by Mary Blayney
"But you believe in Rose."
He looked down at her then. Smiled, and kissed her on the forehead. "I also think there are some things in this world that can't be explained. Yet. Three hundred years ago, electricity would have looked like magic. Right?"
She nodded, barely, as if it cost her.
So he went on. "Witches, like Amber, believe in divinity of self and the power of the energy around us. They believe that everyone has the ability to tap into that energy. To bend it, manipulate it, according to will. Nanotechnology is turning that process into a science. Breaking the very fabric of the world into units that can be moved, changed, and removed. It's scientific, but it still looks like magic to me."
She sighed. "You didn't answer the question."
"I believe there's a reason for everything. We just don't understand the explanation yet."
"Oh fuck that." She sprang to her feet. "People say that all the time. Don't they? It makes me crazy. Everything happens for a reason. Like it means something. My mother died when I was a little girl. My brother died being born. There was no reason for that. My father caught a bullet trying to protect a woman who bailed her husband out of jail every time he beat her up and my partner got killed by a bunch of drug dealers. There was no reason for that. There was no reason for any of that."
He stood up, moved toward her, but she flicked her hands and laughed—an awful sound, as broken as glass.
"It only means something to people who have good things happen to them," she said. "They say 'Everything happens for a reason' and that makes it all right. Makes them feel like they deserved it, whatever it was."
"Erin—"
"I'm sorry." She turned away.
He tried to hold her but she was like a statue. She was made of stone. Impossible to move without breaking her.
In that moment he realized that it wasn't just him she couldn't believe in.
Something moved on the edge of his sight and he turned, ready to rip Alba's stupid head off, only to find Rose framed in the hallway, arms crossed, hands clamped around her upper arms as if she had to hold herself back.
She met his eyes for one anguished moment. Then a tear spilled over onto her cheek and she blinked and disappeared.
A few seconds later Erin slipped past and started down the now unoccupied hall.
#
Erin sat down, staring down at the pile of folders on Martin’s coffee table. "You know what else I noticed?" she asked. "When I was going through the files last night?"
When he didn't answer, it reminded her of Rolly. The way he used to just be there, taking it in and letting her talk it out. And a sense of rightness flowed through her. The sense that she was exactly where she was supposed to be again, doing exactly what she was supposed to be doing. The way she used to feel when she and Rolly were working together.
God, she missed that.
"I couldn't help noticing," she said, before the memory could overwhelm her, "what wasn't in the files."
"Like what?" he asked. "The truth?"
She couldn't stop the smile that flashed over her lips. "Yes. But something else, too."
"What else matters?"
"I didn't see any loose ends."
He sat down, the length of his thigh warm against hers.
"Doesn't that strike you as strange?" she asked. "There are always loose ends. Little bits and pieces that don't fit, don't make sense. People are messy. Nothing wraps up neat and tidy but this—" She motioned at the folders. "Practically has a damn bow on it."
He nodded, slowly. "People are messy by definition. They do stupid things for what seems like no good reason. Even Rose … she just doesn't make sense anymore …"
Erin thought about the buy–bust. About how everything seemed to be on course, until, for what seemed like no good reason, Rolly had decided to move it up. They were set for August 10th and out of the blue, he walked into the station and said it was go. That night. Four days ahead of schedule. He'd put her in charge of equipment while he scrambled to get the money together.
She pulled one of the folders onto her lap, the words—what seems like no good reason—running through her head.
"Alba," she said, finding it in the notes. "Rolly changed the date, moved the bust up, because Alba said Bruno was getting suspicious."
"Seems like a good reason."
"Yes. But there's no note of it in the file. I mean, at the time I just assumed he met with Alba without me. It wouldn't have been unusual. We often met with him separately, depending on who was free. But there's no note of it in here. The last meeting with Alba was documented by me and it was near the end of July. Almost three weeks before the bust.
"He said something about that."
"What?"
"Alba. The guy I talked to at the McDonald's." He pointed down the hall. "That's who was in the kitchen."
And there went that feeling of rightness … Like he'd actually talked to Alba. Just now.
In his kitchen.
Enough.
She picked up the CI folder and started going through the files, pulling pictures out at random and lining them up on the coffee table. Two black guys, two white guys, two brown guys.
He watched her, the small vertical line between his brows disappearing as his face smoothed out into a blank mask. "Really. A line up."
She sat back.
She wasn't holding her breath, exactly, but she couldn't quite breathe either, with that vine of disbelief cinched tight around her ribs. What was she going to do when he pointed at the wrong picture? Where would that leave them?
And if he didn't pick a picture soon, she was going to scream. Breath or no breath.
"Alba wanted to talk about Mitra, of course, which is no help because he still can't remember whatever it is he thinks he needs to remember for her. But at the McDonald's he mentioned meeting with Rolly. Said something about Rolly calling the bust a cakewalk. And today, just before he … disappeared … he talked about Rolly again. He said Rolly isn't dead."
Her head really was going to explode. "You don't think Rolly's dead?"
"I'm not telling you what I think. I'm telling you what Alba said."
She picked up the folder of photos from the fire. Set the first one down on the table, next to the others. "That's Rolly," she said. "If that's not dead, I don't know what is."
Martin gazed down at the charred remains. "I don't understand it, either. But that's what he said."
She waved at the other photos. "Which one of those men was in your kitchen?"
"Alba was in my kitchen."
Enough.
He didn't move as she swept the photos off the table, grabbed the folders, and got up, looking for her bag. But he was standing at the door when she went to leave.
He opened it and she breathed a sigh of relief. Good. No awkward hug goodbye. She didn't think she could deal with that, right at the moment. She started past but he hooked an arm around her waist and hauled her and the folders up against his chest—as if he was going to kiss her.
He did lean down, coming closer and closer until his nose was just about to touch hers. "Erin," he said, using her name as if he wanted to make very sure she knew he was talking to her. "I would have been happy to point at Alba's photo, but you didn't put it on the table."
He let go and she stumbled a step, had to catch herself on the rail outside as the door swung shut between them.
#
Erin just went round and round. Every time she tried to figure out the next step she ran into those stone cold facts and she couldn't get past them. The man thought he talked to Alba in the kitchen. He looked right at the remains of her partner and said he wasn't dead.
She couldn't believe him, the things he claimed just weren't possible. So how could she have had sex with him?
And not just sex. Great sex. Mindblowingly great sex.
She shivered just remembering it … but that made her think about what happened afterward. Finding him knocked out in the kitchen. And how freaking
cold it was. She might not believe he'd talked to Alba, but she had to believe that something happened to him in there. She'd seen what it did to him.
Felt the cold on her own skin.
Maybe what she needed to do was talk to somebody who did believe him. Unfortunately, when she pulled up in front of her house, Amber's car was gone and the only other person she could think of was Mitra.
She found Mitra's number but there was no answer there, either. She tracked down the girl's address and went over anyway. Sheer persistence, right? Alba wasn't at the bust. He hadn't been anywhere near that fire, but his name kept coming up and it was the only loose thread she had to follow.
Mitra Yusefi lived in a small, two story apartment complex off of Spring Road. There were kids playing in the stairwell as she walked up. Two young girls and a smaller, younger boy.
"Miss Mitra's not home," the boy said, as Erin lifted her hand to knock.
"She's not? You're sure?"
He nodded and one of the girls, the one with the cluster of spiral ribbons pinned in her hair said, "She left with the police."
"The police?"
"Yeah. But not because she was bad!"
"She's not bad!" the boy yelled.
"Shh!" the other girl said, and added, "No, she didn't get arrested."
"The officer said he was going to help her," the first girl said and they all nodded.
"The officer? There was only one officer?" Erin asked.
"Uh huh."
Her first thought was Nathan Campbell. She didn't know why he would have come to talk to Mitra, or why he would have taken Mitra away with him, but—
The little boy grabbed Erin's sleeve and pulled until she bent down, nearer to his level. "Miss Mitra's not bad!" he yelled, in a blast of butter rum–scented breath.
Now it was Erin's turn to catch hold of his sleeve. "Did the police officer give you that candy?"
The boy grinned and the girl with the ribbon gave a disgusted huff. "He gave him the whole roll."
Chapter Six
When his phone rang, and he saw it was another unavailable number, Martin thought about not answering it. If only to find out what kind of voicemail message the dead would leave. But in the end he had to—just in case Alba had come up with something real he could give to Erin. Something she'd have to believe, unlike that crazy shit about her partner not being dead. "Sterling."
His voice sounded pissed, even to him, so he wasn't surprised when the voice on the other end snapped back.
"This is detective Roland Connors. Meet me at the Upside. Erin's in trouble."
Click.
The Upside was a little brewpub down the road. Martin walked in and went straight for the restroom.
It was cold, of course, but the only one in it was the dead kid, and his eyes widened when Martin walked in.
"What are you doing here?" Martin asked.
But Alba shook his head, pointing as another man came through the door, so close he was practically on Martin's heels.
"Rolly," Alba said.
The cold kicked up a notch as the not–so–dead detective stalked closer. "Took you long enough," he said, glaring at Martin. "There's something—"
"Rolly!" Alba stepped up, waving his arms in front of the man's face like he was trying to flag a plane. "Rolly, it's me."
The electricity dipped so fast the emergency lights clicked on, casting the whole place in a weak, sickly glow that bounced off the tiles as Rose materialized.
Alba wheeled back. "Shit! What's she doing here?" He gasped, panic plain on his face. "What the fuck?"
I can follow you into the men’s room, you know, she said. I just choose not to.
"You listening there, Mr. Sixth Sense?" Rolly demanded. "Erin is—"
"Shut up, all of you!" Martin dragged his hand across his throat for silence. Then turned toward the other man. "Detective Connors?"
"Yeah. Erin—"
Where's my money? Alba shouted, rushing at the detective.
#
By the time she got to Karl Werner's house, the late fall twilight was already descending. Still, deep in her heart of hearts, deep in that stone cage in her chest, even though the kids at Mitra's had described Karl to a T, Erin was hoping to find Karl out here tending his yard. Edging the walk, maybe, with a scalpel.
No such luck.
"The place looks empty," she said into the phone as she rolled past Werner's house. "No lights inside. No cars in the drive. He said something about his wife, Louise, visiting her sister."
Just before she got to Werner's, she'd decided to call Martin. She remembered the look on his face and the door swinging shut between them, but he was her partner now. Crazy or no crazy. So when he didn't answer she let him know in voice mail where she was headed and why. "I'm parking down the block," she said. "I'm just going to check. Make sure he isn't here. I'll let you know when I leave."
She clicked off and as she climbed out of the car she adjusted her black blazer and unsnapped her sidearm. It wasn't her department–issued piece, she had to turn that one in. No, this was one of her father's old guns. Because what was a weapons charge, on top of all the other violations she was about to commit?
She approached from the east, walking like she belonged there, hand on her weapon, but as she skirted the corner of the property she heard her name.
"Erin! What a nice surprise."
Karl unhooked the gate to the back yard and waved her in.
#
The detective reeled back at Alba's touch, but Alba kept on going—barreling through the older man as if he wasn't there. Straight through to the other side.
"What the fuck was that?" the detective asked, brushing off his arms and chest as if he could still feel something clinging there.
All Martin could do was shake his head. "You're not dead."
The detective rolled his eyes. "You actually charge people money for that kind of psychic insight, douche bag?"
"But—"
I told you he wasn't dead, Alba shouted. Didn't I tell you?
"Well if you knew he wasn't dead, why did you rush him?"
Rolly blinked and tried to follow the direction of Martin's gaze. "Who are you talking to?"
Well, you know, I saw those pictures Detective Healy had and he looked pretty fucking dead. And then Rose said…
Martin turned to catch Rose glaring at Alba. "Rose what?"
"Hey!" Rolly clapped his hands. "Pull it together here!"
Rose said I was wrong, Alba said. She said I must have died under strange circumstances because my wires are all crossed and everything was coming out all garbled and that was why I couldn't remember what I did with the money for Mitra and the baby. Hey, ask him about the money! Go on, ask him! Mitra needs that and I—I don't want to have died for nothing. You know?
Rose shrugged. Elegant and eloquent as always, even in a men’s room lit by security lights and smelling of urinal cakes. I was trying to help.
"Were you? Then why didn't you help him remember?"
"Remember what?" Alba and Rolly asked at the same time.
"Remember how you died," Martin said.
"I didn't die, moron. I thought we already figured that out."
Martin turned his back on the detective. "You need to remember how you died," he said to Alba. Then he turned to Rose. "If you were really trying to help, you'd—"
Fine. She stepped reluctantly, but gracefully, up to the dead kid. Look at me, she said. Look in my eyes and think back. Your brain is a ghost now, too. It's just neurons, firing in space, but it's all still there. She tapped him gently on the side of his head. You just have to trace it back.
Martin never knew if it was the words she used, or the sound of her voice, or the combination of the two, but it worked every time and Alba was no exception.
For a moment his eyes went blank, glazed, seeking inward. The last thing I remember was talking to Rolly…
Martin turned to the detective. "Alba says the last thing he remembers is talki
ng to you."
The detective's eyes widened, then went flat. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. But I do know—"
I was supposed to get fifty thousand for bringing him in on the buy. It was a lot, but I told him I was finished, after this. Bringing him to Bruno was a big risk, and I wasn't going to stick around to find out how it went. I needed enough to take Mitra and disappear.
"You were going to pay him fifty thousand," Martin said out loud. "For bringing you to Bruno's buy."
The sneer dropped off the detective's face like a plaster cast, crumbling and falling into dust. "I said I don't know what you're talking about—"
I showed him the ring! Alba wasn't slouching anymore. He was standing straight up. Like a compass point. Like a spear, rammed into the truth. I bought Mitra a ring that afternoon, just before I met Rolly at the waterfront. And I couldn't stop looking at it. I had to keep opening the box, just to let it sparkle. I couldn't wait for her to see it. The last thing I remember was showing it to Rolly and then: Blam! Everything went white. Then everything went black. And then it all went sideways…
Tears welled in the dead kid’s eyes and Rose reached around Alba and took him into her arms, patting him on the back and murmuring softly.
That was it, she said. That was when you died.
I bought her a ring, Alba said, his voice rough but rising, resonating off the greenish tile like a howl.
"He says he showed you a ring and then he died," Martin said.
"Karl killed him," the detective said. Not denying it anymore. "We were going to go in on Bruno's buy and everybody in the house was going to end up dead. Except Karl was going to fake my death and we were going to split the money and drugs. He called it our retirement plan."
He paused and wiped his hand across his mouth. "The plan was to wait till we got a John Doe but Karl decided he didn't want to split the money three ways, and we needed a body to fake my death so taking out Alba was like, you know, two birds, one stone. And no loose strings. I was looking at the ring when Karl came up behind Alba and hit him with the Black Jack. He shot him later, so the wounds would match."
Horror showed on Rolly's face now. He was talking to Martin, but he was looking at the spot where Rose and Alba huddled together and Martin wasn't sure if it was the horror of realizing that Alba really was there, talking to him, or if it was the remembered horror of watching Alba die.