Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1)

by Danielle Girard

  They turned left into the lab corridor. Jamie considered the evidence Hailey had, wasn't sure she wanted to be surprised by it.

  Hailey paused at the lab door, her hand on the knob. "You ready?"

  Jamie nodded, not so sure.

  Inside, the senior criminalist, Sydney, walked along the edge of a huge cut of red-stained carpet. The piece, spread out on the lab floor, was maybe nine feet by twelve. Her strawberry-blond ponytail swung as she moved. She wore khakis and a white lab coat. Freckles dappled her cheeks, giving her skin a glow despite a lack of makeup. Sydney circled the rug, holding a black Sharpie. Every few steps, she'd stop, lean over, and circle a spot of red.

  "I'm here for the Devlin update," Hailey said.

  Sydney turned, blinked hard. "Mike, will you get Tasha's file for me?"

  Hailey met Jamie's gaze. Neither spoke. Jamie knew Sydney and Devlin had been close. The few times she'd seen Devlin at Rookie Club dinners, she always sat beside Sydney. Jamie felt more clearly the widening gap between herself and the other officers who had once been her comrades. Natasha Devlin would haunt her forever—dead or alive. Unless the truth shed a symphony of light on her death, people would rarely think of her murder without hearing notes of Jamie Vail somewhere in the background.

  Sydney swiped at her face with the back of one hand, still focused on the rug. "I'm almost done with this."

  "Take your time," Hailey told her, leading Jamie to a small table to one side. On it sat a chamber for fingerprinting evidence.

  Hailey sat and Jamie forced herself to join though she would have preferred to stand.

  Sydney circled another three spots on the carpet before standing to remove the medical gloves, drop them in the biohazard trash bin, and toss the contaminated pen into the trash. Afterwards, she retrieved a file off her desk and carried it to the table, sitting beside Hailey and opposite Jamie. She wiped her eyes with her palms, shook her head. "I keep losing it. They should have someone else doing her work, you know. Damn unthinking bureaucracy."

  Jamie struggled to find something to say, something that would alleviate any doubt. Instead, she shook her head. "I'm very sorry, Sydney."

  Sydney glanced at her, nodded. "She wasn't the best with men, but she was a wonderful person."

  Jamie nodded. "She didn't deserve to die. I hope you believe me."

  Sydney blinked again, shook her head, and sniffed to clear her nose. With a deep breath, she pressed on. "Okay, let's see what we got. From the car, we found dozens of smudged partials but only nine full prints—three inside the car, six outside. Six we've matched to officers, the other three no match yet. And we still haven't finished printing her office."

  Hailey drew out her notebook. "Start with the inside."

  "Your rookie on the neck. Natasha's prints and another one." She scanned the pages, flipped.

  "Worley?" Hailey asked.

  Sydney shook her head. "Scott Scanlan."

  Jamie watched Hailey's face. From the expression, Jamie could see Hailey had not expected that news. "Scanlan?" Hailey repeated.

  Jamie knew Scanlan only by reputation. From what she'd heard, he was not a likely target for a Devlin conquest. He seemed young, even for her, and not all that bright. He had a tendency to make a mess of everything he got himself into, to the point where he'd become a sort of punchline for inner-department jokes. Except when he landed himself in the news. Then, the joke was on them. Of course, he was the deputy chief's son. That would be appealing to Devlin.

  Sydney nodded, lowered her voice. "He's been dating someone in here—our new tech, Stephanie Rusch. He's actually been sweet to her—taking her out, flowers, the whole bit. I know his reputation, but he's young, you know. I don't think he belongs on the force, but for the most part, he's just a confused kid, trying to fill Daddy's shoes."

  Hailey nodded. "My husband's sometimes guilty of the same. Does Stephanie know?"

  "About the prints, you mean?" Sydney nodded. "She got the match and I had to pull her. Have them double-checked. I've got her on an outside case now. The whole thing is conflict of interest. It should go to the Feds but you know that'll never happen. Can you see the department calling in the FBI?"

  No one spoke for a minute. No. Jamie thought. That would not happen. Getting a case from the department usually meant a battle. "Christ, what a nightmare," Jamie said after a pause.

  Hailey nodded. "I'm sorry too, Sydney."

  Jamie started to stand. "I shouldn't be here. I'm making it harder, I'm sure."

  Sydney shook her head. "Don't go. It's fine. I'll get through it." She touched Jamie's arm. "Stay."

  Hailey nodded.

  Jamie sat.

  Sydney straightened. "We found dozens of partials, but Scanlan's was clean—on the dash above the glove—so it's recent—at least relatively."

  "And outside?" Hailey prompted.

  "Outside we've got Wallace again—"

  "The rookie," Hailey said.

  Sydney nodded, still reading. "Natasha, Worley, two unknowns, and an officer named Bruce Daniels. Know him?"

  Hailey's expression narrowed, her brow furrowed. "Daniels?"

  Jamie nodded. "I saw him there. I figured it was because she was a cop, but I wouldn't have expected him to touch the car. Kind of a rookie mistake for IA."

  Hailey turned to Jamie. "You're saying Daniels was at the scene yesterday morning?"

  "Yeah. You're surprised?"

  Anger flashed across Hailey's expression. "I was told no one was there before me."

  Jamie watched Hailey. "You okay?"

  Hailey nodded stiffly. "Just sick of bureaucratic BS."

  Jamie watched her, wondering what she wasn't saying.

  "What else?" Hailey asked Sydney.

  "The sex kit. We've got positive tests for saliva, semen, and we've got a half-dozen hairs."

  Jamie felt her mouth drop. "Jesus. She wasn't raped, was she?"

  Sydney shook her head. "No signs of trauma, but she'd had intercourse."

  Jamie stared. "With—" Then suddenly she didn't want to know. The band around her ribs tightened and she couldn't seem to draw a breath. "It's okay. I don't need—"

  Hailey touched her arm. "Tim told us, Jamie. They had sex earlier that day, before the banquet."

  Her stomach contracted like she'd been hit. She didn't know they'd slept together earlier that day. Tim said he'd seen her the night before, when he'd gone to her house. He told her they'd had a fight. He hit her. An older neighbor had come out of her house and asked if Devlin needed help. She shook her head, felt sick. He told her all those things but he had failed to tell her that he'd been with her the very day of her death. He'd lied. Stupid. Of course he'd lied.

  "Jamie, are you—"

  Just then, a phone began to vibrate on the table. Both inspectors grabbed for their mobiles.

  "It's me," Jamie said, thankful for the interruption. "Vail," she said without excusing herself, stumbling into the hall.

  Hailey said something, but Jamie kept moving.

  She had been so focused on clearing Tim, so concerned that they would do everything to frame Tim in an effort to solve the case quickly. The more pressure there was to solve it, the easier it would be to let Tim hang in the noose. Maybe, though, the noose was exactly where he belonged. Damn him.

  "This is dispatch," came the response.

  "Dispatch?"

  "Inspector, we just received a call from the Marin County sheriffs department. A neighbor called on a break-in at 129 Payne Road. I'll patch you through to the responding officer now."

  Shit. That was her house.

  A series of clicks and she heard a new voice. "Officer Arguello here."

  "This is Inspector Vail. I'm the owner of 129 Payne. You have an intruder there?"

  "Guy broke a window over the kitchen sink to get in. Dog went crazy, so the neighbor called us. We caught your perp. He's wasted drunk and swears he knows you."

  Could Tim have made it from the courthouse that quickly? Gotten wast
ed? But that meant they'd granted bail and why go to her house? "I don't think so."

  The officer laughed. "Yeah, they all say they know you when they get busted."

  "You have an ID on him?"

  "Yeah." He paused. "Name is Tony Galen."

  Jamie clamped her eyes shut. Some small noise issued from her chest like a sigh or a gasp or just the sound of her childhood rushing back.

  "You know him, Inspector?" Arguello asked.

  "Yeah," Jamie said slowly. "I know him."

  "We've got him at the station. You want to come pick him up?"

  "I'll be there in an hour."

  "We'll try to get some coffee in him."

  Jamie hung up the phone and headed for the door. Tony Galen. Jesus Christ. Tony and she had grown up together. Their fathers had been best friends, partners on the job, and shared a duplex. When their wives had died, her father and Pat were widowers together. Tony Galen was the closest thing she had to a brother.

  She hit end and looked down to see she had a new voicemail.

  "It's Jules," her captain's voice said. "I'll give you another twenty-four hours surveillance. Let's hope we get something."

  She sighed. As she started out of the building, the phone vibrated in her hand.

  "Vail."

  "It's Ed Goldman." His voice was quiet and she heard the disappointment in his voice. It wasn't good news.

  "What happened?"

  "We didn't make bail. Flight risk, a police murder. We fought hard but the judge didn't budge."

  Jamie rushed out the front door, felt the sun bright in her eyes. "What do you do now?"

  "We appeal. In the meantime, the police have warrants for his house and car."

  She didn't speak.

  "I'll call you when I've got an update," Goldman said and rang off.

  For a moment, she just stood there, let the sun warm her face.

  What else could go wrong?

  Chapter 14

  Tony Galen pressed his forehead against the scarred table in the interview room. The plastic surface was cool against the heat in his face, and he let his eyes fall closed again, trying to shut out the pain in his head and throat.

  The room reeked of bad coffee and stale cigarettes, and under that was the sharp odor of liquor oozing out of pores—his. It had been whiskey going in, but it all smelled like gin coming out. Like rotting limes. He opened his lips, tried not to swallow. He held an arm against the rumbling in his stomach, fought the urge to throw up.

  They'd tried to get him to eat something, but he couldn't. Eating would guarantee he vomit and he'd rather not. When he first arrived, the police interview room had been spinning. Now that it had stopped, he wished it would start again. At least then his head hadn't been pounding.

  He drank five—or was it six—cups of burned coffee in the hopes that it would start to mix with the alcohol in his blood and bring him down enough to stop the nausea. Again, no luck. That was the story of his life—no fucking luck.

  He turned his head sideways and felt the burn of the wound on his neck. The lacerations had scabbed over and healed, but with each turn of his head came little pangs in the old wounds. The collar of his shirt was carefully closed over the scars. He had enough to answer for; he didn't want to have to go into that, too. He had spent four months locked up for it already.

  Before that, he'd been in twelve states in the eight months since Deborah had kicked him out. He hadn't known anyone along the way. Worked his way from state to state, if you could call it working. He'd bummed rides and cigarettes and worked a day here and a day there. Over seven fucking years since Mick had died. No. Since he'd killed Mick.

  Almost that long since his father had died of a broken heart. "I can't believe my Mick's gone," he'd said, sitting in that sterile room, looking like warm death. The room was pungent with the smells of bleach and urine. Mixed in was the chalky scent of Maalox.

  His dad had died a week and a half later, before Tony had made it back to see him again.

  He heard the door open and assumed it was another cop with more coffee. It was because of Jamie. If Jamie weren't on her way right now, he'd be behind bars and no one would give a shit that his head was ready to explode. There would be no coffee, no niceties. That's what knowing a local cop did for you.

  "You want to tell me what the fuck I'm doing here?"

  Tony raised his head and looked at Jamie Vail. He blinked, which felt like hammering his head with his fist. Bluish circles shadowed her eyes. Tired. How long since he'd seen her? They'd been like siblings growing up—Jamie, Tony, his brother, Mick. Now, Jamie was all the family he had left.

  "You hear about Mick?"

  She nodded.

  "And Dad?"

  She nodded again. Something in her expression softened, the old Jamie still in there. At least there was that. "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Shit happens," he responded.

  She frowned. "Is that your excuse for my window?"

  Their eyes met and she shook her head. She never could stay angry for long. Her shoulders dropped. "I didn't mean it like that. The window doesn't matter. Shit, none of it matters."

  He lifted his head. "I knew what you meant."

  She looked around, seemed anxious to be released from the discussion of the dead people in their lives.

  "You got your hair cut," he commented. "It was longer before."

  She looked back and touched her hair. "I haven't seen you in nearly a decade," she reminded him. "It's about the same. I haven't had it done in forever."

  "If it was recent, I was going to suggest you ask for a refund."

  "Asshole," she said, a smile tugging at her lips. It looked foreign on her face.

  More awkward silence followed.

  She glanced around the room, pulled out a chair, and sat. "Why did I come here again?"

  "To pick me up?"

  She nodded. "You ever think of calling first?"

  "Breaking the window was so much easier. Plus, I didn't think you had a phone."

  She stood, motioned to him. "Let's go."

  He pressed his palms flat into the cool laminate surface of the table and rose. Followed. Without comment, Jamie filled out the paperwork, retrieved what was left of his worldly possessions from the police and handed the manila envelope to him, raising an eyebrow at the scar on his hand. Still, she never asked. That was Jamie. Don't ask, don't tell. It was the way they were raised.

  When they got to the car, she unlocked it and they both got in. "Where to?"

  He leaned back. "Home?"

  "And where is that?"

  "I thought you'd know how to get there. The cops drove me here and I was kind of drunk when the cabbie dropped me off."

  Jamie pulled a cigarette out and lit it. He took one, too. They smoked in silence, the car unmoving until she finally said, "Can I ask what you're doing here?"

  It was the question that burned in his mind, too. Why had he come? Because there was no one else. Because he needed a job, a life, and he could no longer have one in New York.

  Just then, her phone rang. "Vail."

  On the other end of the phone, he heard a male voice. Gruff, short. Another police officer. Jamie nodded and smoked. She glanced over at him and he knew exactly what was going on—she was checking on him, his past. When she hung up, she turned to him.

  "America's KESWICK?" she asked.

  He looked out the window, blew smoke and watched it curl up against the glass and roll back at him like a gray wave. Instead of talking, she ran records. How the hell had they gotten so fucked up?

  "It's a residential addiction recovery center in Whiting, New Jersey."

  She nodded. "Yeah, I got the little commercial on KESWICK. One hundred and twenty days for men eighteen and older. Also a Christian conference and retreat center."

  "I didn't find Christ, if that's what you're asking."

  "No, Tony. I want to know why you're drinking again."

  Shit, he wanted to know why, too. And not just that
. He had so many questions he wanted answered. Why was Mick dead? Why was he alive? Why had he come? Why had he lost his job in the first place? Why had he failed to quit the bottle? Why wasn't he the one to take the South Tower? Why, why, why. He blew out his breath. "I don't know."

  "So you came here? I'm the backup to KESWICK?" She shook her head. "I don't think that's a good plan."

  "I need a place to stay for a while."

  She reached over and touched his collar.

  He grabbed her hand.

  "I want to see," she said without letting go.

  He tightened his grip on her hand. "No."

  "Let me see."

  He finished his cigarette and looked over at her. Their eyes never quite met. There was too much to say if they finally had to confess it all. Tony gave in, unbuttoned his top button. His hands shook. He needed a drink. The spinning and pounding had finally stopped and now he was shaking. Shit, the spinning was so much better.

  He pulled the collar open and let her look.

  She leaned forward but didn't touch. They never touched, never had, like it might be contagious. And no one needed to catch what he had.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  He said nothing, feeling the warmth of their bodies and the cigarettes fill the car. He touched the back of his hand to the window, wishing he were out there instead.

  "You can't do that in my house," she said. "I'll take you there if you promise."

  Promise. How many promises had he made and broken?

  He nodded.

  "No. Look at me and swear it. Swear on something that matters. Swear on Lana's grave."

  Lana. Beautiful Lana. Why did the one person who had mattered most leave first? He'd never even known his mother. Not as a person, not really. What child really paid attention to his mother? She was there. Her smile, the little shake of her head when he and Mick got up to trouble, and then she was gone. She'd been like a beautiful spirit. Only tiny pieces of her were left—her laugh and the smell of her hair. He remembered the Irish prayer she used to say before putting him to bed. He could still hear her whispery voice.

  May the raindrops fall lightly on your brow