A Mended Man (The Men of Halfway House Book 4)

by Jaime Reese

  "Manny Reyes is going to head up the task force."

  Aidan shook his head and raised his hands. Manny was the most pigheaded, self-centered son of a bitch he knew—excluding, of course, the man who seemed to stare back at him from every reflective surface that day. He often served as his department's mouthpiece when the press needed a statement. When things went badly, Manny zeroed in on people's weaknesses and went in for the attack like a ravenous pit bull. No one ever knew where they stood with the man, and it was that unexpectedness that made one question their loyalty to him.

  "No way. We're like oil and water. Besides, his focus is special victims. You and I agreed that's one area not up for negotiation."

  The captain stacked a few folders on his desk then crossed his arms. "You're in it. Stop arguing with me on this."

  "It's not going to work."

  "You have that third eye and usually see things differently in cases. It's multi-jurisdictional, so the fact that you occasionally liaise with the FBI makes you a logical addition to the team. I think the team synergy will work well."

  "Third eye? Team synergy? Wow, Harry. You're reaching."

  The older man rubbed his balding head and winced. "I need you to bend a little here. You're the best detective I've got and I need to keep you in the field working cases. The higher-ups want you on the team. It's bad enough I have to deal with the FBI trying to steal you away from me. If you don't agree to this, you'll be relegated to desk duty."

  Aidan frowned. Paperwork all day every day would be a slow death. Then again, working with Manny could be a close second.

  "Try it and see how it goes. If Manny's a prick about it, we'll figure something out. Just give me a heads-up if you think you're getting close to putting a bullet in him," Harry said with a hint of a smile. "Deal?"

  Aidan blew out an exasperated breath. People. They always pried too much into his business, asking questions and invading his space. Why the hell did everyone always feel the need to interfere in someone else's life? As if that wasn't enough, there was the issue of trust. Trust didn't magically appear upon assignment of a team.

  He sighed heavily. "I'll give it a shot."

  "No shooting, please. Just promise you'll try."

  Aidan chuckled. His captain knew him well. If Aidan didn't want to do something, no one could force him. Period. He held his right fist up to his chest. "I am your humble servant, my captain."

  Harry laughed. "Bullshit. Now get out of here and have a great weekend. I need you to come in all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first thing Monday morning."

  Aidan stood and made his way toward the door. "By the way," he began, looking over his shoulder before exiting, "I wouldn't leave you for the FBI. They'd demand the tie." He wouldn't leave his job or his captain. Not only did the man put up with his shit, he took Aidan at his word and let him do his job with the least amount of meddling possible. The captain had earned his trust over the years.

  "Glad to know that's the only reason," Harry responded with a knowing grin.

  Aidan quickly turned and exited, hiding the hint of a smile that tugged at his lips. He had a reputation to protect and quickly steeled his features. He'd try the task force. Besides, he didn't have much of a choice. Pushing papers all day was not an option. A paper cut would be certain death.

  * * * *

  Aidan turned on the couch and rolled onto his side, ignoring the vibrating cell phone dancing across his small living room table.

  Persistent son of a bitch.

  The constant vibrating wreaked havoc on the peaceful white noise of the television station. He cracked open an eye and raised his arm to look at his wristwatch. Two in the morning. Someone was going to suffer for this.

  He reached over and grabbed his cell phone, instinctively catching the picture frame before it slid off his chest and onto the floor. He held the frame protectively in one hand and looked at the phone's caller ID in the other. No way. His first weekend off in weeks. Why the hell was someone calling him from the precinct?

  He swiped his finger across the screen. "Yeah," he croaked, incredibly thankful he had bypassed the beer the night before and opted to crash on the couch naturally.

  "Detective Calloway, I'm patching through a call from the field," the dispatcher said, the line clicking then silencing.

  Aidan waited—not so patiently—while the call connected.

  "Detective Calloway?" the male voice said on the other end of the line.

  "Who's this?" Aidan asked, needing to know exactly whose ass had to be kicked.

  "This is Detective Jason Palmer. I contacted Detective Manny Reyes and briefed him on the crime scene and he urged me to contact you directly."

  Of course he had. Manny knew better than to be the one placing the call to Aidan on his weekend off.

  "I'm responding to a call that is potentially connected to one of the cases the task force will be handling."

  Aidan sat up on the couch and carefully set the picture frame on the table. He ran his fingers through his hair as he sighed. Jason was a newly hired detective transferred from the southern region. Definitely green and probably going through some major culture shock trying to settle into the Miami pace. Working the streets for a month did not prepare the southern gentleman for the revolving door of criminal cases at their Miami precinct. Manny was probably sitting back at home laughing his ass off knowing he had sent Jason to the big bad wolf. Screw Manny. Aidan could do nice…if he tried really, really hard.

  "Hi, Jason. Call me Aidan. I'm scheduled to start on the task force on Monday so I'm not familiar with any existing cases in their workload."

  "Yes, sir. But…I think you need to be here."

  Aidan sighed. Mr. Southern Charm was probably on his own and overwhelmed handling the crime scene. Rather than be a prick, Aidan opted to grin and bear it. He was awake anyway. He reached over to pull the pen out of his jacket hanging on the back of the chair. He snatched the magazine from the coffee table and flipped it over. "Give me the address." He jotted down the information and disconnected the call with a promise to be there within fifteen minutes.

  He lowered his head and took a deep breath. He'd managed to steal a few hours' sleep, but it still didn't seem like enough. He reached out and grabbed the framed photograph. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at the sight of the three familiar faces, two of which always seemed to give him a sense of peace. On one end of the pictured trio was Hunter Donovan, former assistant state attorney and Aidan's best friend of more than a decade. Not only had they served together in the Marines, Hunter was his mentor, best friend, and close enough to consider a brother. He hadn't seen him in well over a year since he'd entered the WITSEC program with his partner, Cameron Pierce.

  On the other end of the trio was Aidan with one of his rare smiles. The Three Amigos, Hunter had called them. He huffed his amusement at the memory of that moment when Hunter had come up with the name while they were burning the midnight oil every night for weeks working Cam's case in this very same house—Hunter's former house, which he had left to Aidan when he'd entered the program.

  Between Hunter's commanding six-foot-four stature and Aidan's lean but broad six-foot-one frame stood the man who always seemed to trigger that smile in Aidan. Jessie Vega. At barely five foot eight inches tall and a trim physique, he seemed even smaller bookended by the two figures in the photo, but his smile radiated a vibrant energy larger than life.

  Jessie.

  Aidan ghosted his finger over the picture, outlining the familiar features of the man who always made his heart beat a little faster—his dark hair, those bright blue eyes, and that huge smile. There Jessie stood between them in one of his sharp, dark suits, polished and professional as always. He sighed. Jessie. The man he had fallen in love with more than a year ago as they continued their work on taking down the drug and organized crime ring linked to Cameron's case. The one man who seemed to bring a glimmer of light into his dark life. The only person in the last six years who'd
managed to draw Aidan in and awaken a desire to see the positive in the world with his ever-present smile and gentle nature.

  He'd fallen hopelessly in love, even though he had fought it every step of the way.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. They had started with random texts and phone calls or the occasional visit at the precinct to discuss potential leads. Somehow, during the last six months, that had transitioned to spending every available weekend moment together, even if only for a few hours at a time, with the excuse of working together to close out the cases. He sensed a mutual attraction—like an unspoken current between them, always present, always alluring. During their moments together, he enjoyed every casual brush and the easy laughter that escaped Jessie from some comment Aidan made over a working lunch or dinner. And when Jessie unconsciously touched his arm to draw his attention, a spark always ignited at the point of contact. Jessie's magical touch somehow stilled Aidan's inner storm.

  It was the tiny things. The private things. The things most people took for granted with the people they loved.

  Aidan didn't take anything for granted. There'd never be anything more between them than friendship so he cherished every microscopic gesture, comment, word, and smile. Memorizing every subtle nuance in the things Jessie said and did, engraving them in his mind and storing them away to recall at some later time when the darkness became suffocating and he needed a memory that would serve as a beacon to pull him from the abyss.

  He ran a hand down his face, willing his mind to focus on the present. He rose from the couch and entered his bedroom, carefully returning the picture frame to its place on his desk. He grabbed a crisp white shirt from his closet, buttoning up and tucking the shirt into his worn jeans, and headed into the living room. He slid on his shoulder holster and reached for his badge and sport coat on the way out the door, sneaking a peek at his watch and giving himself a pat on the back for making it out of the house quicker than anticipated. Nice and punctual. That was a surefire way to shock the night crew and keep them on their toes.

  Aidan drove along the highway, enjoying the Miami skyline. He loved his city and the way the lights flickered in the evening, accenting each peak of the graceful man-made landscape. The city, in all her seductive elegance, dared both tourist and city natives to venture and explore what she offered. But he wasn't fooled. Behind the stunning skyline, vivid nightlife, and two-hundred-foot-tall dancing silhouette illuminating the cityscape, a darkness lay within the beautifully colored buildings. A darkness that was all too familiar. Dealing with homicide cases on a daily basis was enough to taint the facade of beauty. And working as a liaison with the FBI on Cameron's case and discovering the dirty line of politicians, officials, corporations, and other random arrests yanked the color right out of his high-definition world.

  He arrived at the address, immediately greeted with the typical crime scene staff parked outside the building. Even though there were familiar uniformed officers working the curious crowd of onlookers, something…seemed off. An ambulance instead of a coroner's vehicle? Why the hell were EMTs at a homicide? He flashed his badge at the officers blocking off the public with crime scene tape. He spotted Officer Max Banks, one of the seasoned night-shift patrolmen, and saluted him in greeting.

  "I thought you had the weekend off?" Max asked, walking over to him.

  "I did."

  Max snickered. "Jason must have called you then."

  Aidan nodded and ducked under the crime scene tape.

  "Poor guy is struggling up there."

  "Calloway to the rescue," he said sardonically. Aidan clipped his badge on his belt and headed up the stairs, spotting Jason flipping pages on his small notebook in the doorway of the second floor apartment. "Hi, Jason."

  Detective Palmer looked up, an obvious wave of relief passing over his features. "Detective Calloway, thank you for coming so quickly."

  "Tell me why I'm here."

  "I believe you know the victim."

  Aidan stilled.

  "He's in the bedroom and won't let anyone near him."

  Aidan lowered his brow. Won't let anyone near him? Corpses didn't put up much of a fight. And they weren't fighting a zombie apocalypse the last time he checked. He shook his head, obviously having heard the wrong words. He must be more tired than he had originally thought. He followed Jason into the small apartment, trying to make sense of the situation. He sharply turned at the muffled voices coming from the end of the hall. I believe you know the victim. He took a deep breath. If the victim was still alive and kicking, he damn sure needed to get in the right headspace or risk making an ass of himself.

  No fucking way would he crack in front of anyone.

  He looked around, hoping to find something—anything—that would help him make the connection to this supposed person he knew.

  "He's in the bedroom, sir," Jason repeated.

  Aidan turned and gave Jason a pointed glare. He didn't need the same information repeated. "You said I knew the victim?"

  "Yes, I believe you might."

  Aidan sighed. Why the hell did Jason need so much prompting? Tick tock. Just fork over the information and move on. He scanned the room, not spotting much of anything in the spartan living room—no pictures on the solid-colored walls, nothing but a couch, a corner table, and small television. Unless you counted the framed photo on the end table as clutter, this place was devoid of anything personal and barer than his own place…and he was the Webster definition of minimalist. "What's the crime and what's the vic's name?"

  "He was attacked—"

  Aidan stopped him with a raised hand then planted both hands on his hips and sighed. He closed his eyes and willed his temper to take a backseat. Nice…be fucking nice. "Jason, I'm trying here. I'm really trying. I don't work assault cases and Detective Reyes knows that. But you asked me to come, so I'm here."

  "Yes, sir. But you may know this victim."

  "Jason," he said as calmly as he could muster, looking over his shoulder at another rise in the voices from the room, sensing the urgency of the scene. His focus snapped back to the officer. "I need you to stop repeating everything and just give me information so I know what I'm dealing with before I set foot in that room. So give me a very quick rundown. I need the vic's name, anything relevant you've gathered in statements from the neighbors. Quickly." He added the latter with emphasis. "Something new. And I swear, if you waste any more time and repeat anything you've said again, you're going to understand why Reyes had you call me rather than him picking up the phone."

  Jason's eyes rounded. "Yes, sir." He flipped through the pages of his notebook, back and forth. "Reyes said the task force was going to handle a case with a series of attacks crossing over into Florida in the last two weeks. He's not sure if the cases are related, but he thought you would be best to call since you know the victim."

  Repeater Jason irked him. He walked over to the end table in the bare living room, hoping to learn something from the only personal item he could see in the room. He couldn't deny needing a few more precious seconds to mentally prepare for walking into a scene with an assault victim holding center stage. Especially someone he supposedly knew.

  "I found your business card held up with magnets on the refrigerator. That's why I think you might know the victim. Sorry, I've already said that," Jason said, flipping the pages back and forth. "The building manager came by. According to the lease, the victim's name is…um." More page flipping back and forth.

  Aidan picked up the picture frame from the table—a copy of the same photograph that sat on the desk in his bedroom.

  The same one he had held to his chest less than thirty minutes ago.

  His heart jackhammered in his chest.

  The picture frame shook in his hand.

  "His name is Jessiah Vargas."

  "Jessie Vega?" He gripped the frame tightly and screwed his eyes shut, trying to swallow past the knot that seemed to suddenly choke him. He couldn't breathe and the fingers wrapped around the ed
ge of the picture frame started to numb.

  "Sir, it's possible. I was writing down the notes rather quickly. The building manager should be back at any moment with a copy of the lease if you need to see it. The lock on the entry door is damaged and someone called 9-1-1 when they heard yelling. We arrived a few minutes before I called you, but he won't let the EMTs near him."

  A garbled yell came from down the hall. Aidan jerked the frame back onto the table, the adrenaline pumping through his veins pushing him down the narrow hallway to the cluster of people in a few long strides. The blood drained from his body and weakened him at the sight.

  He'd walked into tons of crime scenes before. He had walked through minefields, jumped out of planes and landed smack dab in the middle of enemy territory with bullets flying. He'd seen and experienced more than his share of brutality, violence, and death. But this? Nothing could have prepared him for this.

  Or the sudden, breath-stealing pain that speared his heart.

  There, in the middle of the bed, sat Jessie, battered, riddled with bruises all over his body. His face beaten—his cheek, lips, and one eye already swollen shut. His leg was oddly bent, obviously broken in several places with the bones pushing his skin taut. Blood was smeared on his body and bedding. Arcs of blood spattered the otherwise plain, solid-colored walls. He firmly held out what appeared to be broken glass, on guard in front of him, while his other arm hung at his side like a broken wing, with the wrist at an odd angle. A steady trickle of blood dripped from his outstretched hand and down along his arm.

  "Sir, we need to get you to the hospital," the EMT standing to Jessie's right said.

  Jessie swung his hand to his right, ready to attack. He tried to move on the bed, but his broken leg restricted his movement.

  "Sir, please," the EMT to his left said in the same coaxing tone.

  Jessie swung his arm to his opposite side and winced, but still held the broken glass in his hand.

  The voices of the EMTs sounded distant and everything slowed around Aidan. His heartbeat thumped in his ears, muffling every other sound in the room. He couldn't rip his eyes away from the swollen cheeks and the bruises scattered along Jessie's body. Each mark, bruise, and blood smear against Jessie's pale skin seemed to have a life of its own, darkening and swelling from one moment to the next as if one was trying to outdo the other to stand out more. Every second that passed seemed to reveal and birth another bruise. Another mark marring his usually perfect and polished skin.