The Undercover Affair

by Cathryn Parry

  John headed outside and buttonholed the detective in charge of the group. “I understand you have a search warrant,” John said to him after he’d introduced himself. “May I see it, please?”

  The detective held it forward.

  John scanned it quickly. He passed it back. “This is for the restaurant. You don’t have a search warrant for the house.”

  The detective seemed irritated, but he nodded. “We’re waiting for that one. Until then, we’ll start on the restaurant. Please unlock the door for us.”

  The restaurant should have been open already. In a panic, his mother must have locked up the place once the police cruisers had shown up in the parking lot. “I’ll get the key,” he said.

  John signaled his mother, watching them through the curtains.

  When she came outside, wrapping herself in her thin sweater, her face pale and drained, John went up and took her arm and squeezed it in support. “Please walk the officers to the restaurant. Unlock the door and let them in.”

  She nodded, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

  He stood on the doorstep and watched, his heart breaking in half as she stumbled, hugging herself tight, down the slight hill to the restaurant, then opened the doors. The whole circus followed her. Four plainclothes officers with their shields clipped to their belts moved inside. Pete, Lyndsay’s partner, pulled up in his black SUV and parked behind John’s truck, blocking one lane in the street but also effectively boxing John in again. Pete joined the crowd going into the restaurant, too.

  John rubbed his eyes. He was no lawyer, but the search warrant he’d skimmed appeared to be open-ended. It wouldn’t surprise him if they went directly to his business laptop in the office where he’d been working on the books, and confiscated it. They would probably also tear apart and search the closets, the drawers and the kitchen, just for good measure. The information leading them to the laptop surely came from Lyndsay. John thought of the long, candid conversation he’d had with her, admitting his fears, sharing his innermost thoughts, all because he’d loved her and had wanted a relationship with her. He’d gone from being too closed in the past, to too trusting with Lyndsay. And it hurt.

  Shaking it off, he pulled his house key from his pocket. All he could control right now was what was in front of him.

  His mother hurried up the hill, looking bewildered. “They’re tearing into everything!” she cried. “Even your Nonna’s recipe cards.”

  That was their job—to tear into everything. “Call Cynthia,” he instructed her, just to give her something concrete to do. Andy’s wife went to the same church as his mom—she’d be a comfort of sorts. “Wait outside until she arrives.”

  His mother nodded, reaching for her phone.

  While she was busy, he let himself into the house, then locked the door behind him. The blinds were already closed.

  He strode through the house and into Patrick’s room. Patrick’s bedsheets and pillows were messed up, but Patrick wasn’t there. John opened the first drawer he found, and there sat a pile of Justin’s watercolors, stacked in a mishmash of frames. Patrick hadn’t even attempted to hide his contraband.

  It made John feel sick to his stomach to see it all.

  Looking at the paintings this way, he could easily believe they were stolen from the various homes up the coast where Justin had originally sold them. If Patrick possessed them, then that meant he’d been involved like the skinny burglar had said.

  John sat on the bed. He’d meant to find his brother and shake him, to make him tell him the truth, but he found that he just couldn’t do it anymore.

  Justin’s death had hit them all hard. Everyone in John’s family had handled it in their own way—the only way that they knew how. His father had died of a broken heart. His mom clung more tightly to her religion and her faith that all would be well, as long as her family stayed together. She’d summoned John home for good, and like a dutiful son, John had returned, even though he hadn’t really wanted to.

  And Patrick...he’d turned inward. At first, he’d given himself over to drugs. John was still pretty sure he was off drugs now—he got tested too often to be able to cheat that system—but wherever John’s kid brother had gone, he’d never come back. Not really. Patrick was a stranger to him, and John had failed to reach him.

  John stood and shuffled through the drawings again. Carefree drawings. So much talent. Such a good heart. Justin would never have wanted them all to suffer the way that they had. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted to see Patrick in jail, especially for something so foolish and futile.

  “Patrick, where are you?” he called.

  There was no answer. John cocked his ear and listened. There appeared to be someone coming down the stairs.

  Patrick shuffled into the bedroom, his hair wild, his eyes bloodshot. He’s tired from being up all night, John realized.

  John pointed at Justin’s paintings. “Where did these come from?”

  “Nowhere,” Patrick said sullenly.

  “You know the police are here.”

  Patrick pushed past him. “I didn’t do anything.” He climbed into bed again, as if that would solve anything for him.

  “Are these stolen?” John asked.

  “No. They’re Justin’s.”

  “Justin sold them.”

  “He wanted them back.”

  “Why, Patrick? I don’t get it. I really don’t.” He watched Patrick’s face for a reaction, but it was as if Patrick was deadened inside, because all he could do was slowly blink at him.

  “Your cohorts already talked to the police,” John said softly, “so I called your lawyer. Beyond that, I can’t help you anymore. I wish I could. I really wanted to, but I can’t.”

  John just felt broken inside. He couldn’t even make himself talk. His voice was catching. He just didn’t see a light out of this darkness anymore.

  Patrick slumped down, his arms crossed over his stomach. “I don’t care if I go to jail.”

  “I know,” John answered. “You’re already in jail.”

  Patrick just looked at him.

  John swallowed and stood. His hands were shaking. He’d never felt so powerless or crushed down in his life.

  His slight, frail, depressed and sullen younger brother didn’t stand a chance in a prison. John could fight for himself, could give it back to anyone who dished it out to him. But his sensitive younger brother? No way.

  At least John could console himself that their dad wasn’t alive to see it.

  John wished he could tell his brother that he loved him. He could, but Patrick never seemed to hear.

  So he said nothing more.

  There was a sharp rap on the front door. To John, it felt as if a boom had lowered. This is it. They’re coming to take Patrick away in handcuffs for good.

  John looked out the side window and on to the porch. A man he didn’t recognize—another law enforcement official—slapped a piece of paper to the window.

  Another search warrant. This one with the correct street address.

  John went into Patrick’s room and shut the drawer he’d opened. Lyndsay probably already knew the paintings were there anyway. Then he returned and opened the front door. He said nothing, just stepped aside and let them sweep past him.

  This was a different group of law enforcement from the officers who were currently tearing apart the restaurant. Pete was with them. Behind him came Patrick’s original lawyer—Natalie Kimball—the town lawyer who’d helped John find the expensive, high-power criminal attorney he now used.

  “I talked with Stephen,” Natalie said, referring to Patrick’s lawyer. “He’s out of town today, so I’m sitting with Patrick until Stephen’s substitute gets to the station. They’ll be interrogating Patrick, possibly charging him. You need to prepare your mother for that.”

>   John nodded. His mother. That was his job now, to comfort her as best he could. He stepped outside, and the cool wind hit his messed-up face and made him hurt all over again.

  Andy ran up the hill from the restaurant toward him. “I came as soon as Margie called. I brought Cynthia, too, so she can sit with Margie.”

  John nodded. “Thank you,” he said gruffly.

  Over Andy’s shoulder, John saw Cynthia giving his mother a comforting hug. His mother had tears streaming down her face.

  “They’re going to take Patrick out in handcuffs,” John told Andy. “I’d rather my mother not see that.”

  “Don’t worry,” Andy said. “We’ll all handle it together.” He paused, then said, “I know you didn’t want to tell me about Patrick’s problems, but it’s good that I know. It’s good for your mother to have Cynthia with her now.”

  All John could do was nod.

  Still, he went into the house to assess what was happening with Patrick. Inside his brother’s room, a group of officers were taking out Justin’s watercolors, one by one, photographing them. Wrapping them up. Putting them into evidence kits. Plastic bags and boxes.

  Sickened anew, he moved into the kitchen, where Patrick was being handcuffed and read his rights. It tore a hole through John’s heart. Like nothing that had happened before, this was visual, photographic evidence of the truth that John had failed.

  One job. He’d had one job: keep his brother safe. Keep his brother out of trouble. John had tried so hard, yet the worst that he could imagine for Patrick had happened anyway. It was like cold water being thrown on his face. He’d sacrificed himself—his life, what he wanted—and it hadn’t helped anyone.

  Natalie, the lawyer, approached him. “John, they’re taking Patrick to Concord now. I’ll go to sit with him in the interrogation room, at least until Stephen’s associate arrives.”

  “Thank you, Natalie,” he said quietly.

  “I met Officer Fairfax purely by chance this morning, and I have a feeling it might turn out to be positive for Patrick’s case.”

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “Officer Fairfax—Lyndsay. She’s a police officer on the case. I passed her outside just now.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Inside the black SUV with the tinted windows. She’s in the back seat.”

  He nodded tersely. Was he supposed to feel gratitude toward Lyndsay that she’d covered for him, as her partner had said? He didn’t even know if theirs had been a real relationship anymore, or just an undercover ruse.

  “Are you all right?” Natalie asked him. “That’s a nasty bruise on your cheek. It’s bleeding through the bandage. Maybe you should go to the hospital and—”

  “I’m fine,” he said abruptly. He stood aside as two cops perp-walked his brother outside. The crowd would be there still. For a moment, he felt dizzy.

  Patrick said nothing as they passed. To John, it was just zombie-ville. As if Patrick wanted to die, too, along with Justin and Dad. John stepped off the porch and stood by himself. An officer held Patrick’s head while they helped him into the back of an unmarked police vehicle. Natalie hurried to her Volvo, probably to follow them. He knew he should go, too. But something and everything had changed inside him.

  They’re responsible for themselves.

  No one listened to him, or seemed to care what he thought. Maybe the only person he was responsible for was himself.

  His life, and he needed to find something to do with it that made him happy and fulfilled. Because he didn’t want to be here, watching something like this that he had no control over.

  He headed out. Down the hill toward his boxed-in truck. The cruiser with his brother inside and Natalie’s Volvo had both started up, and Cynthia was taking care of his mother.

  John climbed into his truck, intending to claw his way out of here and just go home. Toby needed his fluids. That was what it came down to. The only thing that John had the ability to help was a sixteen-year-old tabby cat who couldn’t even talk back to him.

  Come to think of it, that was exactly what he wanted right now.

  For nobody to talk back to him.

  But still, he couldn’t look away as the police car drove off with his younger brother looking at him through the rear window.

  Then he heard the cry. His mother rushed down the hill, wailing. Cynthia was doing her best to comfort her, and Andy stood with a hurt frown on his face, but no one could contain his mother’s pain. John had never seen her like this. Never.

  “He’s my baby,” she called to the retreating police car.

  He felt filled with horror. It didn’t matter that silent strangers gaped. He couldn’t move. It was unlike him. He wasn’t taking charge. Instead, he felt as if he was outside it all. As if it was a play, and instead of participating, for the first time, he was just observing.

  He was suddenly thinking very clearly. Maybe it was the realization that this wasn’t his place. That cleared up the fog he was in, more than anything.

  “I’m not responsible for him,” he said aloud.

  He’d sacrificed everything. His own life. His relationships. His career. He’d tried, as hard as he could, as best as he knew how, and it hadn’t been what Patrick needed. It was past time the professionals took over, because John obviously couldn’t give what Patrick needed.

  Outside, it was a cool and sunny morning; a hint of late spring in the air. The sun hurt his eyes, it was so bright.

  He turned his head suddenly, realizing there were people in the black SUV parked beside him. It was an official-looking vehicle with tinted windows, a professional driver, a member of the police brass of some sort, and...

  Lyndsay. In the back seat, her window facing his, but slightly behind him. He turned his head to meet her gaze. She was a pale, still face through the shadowy glass.

  She was crying. The men in the front didn’t seem to see. But John could see. Tears spilled down her cheeks, one after another. He thought she looked like she was sorry for what had happened. He thought he saw pain and regret in her eyes.

  She placed her palm to the glass as if to touch him. What she was communicating was private to John alone.

  And that was the first he realized that things maybe hadn’t turned out the way she’d wanted, either. That he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t gotten what he’d thought he’d signed on for.

  * * *

  THE HOLE IN Lyndsay’s heart grew larger as she watched John drive away from her. She hoped that he’d received her silent apology to him, but she couldn’t be sure. Commander Harris had made it crystal clear that she wasn’t allowed to speak with him or his family until after Patrick’s case was finished being processed, and no one knew exactly how long that would take.

  She could only hope that someday John’s pain would recede and that she could make her redemption.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Two months later

  PATRICK’S SENTENCING HEARING took place on a hot July morning. John took a few hours off from his classes to head to the courthouse to sit in on the proceedings. It was easier this time. John was no longer his brother’s keeper. He didn’t feel responsible for anybody but himself, with the exception of a sixteen-year-old cat who was still hanging in with John and taking his fluids daily.

  John made his way through the metal detectors at the entrance to the courthouse and found directions to the hearing room upstairs. But he was surprised when the elevator door opened, and out walked not only his mother, but also Cynthia Hannaman and Natalie Kimball. Natalie had taken over his brother’s case, on his mother’s preference. She thought the local attorney provided better care than the high-powered specialist. John hadn’t intervened. He also hadn’t expected them to be leaving the courthouse so early.

  “John!” His mother bracketed his cheeks
and gave him a kiss. She smiled from ear to ear, with a look of relief on her tired face.

  “Hi, Mom. What happened?”

  “We met with the judge earlier than planned.” Natalie shifted both her briefcase and a shopping bag to her left hand, then shook John’s hand. “The principals in the case were all present, and this judge is a stickler for keeping things moving, so he processed us right away.”

  A second elevator door opened and more people streamed out. Natalie paused to take his mom’s elbow and lead her and Cynthia away from the traffic in front of the elevator banks. “Why don’t we all find a seating area in the lower courthouse where we can talk?”

  “Yes,” he replied. Whatever had happened to Patrick, he gave them his support. Cynthia now worked in the Seaside with his mom, having taken John’s old place behind the counter and in the kitchen. Andy had purchased John’s share of the business, and that was a relief to John. He could pursue his own interests now and do what he thought was best for himself.

  They found a sunny spot in a far corner of the lobby. The women sat on a bench before a glass table, but John preferred to remain standing.

  “Where is Patrick now?” he asked.

  Natalie curled a lock of short blond hair behind her ear. “He’s being transported to an inpatient facility to help with his emotional issues. Later, he’ll be transferred for a year’s sentence to be served at a halfway house.”

  John was surprised and pleased that the sentence didn’t involve prison. “Did he cooperate with the prosecutors?”

  “Yes,” Natalie replied. “He cooperated fully with the authorities.”

  “That’s good news.”

  She nodded. “I have to give credit to Officer Fairfax. She sent a letter to the judge on Patrick’s behalf. I believe her support helped in obtaining these favorable results.”

  John hadn’t heard anyone speak Lyndsay’s name to him since the morning Patrick had been arrested. He took a long breath. He still wasn’t sure what was real with her and what wasn’t. He still hadn’t processed everything, as they said in the psychology elective course he was taking this semester.