She stopped after eight laps, grabbed the edge of the pool, and pulled herself up to again stretch the backs of her legs. The pause was more to catch her breath than ease her tight muscles. She drew in a deep breath and continued. If Megan had hoped to find a meditative state during her swim, she would have been better off going to an ashram.
_____
The movement was instantaneous. Megan saw a shadow shift in front of her lane. She stopped mid-length in the pool and yanked her goggles off her head. “Hello?” She turned full circle in the water. In between heavy breaths, she yelled out, “Is anyone there?” The echo of the water slapping against the pool’s side paled in comparison with the sound of her heart pounding in her chest. “Is anyone there?”
Behind one of the columns the lifeguard appeared, the sound of the door closing behind him. “Hey, are you okay?”
Megan didn’t answer right away. She knew the movement had come from the front of the lane, not from where the lifeguard entered.
“Yeah.” She swam over to the ladder and pulled herself out of the pool, leaving her few moments of relaxation behind her. Cold air attacked her wet body. She beelined herself over to the lounge chair and quickly wrapped herself in the towel. “Did you see anyone else in here?”
The lifeguard shook his head no.
She continued to look around the room as she dried herself off. “Maybe it was my imagination.”
Maybe.
She ran the towel through her soaked hair, shaking her head to one side trying to release water lodged in her ear despite the earplug. She stared down at the chair. Her watch now lay facedown. Megan always placed her watch face up, so the crystal wouldn’t get scratched. She cautiously picked it up by the band as if it would snap at her fingers. There was no sign of her necklace. She shook her towel, hoping the piece had gotten tangled and would fall out. “Hey,” she shouted over to the lifeguard, “did you see a necklace around here? It’s a silver cross with a green stone in the center.”
He said he hadn’t but offered to help her in the fruitless search.
“Are you sure you didn’t see anyone come in while I was swimming?”
“No, no one. Just you and me.” The lifeguard checked around the chair where Megan had placed her things. “There’s a heating duct behind the chair. Maybe it slipped down?”
She moved the chair back. “I hadn’t noticed that. Damn it.”
_____
Megan left the gym smelling like chlorine, her wet hair pulled back into a ponytail. She didn’t care. She didn’t stick around to take a steam or a shower, she just wanted out. She was oblivious to the chilly air hitting her as she walked up the hill to her apartment. Her thoughts only one hour ago were about Shannon, the murder scene, the thin line of leads. Now her mind sprinted from the recent unidentifiable hang-ups to her missing necklace. She dug deep into her gym bag to find her keys and walked into her apartment to the sound of her cell phone beeping. She knew she’d been preoccupied earlier when she left for the gym, but Megan was never without her cell and was surprised she’d left it behind. The phone’s screen read 3 voicemail messages, 1 text message. The first message was from the lab. They didn’t come up with anything on the reed cross she’d sent in for testing.
“Figures,” she muttered.
They said to call back if she had questions.
The second voicemail was from Uncle Mike, checking in.
The third message was from her brother, but she didn’t wait to listen to it all the way through. Megan closed the phone, forgetting to check the text message. As soon as she placed it on the kitchen counter, it vibrated, reminding her the text had yet to be opened. When she pressed the button to open the message, her seven-hundred-square-foot apartment suddenly felt miles away. She turned, bent over the counter, and evacuated everything from the pit of her stomach down into the sink.
The message read: How was your swim?
So much for wanting to feel like your old self for a few hours, she thought. She knew she didn’t need to call the number where the text originated—it had been etched in her mind—but she also knew she had to, just to be sure. And the response: Shannon McAllister’s outgoing message.
sixteen
I tossed both halves of the phone into the East River while thinking there was something about Detective McGinn I found familiar. And then I made the connection.
_____
Megan slid down to the floor against one of the kitchen cabinets, but not without first lighting a cigarette. Her cell phone rang again.
“Restricted.” She stared at the phone as it continued to ring, wondering if she should answer it. She pressed the green call button and slowly put the phone up to her ear. She didn’t hear anything on the other end and waited a few seconds before speaking.
Nothing.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Hey, kiddo—hello to you too.”
“Fucking hell, Brendan. You scared the shit out of me.” Megan covered her heart with a shaking hand, as if that would slow its pace. “Where are you calling from? The phone doesn’t register a number.”
“I’m still at work in one of the conference rooms,” he said. “You sound like shit.”
Megan said, “Thanks,” followed by a long drag off the cigarette.
“Smoking again, I hear.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hey, trust me, it could be worse.” She tried to think back if she still had any pot left in her bedroom from the night the stockbroker slept over, although she’d already decided it was going to be an Ambien evening.
“Have you been to see Mom?”
“Yeah. She seems to have settled into the nursing home, but her condition is status quo.”
“Did she get the flowers I sent?” Brendan asked.
“Yes. And why did you send her flowers when you know she has no clue?”
“It made me feel good and it gives her something nice to stare at. Doesn’t matter if she knows who they’re from, does it?”
Megan couldn’t argue with that. Guilt has a way of blackmailing you into doing anything to rid yourself of even the smallest amount of shame.
“We need to go over a few things about the house. I want to get it up for sale in the next couple of months, so we really need to start going through their things, maybe think about an estate sale before the weather gets too bad.”
“First of all, you don’t mean we, you mean me. I’m working a case; how the fuck do you think I’m going to be able to handle the house all by myself ?”
“Aunt Maureen and Uncle Mike will help out, and I promised I’d come back.”
“You better keep that promise and not be a douche bag, Brendan.”
“I think I read a greeting card with the same sentiment,” he laughed, which made Megan laugh in return. He always could cut through her dark moods better than almost anyone else, with the exception of their father. “I’ve been going through dad’s will. It’s all pretty standard. I’m always handling the business end of things while you play one of Charlie’s Angels.”
“Very funny.”
She heard a rustling at her door.
What the fuck? The doorman didn’t call up?
She closed the phone with the force of a brick smashing through a Tiffany glass window. She reached for her gun next.
seventeen
“Fucking hell.” After checking the peephole, Megan opened the door to a slightly stunned Nappa.
“Don’t shoot, I brought food.”
“Why didn’t the security guard call me?”
Nappa shrugged. “He saw my badge and gun, and I guess just assumed.”
“What an ass.”
Nappa pretended to turn around to leave. “I can take this food elsewhere.”
“I didn’t mean you. Get in here.” Megan double locked the door, and then checked it a third time.
“Why are you answering the door with your gun drawn, McGinn?”
She shook her head. “I just was …” She was about to tell Nappa about the text she’d just received, but for some reason held back. Partly out of pride, partly out of not wanting to come off as a puking, smoking, trigger-happy hysteric.
“Just so you know, I would have shot you if you weren’t bearing food.”
“Well, that’s good to know. It’s not particularly comforting, but it’s good to know,” Nappa answered warily.
Megan took the bag from Nappa’s hands. “Thai? Why are you at my apartment with my favorite food?” She asked with raised eyebrows and a suddenly ravenous appetite.
“I was in the area.” An expressionless stare followed.
“No, you weren’t,” Megan returned with the same poker-face.
“No, I wasn’t. I brought wine. Is white okay?”
Instead of protesting the change of subject, she kowtowed to her empty stomach. “Of course. If it’s not in a box, the opener is over there.” Megan nodded toward one of the kitchen drawers.
Nappa stood staring down his partner as he opened the bottle of wine and let her fidgety behavior speak the volumes she was unable or unwilling to.
“Are you okay?”
“What do you mean?” She pulled plates and utensils out of drawers as if they were weeds invading her blue-ribbon vegetable garden.
“You’re flying around the kitchen like Julia Child on crack.”
She waved him off. “Yeah, I’m fine … I just had a conversation with Brendan.” Shit, she’d have to call him back soon too.
He studied her a moment. He knew a long line at Starbucks could put Megan in this kind of mood, so he decided to let it be. “Well, here.” He handed her a glass of wine. “Maybe this will help.”
“Thanks. And thank you for the food. Go in the living room. I’ll plate us up.”
He took his glass and did as ordered. “Ah, look, my favorite photo,” Nappa said. He looked back and forth between Megan and the photograph. “I still can’t believe this is you,” he said, removing it from the armoire.
“I was a little pudgy when I was a kid.” She smiled, grateful for a light moment.
The photo was taken when Megan was ten. She and Brendan were sitting outside. He had his arm around his baby sister. Megan’s mouth was covered with chocolate ice cream. Based on her Buddha belly, ice cream was consumed often. Though the picture wasn’t terribly flattering for her, Megan loved the expressions on their faces.
“McGinn, pudgy is one thing. This is …” Nappa searched for the most politically correct description.
“Baby fat?” Megan interjected.
“You were no oil painting. Unless there was a call for cherub models, that is.”
“Okay, so I was a little on the round side.” Megan brought all the food into the living room. She moved the photographs and files to one side of the coffee table to make room for their dinner.
“I mean, look at you now. I would never have guessed you were such a fatty growing up.”
“Look at me now? What is that, a back-handed compliment?”
“Well, you don’t crack mirrors anymore.” He tried to steer the conversation away from his flattery. “Can I get a copy of this, one for my wallet or maybe an eight-by-ten? Even better—poster-size?”
“Very funny.” She handed him his dinner. “Hey, something happ—”
“I need to cut to the chase before we start work.” Nappa’s tone was suddenly very official. “Are you up for this case? You have had a hard time of it. A really hard time. You haven’t even had time to mourn your dad.”
“Wait, hold on.” Megan pointed her wine glass in his direction. “You were the one to call me with the McAllister scene. You!”
“I know, I feel responsible. As your partner, I need to check in.”
“No. You mean Walker needs to check in, and she asked you to see if I’m good for it.”
“Look. You’ve had to deal with your father passing, taking care of your mom. It’s been a whirlwind.”
“She’s in a nursing home now, Nappa. That doesn’t really qualify me as caring for her.”
“McGinn, what else were you supposed to do? You work twelve-, sometimes fourteen-hour days. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. She’s in an excellent facility. You couldn’t have done it all on your own.”
Megan knew Nappa was right. But that didn’t make it any easier. Things started to go wrong for Rose around her sixtieth birthday. The small incidents soon magnified into much larger situations —leaving things on the stove or in the oven, which could have led to fires if Pat hadn’t gotten home in time. It wasn’t so much her forgetfulness that had Pat concerned but the change in her personality and her personal habits. Then it all began to change. Her thoughts became jumbled. She’d have emotional flare-ups for the smallest reasons. She started leaving the house disheveled—hair messy, no makeup, her clothes wrinkled. It became too much for Megan’s father to deal with privately. They saw countless doctors and had scores of tests done. The professionals referred to it as an early onset of dementia or Alzheimer’s. While her father was alive, he vowed to take care of her, and he did. But with Pat gone now, there was little she or Brendan could do but place her in the finest facility they could find. It was the hardest decision she ever had to make, but it was what was best for their mother, and that’s all that mattered. Megan knew it would be a long time before she could accept that fact.
“I don’t think anyone could hold up to that kind of pressure as well as you have. And now this case comes up.”
“Forget about that. Tell me the truth: Do you think I should be on this case?”
“I think you can handle anything that comes your way, but when you lose it with our lieutenant, I get worried.”
“Nappa, what do you want? You want me to apologize again?” She took a chug of her wine.
“No.” His voice deepened. “I want to know you can handle this. Both you and I know this is only the beginning.”
In that moment she knew she couldn’t share the information about the text; she’d be taken off the case immediately, and she couldn’t let that happen. “Yes. Got it?”
“Okay, okay.” They sat for the next few minutes eating in an uncomfortable silence. “Sorry,” Nappa offered.
“Shut up, Nappa.” Megan then nabbed a dumpling off his plate. “Hand me the remote.”
She turned on the CD player.
“Neil Diamond? You listen to Neil Diamond. You like Neil Diamond?”
“No, I love Neil Diamond. He’s a god. I have every one of his albums, or CDs, whatever you want to call them now.”
“Okay, let me get this straight. Not only do you listen to, love, and think Neil Diamond is a god—which, by the way, is more than just a little scary to me—you own every single album?”
“Yep. I’ve seen him twelve times in concert. Sometimes I even wear my Neil Diamond concert T-shirts to bed, not that you needed that information.” Megan sipped from her wineglass before belting out a line from the song, at an unbearable volume. “Sweeeeet Caroline …”
“Well, now I know why you’re single. Neil Diamond T-shirts to bed, not sexy.”
“Fuck off, Nappa!” Megan laughed at his shot.
“Yes, the Neil Diamond obsession and the mouth on you, that explains why you’re single.”
_____
Over the course of the next few hours, they went through more wine as they worked on piecing together a case that had very few pieces to work with.
“I can’t figure out how he did so much and left only two fibers behind.” Megan sighed. She went through some of the less-graphic crime-scene photographs. “Maybe we’re wrong about this.” She handed Nappa the photo of how Shannon was found. “He could have just put her in this position for the hell of it.”
/>
Nappa looked at the photo from every angle. “But the suturing. That wasn’t just for the hell of it.”
Megan was tired and stiff from sitting on the wooden floor. She moved to the couch next to Nappa. “I can’t look at that photo one more time tonight.” A photo of a sewn-tight vagina didn’t mix well with Thai food. She turned the picture over and looked at Nappa. “So why are you single?”
“What?” He threw his head back on the couch, laughing at the odd timing of her question. “We move from talking about vaginas to my love life.”
“What, the two don’t go together?”
“Not currently.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Yeah, our work doesn’t bode well for lasting relationships.”
“I have a feeling you are a man with a few secrets, Sam Nappa.”
Nappa did have his secrets, and he knew he’d had enough wine to unwisely divulge some of them, so he switched gears and asked the questions instead of answering them. “You know, I’ve never asked—I assumed, but I never came out and asked—what made you become a cop?”
Never Alone Page 12