Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1)

by Danielle Girard

  She felt the word "intimate" hit her like a blow. Exhaled. "I'm the lead investigator. I need to know who slept with her, Goddamn it."

  He shook his head. "Everyone slept with her, Hailey."

  "So that's supposed to make it better?"

  "I'm not talking about us right now," he said. "You see someone else. I see other people, too. Anytime you want it to change, I'm ready."

  That was it. The whip had cracked and it struck hard. She rubbed the spot just above her left breastbone. She sucked in a breath, let it slide out through closed teeth. She couldn't make demands when she wasn't prepared to fulfill her end of it.

  And yet she would. She knew she would. She didn't need to be with him. She could walk away. It was either only her or she was done. Those were her rules. That was the upside of the affair. It was all about her. Everything else was laced with complications—kids, family, but not this.

  She didn't look back at him, couldn't. "God, this place is like musical fucking beds," she whispered as she left.

  She walked back through the department, head down. All she could think was what right did she have to stake a claim to him when she would let him stake no claim to her?

  None.

  And yet she still knew she would do just that. She would have it no other way.

  Chapter 31

  Jamie arrived at the station at 8:50 a.m. to see the front of the Hall blocked by news vans. She left her car down the block, left her police parking pass on the dash, and hurried to the stairs. The newscasters were each recording their bits off to the side of the main entrance, and Jamie recognized the start of a press conference. What the hell was it about?

  Her stomach knotted, she started up the stairs when the chief's press secretary walked out the glass doors. Behind him was the chief, Captain Marshall, and Hailey Wyatt. Chip Washington followed behind them. Hailey caught Jamie's eye and shook her head. Bad news.

  Jamie stood back and waited.

  As soon as the chief was in view of the camera, the reporters began shouting questions.

  "Is it true that the murdered inspector had a long-term relationship with Deputy Chief Scanlan?" called one. "Is he a suspect in her murder?"

  "Christ," Jamie whispered under her breath. How the hell did that get out? She watched the lines on the chief's face deepen into a scowl. Hailey looked as though she'd already taken a tongue-lashing. She stood, expressionless, and waited for more shit to follow.

  "Didn't she also have a relationship with his son? The one who is on probation for beating up a college student over a burrito?" shouted the Fox affiliate.

  "Is it true that your Internal Affairs Department has a full list of everyone the inspector saw in the months before she died? Is it your policy to track the sexual relationships of your officers?" ABC called out.

  "Is that considered police business?" The last question came from NBC.

  Finally, the press secretary raised his hand to silence the crowd. "Please, ladies and gentlemen. Quiet. Please. Chief Jackson is going to issue a brief statement on the murder case. However, we will take no questions at this time. This is an active investigation."

  The press issued a series of moans and complaints, but the chief ignored them as he stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen, a member of our police force has been murdered. Devlin was a decorated inspector with a strong track record. She served this department for more than twelve years. Our homicide team—" He motioned to Marshall and Hailey. "—is doing everything in its power to uncover who did this. The list of people Inspector Devlin was involved with contains both professional and personal relationships and is standard protocol in any murder investigation. It is our job to look at each person as a potential suspect. At this time, we have not identified a suspect."

  Jamie thought that was good news for Tim.

  The chief nodded to the crowd. "That is all I can offer at this time. Thank you."

  "Why didn't the list contain anyone from outside the department?" shouted Fox.

  "What about the rumor that the murder is tied to the series of officer rapes?" ABC called out.

  The press secretary stepped forward and leaned into the microphone. "That will be all at this time."

  The press continued to shout out questions as the group turned and disappeared into the building.

  Jamie pushed through the crowd.

  The NBC affiliate stepped into her path. "Inspector Vail, is there a connection between Devlin's death and the rapes?"

  "No comment."

  "Isn't it true that you threatened Officer Scanlan at Tommy's Mexican Restaurant last week?"

  Jamie's heart thumped a little louder. "No comment."

  "What about the rumor that the rapist was at your house and attacked your dog?"

  "No comment," she said through clenched teeth as she reached the door. She yanked it open, hurried inside and let it shut behind her. Finally, the noise quieted. She took off her holster and slid it through the x-ray, walked through the metal detector and retrieved it.

  "That's why they call them news-hounds. They smell the blood."

  Jamie looked up at the security guard who manned the door. "I guess." She just wondered how they'd even gotten on the scent.

  She rode the elevator to Homicide and found Hailey coming out of the department. "Let's get out of here."

  Jamie turned and followed her down the corridor to the stairwell. "What the hell happened?"

  Hailey shook her head. "No idea, but someone got hold of it—all of it."

  "When?"

  "Sometime this morning—early. I've been hearing it since the six a.m. broadcast. It's unconfirmed, but it's all there—the list, the fact that she came back here with a cop, the print that links her murder to the rapist, the fact that we haven't arrested him, even the shit about Scanlan at Tommy's. It's like someone sent the press a fucking synopsis." She shook her head. "Excuse my French."

  "Don't worry. It's my favorite language."

  Hailey smiled wearily. "Christ. We've got to find a quiet spot to sit down and talk this out."

  "I've got just the place."

  * * *

  At the Starbucks two blocks from the Hall, Jamie ordered a grande triple nonfat latte and sat down while the one woman and two men behind the counter worked their magic. She'd heard all the complaints about Starbucks and its monopoly, but she didn't give a shit. She liked the coffee, and the characters who worked in this store were worth an extra buck.

  The man Jamie liked best was maybe five-two and had been evolving from man to woman over the past two years. When she'd first seen him, he'd had short hair and a small goatee. Now he had long hair and breasts. Got to love San Francisco.

  Jamie took her coffee to the table where Hailey was already seated.

  "We had a visitor last night, too," Jamie said.

  Hailey waited for her to explain and Jamie described the attack on Z, how Tony had saved him, the trip to the hospital. "Zephenaya is at my house with Tony today. He's going to a temporary foster home this afternoon."

  "This is Shawna Delman's brother?" Hailey asked.

  Jamie nodded.

  "Does the kid know about his sister?" Hailey asked.

  Jamie dropped her gaze, shook her head.

  Neither spoke for a moment.

  "Christ," Hailey whispered.

  "I'll tell him," Jamie said. "It just felt like he'd been through enough."

  "He have other family?"

  Jamie shook her head. "I don't think so."

  "I hate the foster system," Hailey said. "Maybe someone will adopt him," she added without conviction.

  Adoption for a ten-year-old homeless black boy was about as likely as Marchek walking into the station and confessing.

  "So was it Marchek who attacked him?" Hailey asked.

  Jamie shrugged. "Tony thinks so, but he couldn't pick him out."

  "With the ski mask, it would be tough," Hailey agreed.

  "He saw him take off in a van, though," Jamie added. "But it had no
rear plate. I've got him on the Internet, trying to match the van to a year and make." It felt like having Tony search for a needle in a computer haystack. "Unfortunately, it also means Marchek now has a car, which makes him mobile and means his kit could be stored anywhere. We've got an APB out on the van, but we're not likely to find it."

  Jamie took a breath. "In better news, Zephenaya picked out Scanlan for the attack on my dog."

  "That takes balls," Hailey said.

  Jamie thought back to the morning press conference. "We know how the press was notified about all Natasha's men?"

  "E-mail, supposedly," Hailey said. "The computer lab is trying to track it, but it's a random Hotmail account. Get this—the address is sanfranpolice@hotmail.com."

  "But the information had to come from an officer," Jamie said. "No one else knew that stuff."

  A moment passed before Hailey spoke again. "Bruce Daniels slept with Natasha, too."

  Jamie examined the inspector's face. She didn't look at Jamie. Jamie knew why. Her lover had cheated on her. Man, that was screwed up.

  "It was last summer, but she called him last month. She knew about the list and she was pissed. Asked if Bruce knew about her most recent conquest. Only she said 'qu-qu-quest.'"

  Jamie frowned. "A stutter?"

  Hailey nodded. "Remind you of anything?"

  "When Tim was hit that night—" Jamie started.

  "He mentioned that he thought the man had a stutter," Hailey finished.

  Jamie nodded. "I can't think of a single person in the department who stutters."

  "I asked Daniels if he'd ever heard Deputy Chief Scanlan stutter."

  "And?"

  "He said no, but he did mention that some people only stuttered when they are very angry."

  Jamie shuddered. God, she hoped Devlin's murder didn't lead to the deputy chief of police.

  Just then her cell phone rang. She looked down and recognized Tim's cell phone number. He'd probably heard about the press fiasco. She'd call him later. She was momentarily surprised to realize that she actually planned to return his call.

  Immediately, her phone rang again. She stared at the Hall number, wondered if it was Tim calling again. "Vail."

  "It's Patrol Officer Klein, Inspector Vail. They told me to call you." He sounded nervous.

  "Okay, Officer Klein. What's up?"

  "I'm at 113 August Aly. Looks like your guy was here."

  Jamie sagged against her chair. "Shit."

  "He got a woman coming out of the building at about five fifteen this morning, dragged her into the trash room in the back. She's en route to General now."

  "How bad?"

  "He did her over something fierce, Inspector. I've never seen one like that—two black eyes, a broken jaw, arm, ribs. Her face was a balloon."

  "Was she conscious?" Jamie asked.

  "Barely. She did say the guy told her she wasn't the one. He was waiting for someone else. Kept saying 'You're the wrong one.'"

  Jamie halted. "The wrong one? What would that mean?"

  "Hell if I know."

  She frowned. "Thanks, Officer Klein."

  "No problem. I'll finish up here if you want to go on to General."

  She pulled her notebook out of her pocket. "I will. What was that address again?"

  "113 August Aly."

  "113 August Aly. Okay," she repeated.

  A cup fell with a loud pop, coffee splashed across the floor. Jamie looked up, saw Hailey drop to grab it. "You okay?"

  Hailey's head reappeared, her complexion pale. "What was the address?"

  Jamie looked up, met her gaze. "113 August Aly."

  "It's right off Washington Park," Klein said.

  "Off Washington Park," Jamie repeated.

  Hailey stooped to soak up the coffee.

  Jamie's favorite barista brought over a wet rag and helped mop up the mess.

  Jamie hung up with Klein, stared at Hailey. When she stepped away, Jamie asked, "Are you okay?"

  Hailey nodded.

  But Jamie knew she wasn't. "You know that address?" She met Hailey's gaze. "The guy said he had the wrong one. Maybe he was looking for someone else at that address."

  Hailey paused, squeezed her eyes closed.

  Jamie felt the dread pool like hot tar in her middle. "How do you know it?"

  Hailey stood slowly, hands trembling. "Bruce Daniels lives there."

  Chapter 32

  Emily Osbourne couldn't have been happier to get the hell out of work on Wednesday. It was 4:02 when she exited the lab building. Usually, she had to stay later—an hour at least to get things finished up, findings recorded, her station cleaned. Her boyfriend Paul, who worked in the financial markets, always managed to be finished before she was. Often he'd be home an hour or more before her. But today her work was done at ten to four so she could walk out at four. She didn't care that there were dozens of items that needed processing—not today, anyway. And she had no plans for the night. Nothing but a quiet dinner and maybe a movie—something stupid and funny.

  The drive across the city was quiet at this hour. She crossed to Franklin then turned right, heading north to Greenwich, then across to Laguna Street. She stopped in front of the white Victorian duplex where she lived. The whole thing took about forty minutes. It was still light, and she considered going for a walk. The weather was cool and comfortable and a walk might make her feel better. A little, anyway.

  She thought about what her therapist had said at their meeting the day before, how she needed to focus on how she was feeling. Get it out, talk through it. Make notes about her reactions, keep a journal of the process so she could eventually record her progress.

  There would be progress. She touched the small spiral notebook she had tucked in the back of her bag. She'd run the gamut this week—anger, fear, self-pity, self-disgust.

  She'd also told Sharon, her therapist, about Paul—how cold he'd been in the car, how he hadn't called since the trip from the airport. They hadn't gone more than a day without talking since last Christmas when she was back East with her family. And they had been dating for only three months then.

  "How does that make you feel?" Sharon had asked.

  Emily had started to cry. She felt disgusting and dirty and she hated herself and him all at once. She'd been raped and he'd stopped calling. She knew she was supposed to be angry—really angry. Instead, she felt ashamed that he no longer wanted her.

  On the plane trip back to California, she'd fretted over how she would handle it when he wanted to have sex. She didn't know if she could, if she would be ready. But now he didn't want anything to do with her. Who would want to have sex with her after what happened?

  She cupped her hand over her mouth and ran up the short flight of stairs to her front door. She pushed her key into the lock, turned it, wiping her cheeks as she pulled open the creaky door and stepped inside. The door creaked closed again and she shivered.

  "I'll oil that," a voice said.

  Emily spun around, slammed into the row of mailboxes attached to the foyer wall. Standing on a short ladder was a man near her age in overalls, painting.

  He put down the brush, started down the ladder.

  Emily didn't move. Her heart jumped around like a rabbit in her chest. She wanted to leave, to be outside. But he was closer to the door.

  "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Kyle."

  She shook her head, but like an idiot, she couldn't say anything.

  "I sent a notice around that I'd be painting this week and maybe part of next." He put his hands up, like he was surrendering. "Are you okay?"

  She shook her head. Her heart still jackhammering, she ran for the door. As she bolted outside, something yanked her back. He had her bag. She whirled around to fight when she saw him standing back, staring. The strap of her bag was caught on the doorknob.

  "Oh God," she cried out.

  She spun around to loosen the strap from her shoulder, abandoning her bag on the door as she sprinted to the street.


  When she reached the bottom stair, she sank down and burst into tears. What was wrong with her? What the hell was wrong with her?

  She held her head in her hands when she felt someone beside her. She looked up.

  "I brought you this." Kyle handed her a can of Coke. "It hasn't been opened."

  She took it, the metal cool against her fingers. Even in the cold air, the metal felt good. She fiddled with the top, popped it open. The fizz tickled her nose. She drank, mostly so she wouldn't have to talk. He sat on the opposite side of the stair.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, after a few minutes.

  She nodded and wiped her cheeks. "A little skittish."

  "I think it's understandable after what happened."

  She frowned.

  "Kim told me that one of her tenants was attacked. She was really worried about you. I figured it was you when I saw the—" He motioned to her face, to the bruises.

  Her cheeks flamed up and she took another sip of Coke.

  "It happened to my sister, too—in college."

  Emily didn't respond.

  "She says the most important thing is that you talk about it and give yourself time to get over it." He paused. "She's married now, has two little girls." He kept talking, like he was stumbling. "She does rape counseling. Out in Virginia."

  They sat in silence for a few minutes; then he stood. "I'll get out of your hair. Sorry again for startling you."

  She shook her head. "It's okay. And, thanks, uh—" she said dumbly.

  "Kyle," he said.

  "Thanks, Kyle."

  He opened the door with his key, set her bag on the porch, and went back into the building.

  Just when she had gathered the courage to go back inside, Paul's Jeep Cherokee pulled to the curb in front of her building. She watched him get out of the car and lift a box off the passenger seat. He came around, carrying it. He didn't notice her until he reached the curb.

  When he did, he jumped back a step. "Hey." He shifted the box in his arms. "I didn't think you'd be home yet."

  She stood up and dusted the dirt off her butt then made her way over to him. On the top of the box was one of her old T-shirts. She lifted it, stared down at her stuff—a few CDs, a book, an extra hairbrush, a bottle of red nail polish she'd bought and worn to a wedding over the summer. He was returning her things—bringing it all back when he thought she wouldn't be there.