by Nikki Sex
I grin at this ridiculous, yet spot on statement. “I don’t know if either of us would have gone through with it, but both of us have seriously considered suicide. What a screwed up pair we are!”
“Yeah, we’re pretty special.”
“Now, I showed you mine, it's only fair you show me yours. Will you please tell me how you got your scars?”
Grant briefly closes his eyes. “I’ve never told a soul.”
“Will you tell me?”
His eyes meet mine. “Yes.”
Chapter 38.
“Don't be a victim of the urgent. In the long run, much of what seems so pressing right now won't even matter.”
― Gary Chapman
~~~
Detective Bronowski
Secure enough in his masculinity not to care, Roman wore his wife’s pink, frilly apron as he made breakfast for the family. With a sparkle in his eye, he was brimming with smug satisfaction.
Roman had left his sleepy wife in bed after the alarm clock went off. She deserved to catch up on some shut eye after he wore her out last night.
The Bronowski family had lived in this house for fourteen years. The hot water pipes knocked loudly within the walls, but that kind of noise was so commonplace, Roman hardly noticed it anymore.
“Hi, Daddy!” Janice chimed. The first of his brood to arrive, she plopped herself down at the table.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, as he dished out scrambled eggs and a slice of bacon onto her plate.
“Wow,” she said. “This looks really good daddy. Where’s Mommy?”
“She’s sleeping late today.”
“Oh.”
Janice took this explanation easily, as would any child her age. Roman couldn’t remember when he last got up and made breakfast for the kids. Was it a year ago? Or two?
He worked long hours and his job was tough sometimes, but that was really no excuse. Angela was no slouch either.
How had he allowed everything to slide? He’d taken too much for granted for way too long. As her partner, it was up to him to be an important part of her life.
Thank you, Mr. André Chevalier, he thought.
Decisive and determined by nature, Roman was the kind of guy who, once he made a plan, he began putting it into effect immediately. He was still using the stairs and increasing his fitness level, because that’s what he’d decided to do.
After his meeting with Chevalier, Roman had begun implementing a strategy of wooing his wife. Thus, the last few days with his Angela had been miraculous.
When he brought home flowers, she became suspicious. When he did the dishes, she’d been genuinely surprised. When he arranged for a babysitter and took his wife out for dinner and dancing, she’d been elated.
Last night he’d had the extreme pleasure and honor of making love to his wife and she’d been as hot as hell for him. Jesus, the sex had been amazing, but even more importantly, they had talked. Really talked, rather than the superficial chatting they normally engaged in.
At first, he’d listened. There’s listening and listening. Roman had listened before but not really heard her. For the first time in years, he paid attention.
I hear her now, he thought smugly to himself, recalling the volume of her screaming orgasm when he’d shocked her by going down on her.
Chevalier had been right. The warning the Frenchman gave him echoed in his ears, “Your wife? She is learning to live her life and to be happy without you.”
So Roman asked himself an important question. Did he want to learn to live his life, trying to be happy without Angela? The answer to that was a resounding no!
Roman had all the plates out, full of food, before the rest of his family came down the stairs. His two older children, Sonia and Matthew, dashed into the kitchen in a great rush, Matthew openly smirking over his dad’s pink apron.
“You made a hot breakfast?” Sonja asked, astonished. “Oh, no! I can’t eat bacon! I’ll get fat!” she said, sounding like any normal teenage girl.
“Wow,” Matthew said, slamming his body down onto a chair. “Is mom sick?” he asked, using his fingers to snag his sisters bacon and placing it on his own plate.
“No, your mother isn’t sick,” Roman said, insulted. “She’s sleeping late; she deserves it.”
All of his progeny stared at him with disbelief and even suspicion. “What?” Roman said, brandishing a spatula. “Can’t a man be nice to his wife without his kids questioning everything?”
His phone rang, which was just as well. He picked it up, “Bronowski,” he said.
“Detective?” An unfamiliar male voice asked.
“Yes?”
“This is Edgar Gates. I’m the tech guy, going through the computers brought in on the Wilkinson case. I think you’re gonna want to get down here. I found something.”
“I’ll be right there,” Roman said and ended the call. He heard Angela coming down the stairs, and she walked into the kitchen.
“Hey,” he said with a smile. In her bathrobe, still half-asleep, she looked beautiful. Roman couldn’t help but remember the fun and pleasure they’d had in bed last night.
“Hey, yourself,” she said.
With that appealing smile on her face, Angela seemed to be remembering too. He leaned over to kiss her.
“Oh, gross!” Sonia said, rolling her eyes as they embraced each other. “A-hem! Kids trying to eat here—take it to another room!”
Roman ignored her. “I’ve got to get to work.”
“I know,” Angela said. “I heard the phone.” There was an alluring twinkle in her eye. “I had a good time last night,” she said.
“I did too.”
“Call me later?”
“Count on it, babe,” Roman said, waggling his eyebrows teasingly.
Angela giggled, an attractive, youthful sound that brought back memories of the good times they’d had together. He felt grateful for what he had. To think, he could have totally screwed this up. He almost felt indebted to Grant Wilkinson for bringing André into his life. Strange how things work out.
He kissed each of his kids goodbye, took off the apron, grabbed his jacket and walked out the door.
Roman whistled as he got into his car. He’d started this new game of pleasing his wife, which was such an easy and fun game to play. And, it sounded as if there were going to be a break in the Wilkinson case.
Life was good.
Chapter 39.
“The day I can't do my job drunk, is the day I hang up my badge and gun.”
― The Drew Carey show
~~~
Detective Bronowski
The forensic and tech departments were both on the second floor of the station. Roman meandered through the area until he was directed to a stocky, nerdy-looking guy with a bad complexion highlighted by his thick red hair. Old and new computers were on shelves, and on tables, and on the floor. The geek guy was completely surrounded.
“I’m Detective Bronowski, are you Edgar Gates?” Roman asked.
Gates stood up and held out his hand, “Yes, I am.”
Roman shook his hand, which felt pudgy, sweaty and sticky. A half-empty box of chocolates and candy bar wrappers rested near Edgar’s workstation, which to Roman’s mind, explained everything.
“What have you found?” Roman asked.
The techie squirmed uncomfortably and gestured toward the computer he was working on. “Check it out.”
Roman took a look, initially uncertain as to what he was seeing. It took a moment for his mind to register the unexpected and unwelcome sight.
What the hell? Pictures of naked little boys… and adults. Shocked and appalled, Roman jumped back as if burnt.
“Fuck!” he cursed loudly.
It’s impossible to unsee something, but Roman wished he could. He had a strong urge to run home, lock up his kids and take a long, scalding hot shower.
The visit to André Chevalier made complete sense now. Chevalier dealt with PTSD and ‘sexual matters.’ Clearly,
Grant Wilkinson—war hero, or not—was a depraved pedophile. What a sicko! Had he been going to Chevalier in an attempt to alter his addictive deviance?
Maybe Wilkinson’s senior found out or caught him in the act? Or perhaps his father threatened to tell, and therefore he had to be silenced. This changed everything, including providing motive.
“How many pictures like that are there?” Roman asked.
“Hundreds. I haven’t counted,” Edgar replied.
“Dirty fucking pervert!” Roman muttered. “That bastard’s going down!”
“Sir?” Edgar asked tentatively. “Are you referring to the defendant, Grant Wilkinson?”
“Who else?” Roman said, surprised by the question. “Why? Or do you think this filth was downloaded by someone else? Am I missing something?”
“Sir, the last time these photos were accessed was over three years ago,” Edgar said. “That was before the victim was murdered. This computer was one of thirty-eight technical items sent to us to be examined for this case. It’s the oldest and had cobwebs on it, which is why I left it for last. It apparently came from the shooting range. I suppose whomever owned it, must’ve stored it there.”
“Are you absolutely certain that this filth was not downloaded by Grant Wilkinson?”
“If it was him, why hasn’t it been accessed for so long?”
Roman frowned. “Maybe he was trying to quit the habit and only gave it up three years ago. These photos were in his possession and possession is nine-tenths of the law. I’m inclined to think he’s a pervert.”
Edgar Gates flinched, appearing rather ill and even more awkward and uncomfortable—if that was even possible.
“What?” Roman demanded irritably.
“Sir,” Edgar said. “I believe it may be best for you to look at this picture.” He put the cursor on one small photo, enlarging it so that it covered the whole screen. “I think…” He took a deep breath and licked his lips. “If you take a closer look, you might recognize this child.”
Disgusted, Roman shook his head. “Jesus H. Christ! The things I have to do in this job,” he bit out angrily under his breath.
Someone was going to have to scrutinize every picture and every face. With luck, an entire pedophile ring could be taken down.
For once Roman was extremely glad he worked in homicide. That onerous task was a job for the ‘Child Abuse Squad.’
Taking a deep breath in through his nose, Roman stretched the muscles of his back and neck. Bracing himself, he then concentrated his attention on the features of the victim. It was a young boy, perhaps seven years of age. His face could be seen clearly.
Roman felt as if the world suddenly tilted on its axis. Stunned and hastily averting his gaze as if his eyes had been seared, he backed away.
“Shit!” he swore in a feral snarl, his eyes focused blankly on the linoleum flooring.
“Yes, sir,” Edgar agreed fervently. “You can say that again.”
Roman’s eyes lifted to focus on Edgar. “Print me a copy of the image of Wilkinson and his father, and give me a memory stick of everything on that hard drive.”
“All right.”
“This is highly confidential. Don’t talk about this or make copies for anyone else, right?”
“Not a problem.”
“Did you recognize any other people in any of these pictures?” he asked, but Roman’s mind was otherwise engaged. Thanks to this new evidence, he could obtain a subpoena for Chevalier’s records. They would very likely show motive, yet the DA was not going to like it. What an ugly case.
How would I feel if my father had done that shit to me? he thought. Would I want to kill him? And the obvious reply. Of course, I would.
“No.” Edgar said, looking away.
Astute, observant and intuitive, Roman Bronowski was a good detective. Usually he noticed when people were untruthful. However, because Roman was preoccupied, his mind racing a million miles a minute, he missed Edger’s obvious tells.
Edgar Gates was lying. Of the hundreds of photos on that hard drive, Grant Wilkinson’s face was not the only one he recognized.
Chapter 40.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
― Maya Angelou
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
Renata and I lean against the headboard, sitting side-by-side. I adore that slight dusting of freckles over her thin, straight nose. With her full, kissable lips, high cheekbones and delicate, feminine features, all set in her heart-shaped face—the woman is a stunner.
Yet, it’s so much more than her beauty that draws me. Renata’s presence seeps into my soul like some kind of magic. So cheerful and kind despite everything that’s happened to her, she inspires me to work toward vanquishing my demons. I want to be better, not only for myself, but for her.
I still can’t believe Renata wants me.
An inner voice whispers caustic thoughts. This can’t last. I’m too damaged to be with others. I deserve to be alone.
It’s a relief she guessed the truth about my father. Thanks to police interference, I wouldn’t have been able to tell her. I still haven't disclosed details, but that shouldn't be as difficult as it was when I told André. I'm sure Renata has a good idea of what happened already. Sadly, my story isn't unique.
Now, I’ve committed to revealing a more dangerous secret, one I vowed to take it to my grave.
“So, you want to know how I got these scars?” I ask her.
“Yes!” she says, turning toward me. “Are you going to tell me now? Is that why you look so serious?”
“Darlin,’ this is a very big secret, a national security kind of secret,” I reply. “Considering all the stuff you already know, we’re both in hot water as it is.” I throw up my hands. “So, what the hell, you may as well know the rest.”
Renata laughs.
God, the sweet sound of her laughter chases every doubt and shadow away. I feel like Superman around her—well, except when it comes to sex.
“I don’t want to get you into trouble or anything,” Renata says. “Maybe you shouldn’t tell me. What you’ve just said is enough, I can fill in the blanks.”
I meet her worried gaze with a serious expression of my own. “You keep asking about my scars—but that’s not the only reason I’m telling you. Now that you know this thing about my dad, you may as well know my other big sin.
Renata’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sin?”
“Sin,” I confirm with a firm nod. “Until I met André, as you know, my life was rolling out of control in one direction—all downhill and straight to hell. I went through some real shit, but this is something I did as a soldier.”
I shake my head. “It was the last straw, like the cherry on top of a life-long cake made of crap. I came away from that mission more confused about my life, the things I’ve done and who I am than ever before—which is quite a statement given my history.”
Her gaze softens. “If that’s the case, now I really want to know. It sounds as though you need to unburden yourself.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” I reach for my phone and start punching in numbers.
“What are you doing?”
“Ordering a pizza,” I explain. “I’m going to be hungry after this.”
Renata laughs. “Be prepared, eh? I had you pegged as a Boy Scout. I’ll have a pizza supreme with everything on it.”
I smile. “Mm, a girl after my own heart,” I say, and call in the order. “They say it’ll be here in about thirty minutes.”
“Perfect,” Renata says.
I clench my jaw for a moment, bracing myself to finally tell the untellable. “You know I was a sniper in the Army?”
“Yes,” she says.
“When a sniper is on active duty, he may be loaned out to other government agencies. He’ll get his orders from his commanding officer, who will have received his orders from the Joint Chiefs, who gets their orders from the Secretary of Defense at the request of the
CIA. In many instances the sniper doesn’t know he’s being used as a CIA operative.”
“OK,” she says doubtfully, following my story.
I smile and continue, “So, at this one point in my military career, my sniper services were used by the CIA in an undercover operation. I was perfect for this particular assignment because I can pass as Hispanic and I’m fluent in Spanish. My spotter and I were flown down to Michoacán, one of the largest ports in Mexico, for the job.”
Renata watches me closely while chewing on yet another fingernail. I know just how she feels. My hands are shaking so I put them against my thighs. I could use a couple of fingers of Maker’s Mark bourbon to settle the rawness of my nerves.
“Michoacán is located between two large mountain ranges,” I tell her. “It’s a beautiful place, with a tropical climate. Once a year, the forests of Michoacán welcome millions of monarch butterflies who fly down from the cold Canadian mountains.”
“Really?” she asks. “I’d love to see that.”
I make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “As lovely as the place is, if you go, I won’t be coming with you. If I did, I might not get back home again.”
“Oh,” she says, as understanding dawns in her eyes. “I see.”
I nod. “The Target of my mission was the head of a drug cartel called Los Caballeros Templarios—‘The Knights Templar.’ My spotter and I spent five days keeping this guy under surveillance, scrutinizing his every move.
“The more time I spent observing this man—” I gesture with my open palm, “—The Target, the more I liked him. He spent quality time with his wife and with his three children—the oldest a boy, around sixteen. The Target was teaching his son how to jump his horse; he was an excellent horseman and a patient teacher. My spotter and I were hidden, watching and waiting for the ideal moment in which to take the shot.
“When you study a target, day after day, you get to know them, to some degree. I felt conflicted by my orders to terminate him, partially because I was already so conflicted about father-son relationships.