The clientele consisted of young yuppies and hipsters, mainly between twenty and forty—the type of people who shopped at organic markets with their reusable grocery bags. They all seemed friendly enough, and no one paid him any attention.
After a few minutes, Sam ordered another beer, and his thoughts drifted back to Nathan. He’d sounded so distant on the phone, and Sam wanted to see him so badly. He wanted to be a part of whatever plans Nathan was hatching, not sitting alone at a hipster bar wondering whether he should go home or find some guy to fuck. Some meaningless stranger. Sam remembered what Nathan told him about how addictive the anonymous sex had been. Sex could be like a drug, a moment of pleasure in the midst of dull existence, and it had served that purpose for him on more than one occasion. Sure, he had fun, but loneliness always returned after the rush. Yet the second a guy expressed interest in starting something more serious, he panicked. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been sober in bed. Or the last time he’d gone a day without having at least one drink.
Yuri had said some pretty hurtful things, but they only hurt because they were true. Maybe Sam couldn’t have a meaningful relationship. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for it. Maybe that was the reason he insisted on believing such relationships didn’t exist.
The long day of work and stress had tightened Sam’s shoulders. He rubbed at the knot of muscle at the back of his neck and sighed, then drained the rest of his beer.
“You want to order some food with that, friend?” asked the bartender. “It packs a punch.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
After that, the place started to fill up, and another bartender joined the first. Sam kept to his seat and watched the ebb and flow of the crowd, anonymous on his barstool island. The beer had made his head fuzzy, but he wasn’t yet drunk. He wondered if Nathan had finally found an apartment and whether it was close.
No. Sam had said he understood, and he did. Some secret part of Sam hoped Nathan would change his mind, but what did he expect? For the guy to show up and forget about his dead wife—Sam’s friend. She hadn’t even been dead for five months. What kind of asshole was he?
Another beer, and his thoughts became a little unclear, a little less focused. He stopped caring so much.
“Gimme that one,” Sam said, pointing at the bar menu on the wall behind the taps.
“Sorry, but I’m going to have to cut you off.”
“I feel fine,” he insisted, “and I want another beer.”
Hot bartender frowned, looking a little like Nathan with his dark eyes.
“It’s against our policy to serve to visibly intoxicated people. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to pay your tab and leave.”
Sam shook his head and leaned forward. A half-baked plan had begun to take shape. “I’m not paying anything, and I’m not leaving. Now give me the goddamn beer.”
The guy crossed his arms over his chest. It made him look even more like Nathan. “Sir, pay up and go. I don’t want any trouble.” Sam noticed he wasn’t “friend” anymore.
“Well if you don’t want any trouble, you should do what I tell you. I’m a paying customer.”
Playing the part of belligerent drunk didn’t come naturally. Sam had always been affectionate—Yuri would say horny—while intoxicated. Still, if he could piss off the bartender enough, maybe then he’d have a chance of getting some intel for Nathan. He could help with the case after all, and show Yuri he cared about people. Yes, this was a great idea.
“I don’t want to have to call the police,” said the bartender.
“You don’t have the balls.”
It didn’t take long. After a little more back and forth, the minor altercation turned into a scene. Patrons who’d been pretending not to stare now gawked openly. The people nearby shifted nervously in their seats. Sam could feel their disapproval reflect off his back and turn to outrage as he pulled a move he’d once seen on TV and downed another customer’s drink. The guy shoved him in response, and Sam hurled back an insult about his mom.
By the time the cop showed up a couple minutes later, Sam was almost relieved. Any more time in the bar, and drunk and disorderly wouldn’t be the only charge slapped on him. Luckily he’d avoided getting physical with the guy who shoved him, and he sat with his head lolling on his chest while the cop, who he only vaguely recognized, approached to question the bartender. Other patrons were whispering and sending him dirty looks. Sam pretended not to notice.
As the cop—his badge said Officer Jain—led him out of the bar into the empty squad car, he realized with crushing disappointment he’d gotten himself arrested for nothing. He’d hoped to find McCormick, or even Petersen, but they were alone. Sam slumped against the back seat as the door of the cruiser slammed behind him.
Once the car was in motion, Sam tried to kick-start his brain. Maybe all wasn’t lost. It was possible he could still learn something, but he had to do it without arousing suspicion. He trailed his finger over the ripped seam of the faux leather seat and poked at the yellow stuffing inside.
“How long you been on the force?” he asked.
The cop gave him a look in the rearview. “What do you think, I’m straight off the boat?”
Sam raised his hands. “No, no! I was just wondering. I know some people at the station, s’all. I knew Emma Walker. She was a friend of mine.”
The other man’s eyes flashed with sympathy. He seemed to shake off the perceived insult. “I didn’t know her well. But I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
After a couple more failed attempts at getting Officer Jain to engage in conversation—clearly he wasn’t a talkative sort—Sam gave up. Outside, the night was cold and clear. It made the window cold too. Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head against it, feeling a little woozy.
When they entered the station for processing, Sam stumbled. He was a little drunker than he’d originally thought.
“Sam.” A familiar voice startled him. When he looked up, he came face-to-face with a frowning Chief Sheldon. His blue eyes narrowed, making his big eyebrows seem even bushier. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
“Sorry, Chief.” Remorse crept up the back of his neck. He looked like a complete idiot in front of a man who’d respected his father—and no doubt wondered what sorry excuse for a legacy he’d left behind. He remained quiet while Sheldon spoke with his arresting officer and then led him toward the staff offices, forgoing the normal booking procedures.
“What were you thinking getting yourself arrested, son?” Sheldon asked once he’d closed the door to his office.
“Dunno.”
“You’re lucky the owner of the bar decided not to press charges.” Sheldon’s chair creaked as he sat down on the opposite side of the desk. “Most places would have.”
“Does that mean I get to go home?”
“I’m afraid not, Sam. You’re headed to the tank to sleep it off.”
Sam stiffened in his chair. Now that his harebrained scheme had turned out badly, he wanted nothing more than to go home, bury his head under a mound of pillows, and forget it had ever happened. When Nathan found out what he’d done, he’d be upset—especially after the previous day’s conversation. “Are you trying to scare me straight?”
The chief chuckled, but Sam hadn’t even intended the pun.
“I’ll never understand why you do this to yourself. Is it worth it? You’re going to have a helluva hangover in the morning.”
He didn’t feel like talking or telling Sheldon he wasn’t as drunk as he could be.
Sheldon leaned forward and cracked his knuckles, one by one. “Drinking ruins lives, Sam. Sure. You’re young now, and it’s all fun and games. But wait until you’re forty, fifty years old. It won’t be so pretty then.” He tutted and shook his head. “I always say it’s the people you associate with who influence your choices. You hang out with a bad crowd, you turn bad, yourself. I’ve seen it time and time again. Bad choices.”
&n
bsp; Sam didn’t bother responding. When he was a kid, Sam used to wonder if dead people could still see the living. After his grandmother passed, one of the kids at school teased him after the funeral, warning she might be in the room watching, at any time. He’d been afraid to get undressed for almost a month.
He wondered if his parents could see him.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying, Sam, but this association you have with Nathan Walker is a bad choice. The man is dangerous. I say this as a friend of your father, since he’s not here to say it himself. I’m concerned about your welfare.”
“Nathan’s not dangerous. He’s a good guy.”
“Sometimes it’s the ones who seem good who are the worst kind. Most people who seem too good to be true have secrets. Eventually those secrets drag you down.” Sam met Sheldon’s eyes. He was about to defend Nathan when the radio on Sheldon’s desk crackled to life.
Available units in the Clarksboro area report to Baptist Bridge. 10-56A in progress, repeat, 10-56A in progress.
“Jesus, lord above,” Sheldon cursed.
“What’s that mean?” Sam asked as Sheldon stood and grabbed his jacket before heading toward the door and barking orders down the hall. Twisting around in his chair to watch, Sam asked again what was happening. Instead of clarifying, however, Sheldon urged him up and into the custody of another cop, a short, stocky woman with plain features.
“Get him in the tank,” he told her. “I’ve gotta head over to the bridge.”
The officer nodded and took Sam’s arm. Her grip dug unpleasantly into his bicep, but he didn’t mention his discomfort.
“What’s happening on the bridge?” Sam asked.
“It’s none of your business.”
The officer unceremoniously deposited Sam in the old-fashioned holding cell still used to house drunks. It was adjacent to the squad room, and from his vantage point, Sam could see a flurry of activity. He’d already begun to put two-and-two together. The Baptist Street Bridge was a favorite for suicides. Not only was it impossibly high, once a body hit the surface, waterlogged clothes would pull a person under quick. Sam had heard some jumpers loaded their pockets so they’d sink even faster.
“A suicide?” All of the blood rushed out of Sam’s face. His lips felt numb. “Hey. Is it a suicide?” he asked the officer who’d brought him in.
“Sleep it off, buddy,” she replied, shutting the barred door behind her with a clang.
There were two other men in the relatively spacious cell. One of them had pissed his pants and lay with his soggy ass pointed in Sam’s direction, completely passed out. The other, a younger man with a scraggly beard, mumbled incoherently and shuddered as a tremor shivered through his body. He seemed to stare right through Sam with his wide, bloodshot eyes.
Sam chose the least offensive corner and sat on one of the peeling benches. If he’d expected to find someone to talk to, he’d been sadly mistaken. The younger man suffering the DTs turned to Sam and murmured.
“What?” Sam asked, unconvinced the man even knew he’d spoken.
The man muttered again, and Sam realized he’d asked for booze. His eyes grew wider still as anticipation filled them, and then they shuttered, the hope going out like a light. He let out a quiet, broken moan that chilled Sam’s blood, and Sam looked away.
He didn’t want to see this. His head started to pound as the rancid smell of vomit and urine filled his nostrils. He tried not to breathe too deeply. He wished he were home and not sitting numb assed on an unpadded metal bench. This wasn’t why he’d come.
He must have waited for an hour, maybe more. After the initial commotion, the station quieted down, and only an occasional officer was visible in the adjacent room. Sam started to get used to the sound of his companion’s incomprehensible mutterings.
And then a few cops, Petersen and McCormick among them, reentered the squad room. They seemed to be arguing. One cop looked incredibly distraught, and Sam recognized her as a friend of Emma’s. Sam’s buzz had long worn off, leaving him tired, but not terribly so. He moved closer and strained to hear what the cops were saying.
“I’m so tired of this,” said someone to McCormick. “This city is like hell on earth sometimes.” McCormick shrugged and stayed quiet.
“Petersen tossed his cookies like a rookie,” said another guy.
“Yeah. Even McCormick held it together.”
“Shut up.” Petersen’s voice.
When he finally got a look at Petersen’s face, though, Sam almost thought he had the wrong guy. Under the fluorescent overheads, Petersen was white as a sheet, tending toward green, and gripping the back of a chair with both fists. His whole face had broken out in a cold sweat, like he’d had the shock of his life. Grief.
He’d never known Petersen to regret anything.
The chief entered a few seconds later, cutting the chatter short.
“We’ve all seen something terrible tonight,” he said. “But that’s no reason to fall apart.” He directed a pointed look at Petersen, who responded by straightening up. “In fact, it’s the reason you have to keep it together. Remember you represent this station, this precinct. No matter what you do, always remember. Now excuse me. I have to call the jumper’s family.”
Jumper. So it had been a suicide, after all. A chill ran down Sam’s spine. Over the past five years he’d written many obituaries, and it was never fun, but a suicide brought a whole new level of pain to the survivors. All of that wondering about what they could have done differently, if they could have stopped it. He wondered who the jumper was and what family would have the misfortune of receiving Sheldon’s call. Sam wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy, and he could sympathize with Petersen’s reaction. That was something new.
“I get what the chief’s saying,” said Emma’s friend. “I do. But I can’t see how we’re supposed to not feel anything, or act like we don’t feel anything. I mean, this woman’s husband just died, and now she’s dead too. And they both did so much for this community.”
“It’s terrible,” someone else agreed.
Sam wondered if they even knew he was still there or if they’d gotten so used to people in the drunk tank being wasted that they didn’t worry about being overheard.
“People die in this town almost every day,” said the guy who’d teased Petersen. “I don’t know why we should feel worse because the person had a lot of money. I mean, the Feldmans were loaded, but who cares? What makes them better than anyone else?”
Sam’s breath caught at the name. Feldman. Had Patricia Feldman jumped?
Emma’s friend spoke again. “It doesn’t make them better. But at least they’ve tried to do something to help. Listen, they’re calling in the Coast Guard to search for the body, and I’m going home to bed. You guys can do whatever you want.”
AT SOME point during the night, Sam must have dozed off. He woke to the sound of unoiled hinges screeching. He blinked and remembered where he was. Oh yeah. Jail.
His companions were still asleep. The guy with the DTs seemed to be having fitful dreams, and Sam hoped he’d sleep for a long time, at least until it didn’t hurt to be awake.
“You’re free to go now.” A grim-faced Chief Sheldon stepped into the cell. “I’m sorry I had to do this, but it was for your own good.”
Sam was too tired to muster indignation or anger. He turned back to the guys on the floor. “What’s going to happen to them?”
“What happens to all addicts, son. They get clean, or they die.”
AFTER SAM retrieved his truck from the bar, he went back to his apartment to shower and change. His voice mail had two messages, including one from an unfamiliar number. It was Nathan, asking him to meet at a diner downtown. His stomach squirmed at the prospect of telling Nathan what had happened the night before, like a naughty child who wasn’t sure how his parents would react.
He spied through the thick, dirty glass of the diner’s front window before going in. Nathan sat at the counter sipping a cup of coffee. The
relief of seeing him there, safe—although Sam had no idea why he wouldn’t be—almost bowled him over. He’d missed him.
“Did something happen to your phone?” Sam asked, sliding onto the vacant stool next to Nathan at the counter. He’d texted Nathan back to say he’d received the message and gotten no response.
“Yeah, in a manner of speaking.” Nathan gave him a tired smile. He looked like he’d been up all night. Sam hadn’t gotten much rest in the tank either. He’d spent most of the night remembering the smiling middle-aged woman in the photo Emma had given him when he’d been writing Mark Feldman’s obit. Thinking about the kids too. It pissed him off that they’d grow up without a mother or father. He hated thinking badly of the dead, but suicide seemed so cowardly and selfish with kids in the picture. When you had someone depending on you, how could you just throw in the towel?
“I take it you heard about Patricia Feldman?” Sam asked. Nathan nodded and gestured to the television hanging on the adjacent wall. Sam squinted at the words. “A bereaved lover’s suicide?”
“That’s what they’re calling it.”
“Have they found the body?”
Nathan took another sip of his coffee. “Not yet.”
They watched the rest of the newscast in silence, but once the reporter gave his over and out and topics turned to other news, Nathan nudged Sam. “Are you hungry? Get whatever you want.”
They ordered, and Sam gratefully downed some coffee while he tried to think of the best way to broach the subject of his arrest. He didn’t want to keep secrets. “I was there last night.”
“What?” Nathan’s face paled. “What are you talking about?”
Sam quickly realized his error. “No, not at the bridge. Sorry.” He winced. “I went out to a bar and I… sort of got arrested.”
“What do you mean, you sort of got arrested?” Nathan whispered harshly.
“I thought maybe I’d be able to help get some intel for you about Emma. So I pretended to be shitfaced and I got in a fight with the bartender. On purpose. A little.” Thinking about his stupid not-plan in the light of day made him flush. He started fidgeting with his napkin to distract himself from Nathan’s piercing gaze.
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