Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1)

by Danielle Girard

  She could see the emotion in his eyes and had to look away. She took a drink of coffee, felt the liquid burn her tongue.

  "Maybe I knew she was dead and didn't want to accept it," he added quietly.

  Maybe she should have asked more questions, but she couldn't. She already knew Tim had slept with Devlin before she died. That was enough. Plus, the murder wasn't her case.

  Jamie didn't know what to say, couldn't find the words.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes before Tim stood up. "Thanks for letting me talk, Jamie."

  She started to stand, but he stopped her. "I'll let myself out." Then, before she could stop him, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek and was gone.

  Jamie dumped the coffees in the sink and stared out the window, trying to discern exactly how she felt. The very absence of anger felt so foreign. She wasn't even sure she could say it felt good. The anger was easy. This—forgiveness maybe—this was hard.

  Upstairs, she showered, lingering under the scalding water. She tried not to think about Tim. Or even about Marchek or Scanlan or Tony.

  Out of the shower, she dumped dirty clothes off the chair in her bedroom and dragged it to the window. Sitting in the natural light, she brushed her hair with the wood-handled brush she'd had for a decade. She fought with the gnarled bits. Eventually, she won and the knots came loose. She turned her head over and brushed the underneath and then flipped it back up. It was cool on her neck. She passed the brush through the smooth strands, daring it to catch.

  She held the brush in her hands, ran her fingers across the smooth wood. For some reason, brushing her hair reminded her of the first female friend she'd had. Marisa Caltabiano was Italian, her father a police officer in the Bronx. She and her family—parents and two younger brothers—had moved in down the street from Tony and Jamie. They hadn't come from far, just from somewhere else in the Brooklyn. As a kid, though, a couple of blocks seemed like across the world. Marisa had lived near them for four years, beginning when Tony and Jamie were nine or maybe ten. No, it would have been nine.

  She had moved away when they were thirteen—after the attack. Her father had been the one to find them. It had been his call. Jamie pushed those memories aside and thought about the early days.

  Tony had discovered Marisa playing jacks down the street and brought her home like a stray puppy. Jamie had disliked her immediately. She had thick curls and olive skin and perfectly almond-shaped eyes. She was nice, not sweet, and held her own from the start. Tony and Mick were so taken with her that Jamie's Irish temper had been thrown into overdrive.

  Jamie had been so protective of them, especially Tony. She wasn't used to sharing him. Marisa was the first time it had ever come up. Marisa and Tony had dated a bit; she was his first girlfriend. All of it before the attack, the rape. Before everything had changed.

  Jamie glanced at the clock. Forty-seven minutes had passed since Tony left—not nearly enough time to get groceries and get back, especially on a Sunday.

  Her throat closed. She ignored it, found the pack of cigarettes on the floor by her bed. As she walked across the room, she shook one out. She opened the window and lit the cigarette, curling back into the chair. It was cool outside and she set the cigarette on the edge of her table to grab a sweatshirt off the floor and pull it over her head. She retrieved the cigarette and inhaled with a hissing Darth Vader sound, exhaled.

  The muscles in her neck loosened and she focused on a spot at the back of the yard. On the other side of the house, cars passed in the distance, too far to hear. The room was quiet except for the whine of the wind through the open window.

  Barney let out a moan on the bed, went back to sleep.

  Her mind settled on her family—on Tony, Mick, on Pat Galen, and her father. And on their mothers. She couldn't remember her own—the memory was always still, an image from a photograph. But Lana—she could remember Lana with her dark hair and light eyes. Jamie pictured her bright eyes, wide and open and smiling, her contagious laugh. When she let it loose, it was untamed and free, like she couldn't control it. It used to make the kids smile just hearing her.

  But in the end, the pain had stolen her laugh. Even her eyes had lost their humor. That Lana tried to mask it from all of them was her way, but it was there just below the surface. In the last weeks of her life, she'd let the kids into her room for only a few minutes at a time. Then she'd ushered them out so she could rest. And as soon as their backs were turned, her face would grow rigid in agony. Sometimes, when Jamie would look back, she'd see it.

  Mick had been a fireball just like Lana. Always the first out of the station house, he was a born leader. Tony was quieter, shy, more like Pat.

  Tony had said they'd had it hard growing up, but Jamie disagreed. They'd had two parents—three for the years with Lana. Their fathers had taken them to the firehouse every few weeks so they could climb on the truck and slide down the pole. The men had taken the kids bowling, thrown the ball with them. Pat taught them to play gin rummy for pretzels.

  And then somewhere, it had fallen apart. It hadn't been as far back as the rape, although she was confident it had started there. Marisa left, but they remained in the same house with the memory of it all around them. Each of them shared the guilt—the dads, but also each of the kids for not having been there or not being able to stop it.

  Mick turned fifteen and started to hang with a pack of older boys. Tony and Jamie were thirteen, starting high school. They were sucked into the mainstream. Four years later, Jamie left. That was it. She'd come to California for college and the boys—Tony, Mick, Pat and her father—had stayed in New York. Most right until the end.

  She heard the garage door open, felt relief. She walked down the stairs, Barney trailing slowly behind. She opened the door. "Can I help?"

  Tony nodded. "Sure. Grab a bag."

  They unloaded the groceries into the kitchen and Jamie slowly pulled things out—cheese, lunch meats, chips, chicken breasts, ice cream. "You got a lot of stuff."

  He looked at her for a moment. "I thought we could use some food around here."

  She nodded, felt relieved. Suicidal men didn't buy food.

  "I found these, too. Remember them?" He passed her a pack of baseball cards like the ones they had collected as kids.

  She smiled.

  "You used to sell me and Mick your cards and you'd hide the gum in your drawer with the money."

  She frowned. "I don't remember that."

  He smiled. "You did. I was collecting Donnie Mattingly cards. Must've been eight-four because it was his first year playing first, and I didn't have any money. Dad wouldn't give me any and Mick would just buy the damn cards and keep them for himself.

  "I was desperate for more cards and you gave me a bunch of money. It felt like a thousand dollars to me. You must've pulled ten dollars out of your sock drawer one day. And you gave it all to me."

  She smiled at the memory, tried to picture Tony's excited face. She was sure it had been worth every cent. "I hope you still have those cards."

  "Ah, shit. Deborah probably has them now."

  The moment burst like a bubble. She turned to put the groceries away, wondered where Tony got the money to pay for them. It had been a long time since he'd worked. "You okay for cash?"

  His eyes hit the ground. He turned his back, whispered, "From Mick. From nine eleven. I was next of kin. Well, Dad, then me."

  Jamie watched his back, searching for the right thing to say. She walked to the kitchen sink, struggling. Damn it. Why did it have to be so hard? She took a breath. "I'm glad you're here, T."

  He looked up slowly. His wide eyes were glassy.

  She blinked hard. Come on, Tony. She glanced at the ceiling and back, felt her own eyes fill. She stepped out, sucked a deep breath. "Shit," she said finally.

  Then she crossed to him. She pulled a box of crackers from his hand, set it down. She wrapped her arms around his back, pulled him against her.

  She heard the quick intake of his
breath and felt his sobs as they let loose.

  "Jamie," he croaked, and she held tighter as if she could squeeze the pain right out of him.

  "I'm here, Tony."

  "You're it, Jamie. You're all I've got."

  "I'm not going anywhere, T. You've got me."

  He gasped and sobbed harder, and she closed her eyes, the tears flushing down her cheeks. They stood there for a long time. She thought about their families and about Tim, about Emily Osbourne and Hailey and Mackenzie and even about Natasha Devlin. About all that life had handed her and all she knew was yet to come—the never-ending cycle of hardships. And the moments of relief. The tiny grains of joy. They were there, too.

  As she loosened her grip, swiped the tears from her face, she wondered what obstacle would come next—a new rape victim, another attack?

  Surely, things never settled for long.

  Then she considered that maybe she'd had enough. Maybe this time would be different.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 26

  Monday morning traffic was bumper to bumper on 101 heading south toward the bridge, which had seemed empty over the last few months. Everyone said that there were fewer people on the roads because of the high cost of tolls and gas. Well, if everyone was taking public transportation, there must have been some sort of mass shutdown that morning.

  Jamie arrived at the station house late and already sweating underneath a navy wool blazer.

  As she rushed through the department door, Dorothy, the Sex Crimes secretary, snarled, "You're late."

  Jamie bit her tongue and passed the woman without a comment. "Hag," she whispered loud enough for a few others to hear as she knocked on the conference room door.

  "Come in."

  She recognized her captain's voice and opened the door. The small room was full, and it took a few seconds to absorb all the faces that surrounded the pitted old table. To her left, at the head of the table, was her own Captain, Ben Jules. Next to him, Linda James then Mackenzie.

  Jamie stopped on her. "You're out. You okay?"

  She nodded without speaking. Her face looked worse today—the bruising deeper, the swelling worse. One eye was completely closed. At least she was there. She could think and walk. Speak. She would survive.

  Chip Washington sat beside Mackenzie, and beyond him was a man she didn't recognize. She finally made it around the table and found Hailey Wyatt on her left.

  "Sit down, Vail," her captain said, pounding on the table in an unfamiliar gesture of impatience.

  Jamie took the closest chair.

  "You know everyone?"

  She looked around and nodded. The man at the other head didn't stand and didn't offer a hand. "Captain David Marshall, Homicide." Hailey's boss.

  Jamie nodded and looked over at Hailey, who raised an eyebrow just slightly. It was strange to be in a room with all their superiors. The rookie, Mackenzie Wallace, and her captain, Linda James. Jamie and Captain Jules. Hailey and Captain Marshall. They rarely met like this, and within seconds, Jamie wanted to leave.

  As soon as she was seated, Captain Jules turned to Mackenzie. "Officer Wallace, in your statement, you said you were certain that Officer Scanlan wasn't your attacker."

  Mackenzie nodded.

  "You still sure?" he asked.

  "Positive."

  Jamie sat forward. "It's all related, somehow, Captain—Devlin, the rapes, Mackenzie's attack."

  Jules nodded. She'd already told him her theory when they'd spoken yesterday. He looked up at Hailey's boss, Captain Marshall. "They want to work it as one case, share information. I don't have a problem with that. Do you?"

  Marshall steepled his hands. "Wyatt's got two high-profile homicide cases going. I can't have her pulled off of them on any tangents related to rape or any other crime. I need some arrests made on these murders."

  Jules frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Linda James interjected. "Officer Wallace would like to help. She's sharp and will be good for legwork and that sort of thing—phone calls, follow-ups. Plus, she won't be doing her beat for a while—not until we catch this guy."

  Marshall frowned and started to shake his head.

  "Chief Jackson agrees they should work it together," Jules added.

  Jamie watched Jules, wondered if he was lying. It seemed odd that he would have talked to the chief of police on Devlin's murder, especially since it was Marshall's case, not his, that was so high profile. Maybe it had to do with Scanlan.

  Marshall didn't test him. Instead, he looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Fine. Get to it, ladies. But don't let this conspiracy theory trip you up. You've discovered some coincidences but nothing to prove it's anything more. Not yet anyway."

  Captain Jules began to address Marshall on a few logistics.

  Mackenzie turned to Jamie and whispered, "Where do we start?"

  "I'm going to drag Marchek in, see if you can ID him in a lineup."

  Mackenzie nodded and Jamie could see her throat tighten with anxiety.

  Jamie kept her voice low. "If we trust the message we got, I guess the best place to start the murder investigation is with men Natasha was involved with inside the department."

  Linda nodded. "If this guy's a cop and he killed Natasha, that seems like as good a place as any."

  "That's going to be a long list," Jamie said. To Hailey, she whispered, "Maybe there will be a stutterer on it."

  Hailey nodded, eyes narrowed.

  Jamie watched her. "You have an idea."

  "I think maybe I know who to ask first."

  From the corner of her eye, Jamie saw Linda and Mackenzie exchange a questioning glance.

  But when Hailey's gaze met hers, Jamie knew exactly whom she meant. If Daniels was having an affair with Hailey, why not Devlin, too?

  Hell, everyone else had.

  "People. People," Marshall called, returning the focus to the meeting at hand. "Is Daniels coming in with Officer Scanlan or are we done? I've got a briefing in twenty minutes."

  Jules glanced at Jamie.

  "I'm ready," she said.

  Washington opened the door and waved them in. Scanlan came in behind Daniels. He took the seat beside Jamie.

  Jules spoke first. "Okay, we're all here to talk about the incident on Geary on Friday night. Officer Scanlan has agreed not to press charges against his fellow officers. So we can avoid an investigation on that."

  Jamie sent a glare at Scanlan and turned to Captain Jules. "That's a load of crap."

  He raised a hand. "Let me finish."

  She crossed her arms and tilted her chair back.

  Scanlan put his foot under the leg of the chair and pushed her back.

  She lost her balance and the chair toppled backwards. Hailey grabbed hold of the chair in an attempt to stop her from falling on the floor. The chair hit the wall, preventing Jamie from landing on her ass. She rocked it back onto all four legs and was out of the seat in two seconds. She bent over Scanlan, fist raised. "Listen, asshole. You touch me again and I'll shoot your fat ass."

  Jules was up, too. He took her arm and pulled her back.

  Hailey stood beside her. "He knocked her back, Captain. He was out of line, not her."

  "Enough," Daniels said. "If we can't act like adults, then we'll have to put someone else on this case."

  "Fine by me," Jamie said. "You want to take it?"

  Daniels' face reddened.

  Jules led Jamie to the other end of the room, away from Scanlan, and motioned for her to sit in his chair. "He's got something to help, Jamie," he said, motioning to Scanlan. "Let him get it out and we can get rid of him."

  She nodded.

  He wiped his brow and turned back. "Officer Scanlan, watch yourself. Your father doesn't run Sex Crimes. I do. You understand me?"

  Scanlan dropped his head. "Yes, sir."

  "Okay, Daniels. Let's hear what your boy has to say. Then I want all of you out of here."

  Daniels didn't look happy, but he nodded at Scanlan. Scanlan leaned forwar
d in his chair, rested his elbows on his knees. Jamie glanced around the room, settling on Mackenzie. Mackenzie gave her a quick look and Jamie thought she saw a smile behind the very swollen lips.

  "I drove Natasha—uh, Inspector Devlin—back from the awards banquet that night."

  "And you had sex with her?" Jamie interrupted.

  Daniels glared at her.

  Scanlan shook his head. "No." He kept his head down.

  Jamie felt a shift in the room. She looked at Jules, who looked perplexed. He didn't know, but Daniels looked distinctly uncomfortable. Marshall looked awkward and annoyed, and Washington didn't meet her gaze. No one spoke. What the hell was going on?

  "Someone had sex with her in that office just before she was killed," Jamie said. "And you brought her here."

  "I didn't have sex with her."

  Jamie watched Scanlan. His face was ruddy, sweat beading on his lip. He looked like a school kid in the principal's office. "You're lying."

  "Enough," Daniels snapped.

  Jamie stared at Bruce Daniels. He looked away. They were lying—both of them. She glanced at Washington, who studied his hands. What were they hiding? Jamie opened her notebook to the pages where she'd noted Roger's findings. She skimmed the words. Devlin had two samples of semen inside her—one six or so hours old, one within a half hour of her death. The most recent sample contained no sperm.

  According to Roger, there was no way to determine why the second sample was aspermatic. It could have been a genetic anomaly or the man had undergone a vasectomy. Pure odds favored the vasectomy. She looked at Scanlan, frowning. He was young. He'd never had children. Why would he have a vasectomy?

  She looked up at him, glanced at Daniels. "Did you bring Devlin back to meet someone else?"

  Scanlan's eyes widened.

  Daniels spoke up. "I think it's enough that Officer Scanlan has told us that he wasn't with Devlin that night."

  "It's not enough, Officer Daniels," Jamie retorted. "Because whoever was with Devlin that night is a key suspect in her murder."

  "I have to agree with Inspector Vail," Jules piped in.

  Daniels looked at Scanlan, who seemed to plead with his eyes.