Once and Forever

by Mary Blayney

  Erin nodded while a stream of thoughts ran through her head. Alba had been Rolly's confidential informant before Erin became his partner. Did Rolly know about Mitra? And if he did, why wasn't it in his file? And why would Alba give Mitra Erin's number, instead of Rolly's?

  She tried to remember the last time she'd talked to Alba. It was before the crack house, of course. But how long? If only she could get to her files.

  #

  Pregnant? There was no mistaking that move, that protective cradle of fingers. Rolly watched, stunned, as the girl's hands kept straying back to caress her belly. To soothe Alba's baby, growing there. For a moment he was paralyzed with envy. For a moment he wondered what it would have been like to watch a woman he loved grow big with his baby. What it would have been like to hold a baby, his baby, in his hands. His child in his arms.

  He was never going to get that chance now. Neither was Alba.

  Rolly felt almost as bad about that as he did about his own sad circumstances. Shit like this—good women and babies—wasn't possible for someone like him, but it would have been for Alba.

  It should have been, damn it.

  The girl looked up, suddenly, and Rolly realized that she was looking, head tilted, at him. It startled him. Electrified him. For a second, he felt almost seen. For a second he felt almost real again, materialized in the sharp sweep of her gaze.

  But then she turned away, leaving the ghost of Rolly's heart—if he'd ever had one, which was debatable, considering—pounding like it was getting away.

  #

  Keeping an eye on Erin in the back room, Martin doctored his coffee. He stirred absentmindedly as the steam rose past his face, so focused on the two women in the other room that he didn't notice his phone ringing until the guy shouldering in next to him and reaching for the napkins said, "I think that's yours, man."

  Martin pulled his phone out, didn't recognize the number, thought—What the fuck—and hit "talk." "Sterling."

  "Yeah. I'm in the bathroom."

  "Excuse me?"

  "This is Andreus. Get your ass in here."

  Martin sighed. Since when did the dead get cell phone reception? But Erin was still talking to the pregnant girl, so… Halfway to the restroom he passed a man in the hallway, shaking his head and hugging himself for warmth, and by the time Martin opened the door he could see his breath in the bathroom.

  "You didn't bring her with you, did you?" the dead guy demanded.

  "Erin?"

  "No, her. You know—the loud one. The crazy one. Shit, she—"

  Oh right. He was talking about Rose. And who could blame him, after the way she'd chased him off.

  They both glanced around, probably equally apprehensive, which made Martin laugh. "She doesn't follow me into the restroom. She never has. One of those odd holdovers from life, I guess."

  The dead guy laughed, and when he did, Martin could see just how young he really was. There were lines bracketing his mouth and he had that lean, hungry look to him—but that spoke more of need, than age. Or the big fucking hole in his chest.

  "Who is she, anyway?"

  He never knew how to explain Rose. So he didn't try. "Who are you?"

  The kid laughed again—a hard, skittery sound. "I used to be Andreus Alba. But now? I don't know anymore, man. I don't know."

  "What's your connection to Erin?"

  The kid, Andreus, lowered his head a little, looked up from beneath his lashes, reminding Martin again of that wolf he saw once at the zoo. Strung out and rangy, pacing back and forth behind the bars.

  "Can we cut to the chase, here?" Martin asked.

  "Or what? You call the banshee down on me again?"

  "You people. You dead people, you're like dog shit on a shoe, you know that? I keep trying to walk away from you, but I can't because you're stuck to me. I always have to deal with you eventually. So let’s skip the foreplay."

  He watched the analogy roll over the kid's face. His eyebrow spiked when he caught on to the fact that Martin had, basically, just called him and his kind, dog shit. But then his face relaxed, that wolfish smile dawning.

  "Sure as shit," he said with a crooked grin, hooking a thumb at his chest. "That's me. But you can call me Alba instead."

  Somehow, his getting the joke was sadder than if he'd gone ballistic. Safer for Martin. But sadder.

  "What are we doing here?" Martin asked. Tired, suddenly.

  The kid, Alba, nodded. "Right. I'm here because of her, you know." He motioned toward the booths out front.

  "Erin Healy."

  Alba winced. As if the detective's name—as if anything—could possibly be worse than that hole in his middle. "No, man. Not her. I'm here for Mitra. My Mitra."

  No he wasn't. He wouldn't have shown up at the house for Erin, if he was here for Mitra. But as Martin knew all too well, the dead were wrong at least as often as the living.

  Unfortunately.

  Alba shook his head, pulled out that hard–edged laugh. "This wasn't supposed to happen, right?" He spread his hands, showcasing the hole in his chest. "I never would have left her alone. Not like that. Not when she…"

  Martin shivered, and not just at the butt–naked sadness in the boy's voice, but because he was radiating enough cold, all of a sudden, to turn FedEx Field into a hockey rink.

  "Tell her that, will you? Tell her I knew about the baby. She doesn't think I knew about the baby but shit. I'm dumb but I'm not stupid. Tell her that's why I…"

  His face clouded with confusion as his voice trailed away.

  Martin was shaking all over then, not because what the kid was saying scared him, but because he was saying it so damn close.

  The kid saw that and backed off a few steps. "Sorry, man."

  "No problem."

  Alba walked away, pacing the perimeter of the bathroom like that wolf at the zoo. "I wish I could remember!" He smacked himself on the forehead. "I talked to Bruno. I know that. Just like Rolly told me to. But then…nothing! I can't help Erin with that fire thing because I never made it there. I'm dead, but I didn't die in that house."

  "Where did you die?"

  He shook his head again, like he was trying to clear it. "I don't know. And the money! I can't remember where I put the money and that's what Mitra needs. Fuck!"

  He looked up at Martin, his wolf's eyes pleading for understanding, or some kind of reassurance. "I'm as useless to her dead as I was when I was alive."

  Rose was the one this guy needed. She could help him, he'd seen her do it time and time again. But instead, she'd chased him away. Martin would try to talk to her. In the meantime, though, he said what he thought the kid wanted to hear. "I'll talk to your girl for you. I'll tell Mitra you knew about the baby and you were happy."

  Alba's shoulders slumped, but he nodded.

  "And if you think of anything else," Martin said. "For Erin. Anything you think might help her get clear of this."

  He frowned. "I wish I could help her. You know? She was always straight with me. That's why I gave Mitra her number. But I don't know what went wrong. Her partner said it was all gonna be paint by numbers. One last walk in the park before he retired. I hope he got to retire anyway. He was a good guy, Rolly."

  Martin hated to do it, but he had a strict policy against lying to the dead. He shook his head. "Rolly didn't make it, man."

  "What do you mean? Didn't make it where?"

  "He died in the fire. At the house, where the bust was supposed to happen?"

  Alba stared at him, mouth open.

  "The police think Erin had something to do with it. Everybody but her died that night, and all the drugs and money are gone, too. They're trying to pin it all on her."

  "That's wrong, man."

  "I know," Martin said. "That's why, if you can think of anything that might help her, anything at all, she needs to hear it."

  The kid thunked himself on the head again. "I'm trying. You know I'm trying."

  "Try harder," Martin said. And held out his hand. It was g
oing to hurt like hell if the kid took it, but it felt like the right thing to do.

  "Dog shit," the kid said, laughing again at the sad joke. "My brother." He slapped at Martin's hand, as if giving him five on the side, and—still grinning—disappeared.

  #

  "I met someone in the bathroom."

  Erin held up her hand. Stop. "Too much information, Sterling."

  "No." He slid into the booth next to her, forcing her into the corner. "Really. And he gave me a message for you," he said, pointing across the table at Mitra.

  The girl's eyes widened and she turned to Erin.

  "He's psychic," Erin said, drawing out the word. "Or so I've been told."

  "Psychic? You mean, you can read minds?"

  "No. I can't read minds."

  "Good thing," Erin muttered. "Or you'd be getting an earful right now."

  He waved her words away, focusing on Mitra. "I talk to the dead."

  The girl’s face went pale and she sat back. "Andreus?"

  "Andreus is missing," Erin said, kicking Martin under the table. "There's no reason to—"

  "Yes, Andreus," Martin said. "He wants you to know that he knew about the baby. He knew and he was happy. He can't…he couldn't wait to be a father."

  Tears spilled down Mitra's cheeks. "He's dead. I knew it. I knew he wouldn't leave me like this but oh my God, what am I going to do?"

  That was when Martin turned to Erin. Forget that, she thought. You dug this hole, you lie in it. But she didn't say that. She didn't say anything. He blinked, twice, then turned back to Mitra.

  "Give us some time," he said, covering the girl's anguished hands with his own large one. "We'll see what we can come up with."

  Mitra choked back a sob, grabbed her bag, and rushed out of the restaurant. Leaving Erin with Martin.

  "Why did you say that?" she asked. "What were you thinking? That girl doesn't need us. She needs social services. Whether Alba comes back for her or not, she needs food and rent and health care and—"

  "He's not coming back for her, Erin. He's dead."

  That stone vine in her chest tightened. "Right. Because you saw him. In the restroom."

  For a long moment he just stared back at her, into her, somehow, and Erin wondered what it would be like to believe. In psychics and magic and…to really believe in anything, other than the life you were living. She was her father's daughter, though. She had police in her blood. If you couldn't see it, feel it, taste it, smell it—if you couldn't measure it in some way—it wasn't real.

  She thought about the pictures, dropping off the wall in Martin's hallway. And the construction work going on down the street. There was a logical explanation for everything in this world. But how did he know Mitra was pregnant? She wasn't showing yet, not really.

  Then she remembered he'd been watching them long before he joined them at the table, and in her mind's eye she saw the way Mitra's hands closed over her abdomen. Protecting and comforting. You didn't have to be psychic to figure that out. Just observant. And this guy was definitely observant.

  Most con men were.

  "Let's go," she said, sliding toward him, nudging him out of the booth. But it didn't work.

  He leaned down, reminding her again how much taller he was. How much broader. For a second she thought he was going to kiss her again. But he didn't do that, either. "He's dead. Remember when I told you, earlier, that most people bring their dead with them? Andreus came to you. At my house, when you were out in the drive. He came to you, not Mitra."

  "But he isn't my dead. Whatever that is. If he even is dead. He's our CI. Our informant. He wasn't involved in the buy–bust, he just fed us information on what Bruno was looking for so we could set it up. Rolly is my dead. Bruno is my dead. Bruno's second, D'Angelo, is my dead. Not Andreus."

  "He said he talked to Bruno, like Rolly asked him to. But he doesn't remember anything after that."

  That was how con men worked. That was exactly how con men worked—they waited until you used a name and then they made the connections. He wouldn't have come up with Bruno's name if she hadn't just mentioned him.

  Martin studied her face like it was a map and he was trying to find her. "You need to believe me."

  Erin sat back. "I want to."

  His voice went lower. "I know you do."

  Heat spun between them, gathering speed and weight until it started to press down on her. Until she couldn't bear it anymore. She laughed. "You kind of have to say that, don't you? Being psychic and all?"

  #

  By the time Erin pulled into the drive in front of Martin's house, the light was fading. It had been a long day. "Are you still afraid to go in?"

  He laughed. "Afraid?"

  "You said Rose was in a bad mood and you were afraid to go in." Her eyes narrowed speculatively.

  Oh. That. "Yes! I was—I mean, I am! Terrified. You better come in with me." He slanted a look at her but couldn't quite hide his smile.

  She smiled, too. That half smile he liked so well. "But I'm the one who pisses her off."

  "Exactly. And we need to get hold of her."

  That much, at least, was true. He needed Rose to talk to Alba. Try to figure out how he was connected to Erin.

  "But we already tried that," she said. "Remember? Kissing doesn't work."

  "Let's not rush to judgment on that."

  "I'm trained police, Martin. I can kill with my bare hands. Think Rose would show up to protect you?"

  "I see where you're going with this," he said, catching hold of her killer hands. "And I admire your willingness to make the big gesture, I do. But I really think we ought to give the kissing thing another try. Naked, maybe."

  Stop, please, Rose muttered. I'm here already.

  Martin turned and there she was in the back seat, arms folded, legs crossed, foot swinging.

  "That did it," he said, when Erin shot him a questioning look. "She's here. She's not happy, but she's here."

  Don't tell her that!

  Erin cast a searching look in to the back seat, before turning back to Martin. "She's here. Right now."

  "You didn't notice the temperature change?"

  His words didn't exactly hang like fog in the air, but when she huffed out one of her skeptical sighs, he could see her breath.

  Her mouth snapped shut. "It's the end of October. It always gets cooler at night."

  He couldn't help glancing back at Rose and when she saw him she rolled her eyes, just like he'd expected. But for a second there, just a second, he thought he caught something else—something raw, almost vulnerable, when she was watching Erin.

  It wasn't that she didn't care. That much was clear.

  "You don't have to believe me," he said, speaking to either or both women at once. "Just give me a second."

  Erin nodded, waving in the direction of the back seat. "By all means."

  He turned to Rose. "You need to talk to Andreus. He can't remember how he died. And I can't figure out why he came to Erin."

  Rose shook her head, the beautiful bow of her lips flattened in that mulish straight line that would have reminded him of Erin, except for the fact that the two of them couldn't be more different.

  I don't need to talk to anyone. The only thing that needs to happen here is you need to listen to me. Police work is dangerous. If you care for this woman at all, you'll send her away.

  "Rose. You've never—"

  I have my reasons, Martin.

  "But—"

  Blink. And she was gone.

  Great.

  He sat back, empty–handed, and Erin nodded.

  "Let me guess. She said no."

  "No. Not exactly. She—"

  Her phone rang, saving him from trying to spin Rose's words, and Erin picked it up from between the seats to check the number before answering.

  Martin could hear a male voice on the other end, though he couldn't make out the words.

  "So soon?" she asked.

  The caller said a couple more words be
fore she said "Thanks" and ended the call.

  But she didn't put the phone down. She didn't move.

  "What's so soon?" Martin asked.

  "The review board," she said, still staring at the phone. "The case has been closed, inconclusive, and the board meets the day after tomorrow to review my suspension."

  "That was fast."

  "It's been expedited." She took a deep breath and let the phone drop into the empty cup holder. "Well this has been interesting…"

  He caught hold of her hand and she pulled back, just short of yanking her hand away.

  "It's okay." She shook her head. "It wouldn't have helped anyway, right? What the review board needs to see is hard evidence. Not whatever you—or Rose—would have come up with. Not more ghost stories."

  When she laughed Martin wanted to shake her. But instead, he pulled her across the seat and up against him, covering her mocking, disbelieving mouth with his. Sucking her tongue between his lips and her breath into his lungs until she softened against him.

  He gave all of this up years ago—the need to convince. The need to be believed. He didn't need it now, Goddamn it. He couldn't care less.

  He let go and grabbed the folder of photographs off the dash. "I'll see if Rose gets anything off of these," he said, over her protests, as he slid out of the car.

  Apparently he didn't have any trouble lying to the living…

  #

  She hadn't been home ten minutes when the doorbell rang. "Good thing you brought it, I—"

  She stopped when she realized it wasn't Martin, standing on her front step. Her heart slowed as she realized how much she'd been hoping it was…

  Instead, Detective Campbell grinned at her. "You what?"

  He was chewing gum and holding a stack of overstuffed pocket folders. Three of them.

  "I…I was expecting someone else. I was expecting, Amber."

  He shrugged and shoved the folders at her. "She's got my boy, Henry, over there now. She's watching him while I get these to you. Want me to tell her you're looking for her?

  She shook her head, taking the folders. "I thought you weren't talking to me."

  "I'm not, and even if I was, it wouldn't matter. The Board meets in a couple of days."

  "Yes," she said. "Chief called about an hour ago."

  But by then she was talking to herself.