out of the low-slung vehicle without too much struggle. He shut the door and walked slowly into the building.
T
HE
greetings of his coworkers and friends were an uncomfortable mix of happy-to-see-him and sad-to-see-him-alone. Resolutely, he made his

way to Nadar’s office without looking at the corner that housed his and Ben’s desks.

“O’Donnell. What are you doing here? Ready to get back on the desk? Because I think you should take some more time.” The shuffling papers gave away Nadar’s nervousness. Which made Kurt nervous in turn.

After closing the office door behind him, he sat down across from his boss. “Sir, I need Ben’s home address.”

 

Eyebrows rose into Nadar’s hairline. “Care to elaborate?”

“You said you went to inform the family. I think you informed someone else besides Ben’s mother.”
“Well, you are one of my best detectives. Are you sure you want this? If you’re asking, I can only assume Ben didn’t trust you with this information.”

More fucking tears welled up in his eyes. “And I’m sick about that, Sir. He should have. I am… was… his partner. And I need this. Please.”

“As long as I don’t hear about you doing anything stupid.” “No, Sir.”

A few pen scratches later and his boss passed him a sticky note with an address.
“Thank you, Sir. What about Ben’s personal items?”

“I already looked. I was going have them boxed up, but aside from his case notes, there was nothing more than snack food in his desk. There were some spare clothes in his locker, which I returned already.”

This wasn’t new information, but it held more portent than it had before. Kurt tucked the note into his pocket and headed to Ben’s desk. He sat in the chair. None of the chairs were comfortable, but sitting in Ben’s chair, viewing a different angle of the department, was odd. The other detectives were considerate enough to pretend he wasn’t there, keeping their eyes averted as he opened drawers and closed them, hoping to find something personal of Ben’s that Nadar missed. Even the mug was standard issue. The inspector might have called him one of the best detectives, but that couldn’t be true. Not when he missed Ben’s lack of personal items at work. There were no pictures, nothing with sentimental value, nothing denoting causes he supported or things he found humorous. Kurt should have pushed, asked more questions. Shown Ben—somehow—he was worthy of trust.

Unable to sit there any longer, he made sure he still had the sticky note Nadar gave him and called his brother.

S
ATURDAY
afternoon, he got out of a taxi and stood on the sidewalk. His physiotherapist would kill him, but he held the cane in his left hand. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but it was a hell of lot better than using his left hand to carry the heavy sack containing a Crock-Pot full of his mom’s famous Irish stew. And he couldn’t handle both in his right hand. Besides, if things went according to plan, he wouldn’t be bringing the Crock-Pot back. Not full, and not right away.

The small, single-story house in front of him had been neat and tidy. Not that it looked run down, but until recently, someone had been caring for it with almost obsessive precision. That precision had softened, or maybe it was just Kurt’s imagination. A small car he didn’t recognize sat in the drive alongside Ben’s pristine yet environmentally unfriendly classic car. Neither were the car he saw Davy get into at the funeral, and both were covered in a thin layer of dust.

He bit his lip and marched forward. The mailbox was full, overflowing even. Not a particularly safe practice even if you were at home. Criminals would see an easy target, assuming the homeowner was on vacation. He peered at the envelopes hanging out of the mailbox like feathers hanging from a smug cat’s maw. Davy Broussard. Good. Now he had a full name.

Raising the cane, he used it to stab at the doorbell. A faint chime resounded behind the door. He waited. Peeked through the window at the side. A stack of newspapers sat side by side with several pairs of shoes and a briefcase, but with the glare of the sun, he couldn’t see much else.

This time, he used the cane to rap forcefully on the door. He didn’t want Davy avoiding him.

Several long seconds later, the deadbolt slid back, and a rumpled, pajama-clad Davy peered at him. Pajamas. At three in the afternoon. His eyes—only marginally less blood shot than at the funeral— widened in alarm, but with no signs of recognition.

“Can I help you?” Wow. Did the guy ever have a nice voice. Deeper than he would have expected from such a skinny guy. He could do commercials or something for sure. And he didn’t remember Davy being taller than him, but the two inches he had on Kurt’s six feet were nothing compared to the approximately fifty pounds of extra muscle Kurt had. Kurt might be shorter, but he was a hell of a lot bigger.

“Hi, I’m Kurt O’Donnell. Ben’s partner, remember?” Davy inhaled sharply, a near-gasp, like he’d done at the funeral. Was it hearing Ben’s name that distressed him? “May I come in? My leg is starting to hurt.” It wasn’t, but it was a good excuse. He sensed Davy wanted to slam the door in his face, but he was determined to prevent that. There were questions that he needed answered, but more important was his sense of obligation as Ben’s partner.

“Oh, sure.” Politeness overrode Davy’s first inclination, and Kurt didn’t give him a chance to change his mind as he pushed his way into the house.

“Where’s the kitchen?”

 

“Why?” Davy pointed to the back of the house—mechanically, instead of a true willingness to have Kurt in his kitchen.

“Because I brought food.”
“Why?”

Kurt shook his head. As he walked to the back of the house, he couldn’t see anything but generic décor applied with military precision. Nothing personal, vibrant, or alive, except for the jumble of shoes and newspapers by the front door.

The kitchen was the whitest room he’d seen in his life, and that included the hospital room he’d recently spent three days in. The only speck of non-white came from the black burners on the stove and the chrome taps at the sink. After heaving the Crock-Pot onto the counter, he grimaced slightly. It was his mother’s old one, with a dark green ceramic liner and a garish line drawing of a red rooster on the front. And it looked almost obscene sitting on the white counter in the whiteout conditions of the kitchen. Was this what Davy liked? This… nothingness? Even Kurt’s shitty apartment had a blue sofa and colored dishtowels, for God’s sake.

He shrugged. He was here, he’d have to make the best of it. Hope Davy at least appreciated the sentiment. By rights, he should have been here much sooner, but his lack of mobility affected his decision as much as the fact that Davy didn’t know him any better than Kurt knew Davy.

After he’d fiddled with the pot and got everything set up, he turned around. Davy sat slumped at the kitchen table, chin propped up by a hand, eyelids at half-mast. Bags under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks spoke loudly of how difficult the past couple of weeks had been. Even more startling was how Davy, with his pale-blue pajamas and his dark brown hair, somehow managed to fade away to nothing in this painter’s blank canvas of a room. Kurt expected him to stand out like a rose among the weeds, but the whiteness camouflaged him.

“Are you okay?”

 

Davy nodded with his eyes, like he was too tired to move his whole head. “Sandra’s not here, you know.”

What? “Um. I know?” A light flickered on in his mind. The conclusion he’d drawn at the funeral, that Sandra was Ben’s wife or girlfriend, had been an intentional misdirection on Davy’s part. Maybe Ben and Davy lied to
everyone
about their relationship, not just Kurt.

“Why are you here, then?” Davy asked.
“I’m sorry, I should have been here earlier.”

A puzzled look crossed Davy’s face, and he peered at the clock on the wall. “Today? I’m sorry, did we have an appointment?”
Kurt’s cheeks heated. He’d barged in here, without an invitation, and Davy didn’t seem to know what the hell to make of him or the situation. Maybe if the poor guy had slept since Ben’s death—which didn’t look likely—his coping skills would be better.

“I’m here because you’re here, not Sandra.”

The words made Davy’s eyes open fully, and he sat straight in his chair. “What do you mean?” His chest fluttered rapidly like a frightened bird… or a man about to faint from hyperventilation.

Kurt scooted to his knees in front of Davy, pain screaming through his injured joint, which he ignored. “Breathe, man, breathe. Slowly. In. Out. There’s no reason to be afraid of me, I promise.”

He lightly gripped Davy’s knees as he spoke, getting Davy to focus on him, on breathing.

A few minutes later, Davy was no longer in danger of fainting, and Kurt levered himself into another chair. He’d just reacted, but those reactions would have his physiotherapist yelling at him for sure. He might even need to dig out the prescription painkillers he still had half a bottle of, when he got back to his mom’s. But he had more pressing concerns.