by R. L. Akers
Mack straightened in surprise. "Cogan?"
"Yeah."
"The woman we just arrested."
Gray hesitated. "Yeah."
"Are we talking about the same person? Dishwater blonde with the big brown eyes?"
Gray felt his heart begin to race. Rose's coloring had been traditional Irish — fiery red hair and icy blue eyes. "I just mean... her personality... some of her mannerisms," he tried to explain.
Mack was instantly uncomfortable too. "Sorry, man, it's— I understand."
Gray swallowed, nodded. That had been a terrible gaffe on his part. If he wasn't careful, mistakes like that would quickly expose his color-blindness. And as minor an infirmity as that might seem, the NYPD was adamant in its hiring policies. There were no color blind cops, at least not openly — and the color-blindness was the least of his disabilities. It was a good thing Mack was so uncomfortable on the subject of Rose these days.
Eager to move on, Gray checked his phone. "Oh hey, voicemail." He tapped the button and listened—
And abruptly forgot all about Katy Cogan.
Mack's eyes were steady on him the entire time. "What is it?" he asked, the concern in his voice evident.
"It was my dad."
"Old Gray?" Mack asked. He knew that was what the Gaynes family called the elder Gray, to distinguish father from son.
"Yeah," the younger Gray said slowly. "Apparently he's getting out early."
"What do you mean, getting out early?"
Gray sighed. "I never told you... I don't really advertise it around the precinct, but... Dad's doing a ten-year term."
"What?"
Gray shrugged. "Yeah, convicted on a dozen counts — various white collar crimes. Fraud, forgery, you name it. He's something of a high-end con artist." Gray sighed again. "Anyway, they're letting him out early for good behavior... and he wants to spend Christmas with me. Maybe longer, until he gets his feet back under him."
"Oh. Well, that's not too bad, is it? You and the old man, reconnecting. You get along, right?"
"We always used to, yeah. But..."
"But what?"
Gray closed his eyes and massaged his temples. "But I'm the one who put him in prison."
"Oh." And for once, Mack couldn't think of a thing to say.
Thursday, December 24th
New York City
Old Gray sipped tea from cup and saucer while reclining in a faux leather easy chair, feet up on an ottoman, a leather-bound volume open on his lap. Despite his posture of repose and the fact that he'd not left home all day, the gentleman was attired in blazer, khakis, and an open-collared Oxford button-up, wingtips on his feet. A neatly trimmed chevron mustache graced his upper lip. He was the very image of cultured refinement.
Grayson Gaynes, NYPD detective third grade, eyed his father from across the room. Case files littered the kitchen table before him—his case files, from the cases he'd been working at the time of his wife's murder, eight months prior. He and his partner Mack had been pouring over them all day, working under the hypothesis that one of Gray's active investigations from that time had made him a target, and that Rose's death was an unintended consequence.
But for the moment, Gray's attention was arrested by the sight of his father, reading and sipping tea. The man had arrived on Gray's doorstep two weeks before with nothing but the clothes on his back. He didn't have two pennies to rub together, and yet his wardrobe—and his library — had grown steadily since that day. It was baffling, and more than a little irritating.
Mack looked up from his work and followed Gray's gaze to his father, then turned back to Gray and smiled. "I see where you get it."
"What?"
Mack looked pointedly at Gray's own attire — charcoal knit slacks and a form-fitting black turtleneck. Gray enjoyed a certain notoriety at the precinct for always being well-dressed. All the detectives wore suits, of course, but Gray's were always tailored and fashionable. Now, it seemed, Mack was attributing the young detective's fashion sense to his father's influence — which irritated him even more.
"Get back to work," Gray ordered. He meant it mock-seriously, but the words came out more harshly than intended.
The other detective straightened with a sour expression. "Excuse me? I come here on Christmas Eve, help you off the clock, and this is how you speak to me?" Patrick McMurphy was fifteen years older than Gray and had been with the department much longer, but that was where his seniority ended. The two of them had been working cases as partners, equals, since before Rose's death. "You do realize this is a little insulting, right? I finally managed to close a lot of these cases while you were on leave — and I did just fine without your help. Now you want to go back over them? You don't think I would have noticed any connections to Rose's murder?"
The words spilled out easily, and Gray could tell Mack had been rehearsing them. They'd been at this too long, and Gray realized he'd been getting snippy for a while. Everyone's patience was fraying.
Well, not Old Gray's. "Why exactly are you doing this on a holiday weekend?" the old man asked conversationally from the easy chair, not bothering to look up from his reading.
Gray and Mack shared a look, their annoyance with each other fading. The truth was, neither of them had anyone they cared to spend the holidays with — Mack was in the midst of his second divorce, and Gray certainly didn't want to be alone with his father. Christmas might be a time of joy for many, but for the two detectives, it would have been marked by loneliness, even despair. They'd actually lobbied hard to get on the weekend schedule at work, but the sergeant had ignored their pleas.
"Just trying to help out," Mack muttered finally, and the detectives went back to work.
It didn't last long.
"So... Mr. Gaynes," Mack said, sitting back in his chair and eyeing Old Gray. "What should I call you?"
"You're welcome to call me Gray," the older man said, eyes still on his book. "That is, after all, my name."
Mack hesitated. "Well, that might be a bit confusing," he said nodding toward the younger Gray.
Old Gray looked amused. "His name is Grayson. I'm the only Gray in our family."
"Uh huh," Mack grunted unconvincingly. "Gray says everyone calls you Old Gray."
The elder Gray's lip twitched, but he still didn't look up. "Not in my hearing, they don't."
"It's not generally an issue," the younger Gray interjected, his tone dismissive. "We don't go to a lot of family reunions together."
Mack barked a laugh at that. "At least not in the last seven years, am I right?"
Gray groaned, but his father merely lifted a brow, glancing briefly at Mack before returning his attention to the book.
"Mr. Gaynes it is," Mack concluded, still eyeing Gray's father speculatively. "So, Mr. Gaynes... What did you do to earn your stay at Lincoln Correctional? Gray never told me."
There was a sudden tension in the air, so thick Gray felt he could slice it with a knife. "Mack..." he growled. Even now, the other detective seemed oblivious, though Gray knew he was anything but.
"Earn my stay?" Old Gray repeated mildly. Everything Gray's father said and did was mild, especially when others were trying to goad him. It was simultaneously the thing Gray most respected about him and the thing he found most infuriating. "Why," Old Gray continued, "I didn't do anything to earn it. I was completely innocent of any crime."
Mack snorted, but the old man looked up again and met his gaze evenly. The silence grew, and with it, the tension in the room — and then, unexpectedly, Old Gray cracked a smile.
"I suppose Grayson told you I'm a closer?" he asked, but Mack's brow furrowed. "A grifter?" Old Gray tried again, but Mack still looked confused.
"He's a con man," Gray interrupted, though Mack already knew this. He was just trying to stir up trouble.
Old Gray sighed. "I do so hate that term. At the very least, acknowledge me as a con artist."
"So you got caught scamming someone?" Mack asked, clearly keen to hear the de
tails.
Old Gray's face lit up, the excitement of a storyteller about to ply his trade, though he hesitated. "I should note that I'm not fond of that term either, but..." He waved a hand dismissively. "Yes. I was several months invested in a long game with a big payday. Complicated, lots of moving parts—"
"He tried pulling a Nigerian prince scam," Gray interrupted again, sourly. Even if Gray weren't already irritated, his father's eagerness to regale Mack with tales of past crimes would have done the job.
"I beg your pardon," Old Gray objected with righteous indignation. "I have never—" He composed himself. "Our scheme was much more sophisticated than that. And I would never stoop to something so gauche as email communication. Where's the challenge in that?"
Mack's eyes were alive as he glanced back and forth between the Grays. "So what happened?"
"The scheme was proceeding swimmingly," Old Gray said, smiling. "We had collected several payments from the mark — supposed fees, bribes, you understand — when..." He trailed off at the sight of Gray rubbing his temples. "You know," he said, "maybe that is a story best told some other time."
Unfortunately, Mack was tenacious. "But Gray told me he was the one who put you in prison? How so?"
Old Gray's eyes were steady on his son. "Let's just say Grayson was very thorough in his cooperation with law enforcement, once he found out about my scheme."
"I was law enforcement!" Gray objected.
"So you did turn him in?" Mack asked gleefully. "Your own father? That's cold, man!"
Gray shot his partner a scowl.
Old Gray shrugged. "It was a long time ago."
"True," Mack admitted. "Still... Now you're here, living with Gray?" He just couldn't let go of this thing.
"Only until I get my feet back under me," Old Gray said.
And God only knew how long that would take. "He's supposedly flat broke," Gray told his partner. "Personally, I find that incredible, considering how much money he stole."
Gray's father looked hurt. "You know all that money was returned."
"No, only some of it was, and only from that one scam," Gray snapped. "The one you were convicted of. What about all the other people you defrauded over the years?"
Mack looked highly entertained as he glanced back and forth between them. "So isn't this... I don't know, awkward? The two of you living together?"
"It wasn't until you started poking at it," Gray muttered. But that was a lie. It had been awkward, every moment since his father barreled back into his life. It just hadn't been this awkward until now. Mack did so love to call attention to the elephant in a room.
"The truth is," Old Gray said mildly, "I don't harbor any animosity toward my son. I know it was no one's fault but my own that I was caught. As for Grayson... his mother raised him to be a better man than me, a fact for which I'm immensely grateful."
Mack was grinning broadly now. Damn him, Gray thought, he finds this endearing. Didn't Mack realize that this was Old Gray's gift? To seem genuine and sincere, even as he was pulling the wool over your eyes?
"Maybe we can get back to work now?" Gray asked pointedly.
His father nodded gravely and returned to his book.
Afternoon made way for evening, and before Gray knew it, visions of an extra-cheese, garlic-crusted pepperoni pizza danced in his head. He eyed the phone, then decided to put off ordering until he'd reviewed one more case file.
He selected the next file folder from the box at his feet, opened it before him, and started reading. As he began recalling the details of this particular case, his visions of dinner faded. Frowning, he skipped ahead several pages to a more recent report... and felt the hair on the back of his arms stand up.
"Mack," he said slowly, fighting to keep his feelings in check. "The case of Matteo Di Buca — the mobster's son. You remember it. We arrested the guy after the disappearance of his girlfriend."
"Oh yeah," Mack said with obvious recognition. "Matty Di Buca. And it was two girlfriends, if I recall. Both disappeared under suspicious circumstances while dating the guy, a year apart."
"It says here that one of the bodies was found, the middle of April. While I was on leave."
Mack's expression was suddenly guarded. "Yeah?"
"She was killed by a blow to the head. Blunt force trauma."
Mack sighed. "And you're thinking that's consistent with the way Rose died."
Gray needed a moment to rein in his emotions. "Yeah." Rose had died from repeated blows to the head, inflicted with a wooden baseball bat. Gray had nearly succumbed to that very same punishment. "This could be our guy," he said excitedly, angrily. "How come no one saw this?"
"They did see it," Mack assured him. "Keep reading. When the body was discovered, the cop made the connection to your case and brought Di Buca back in." Gray already knew Mack had been off the investigation by that point. The same day Gray and Rose were attacked, Mack had been called upstate to the bedside of a sick relative. Having left his cell phone behind in his haste, Mack hadn't even found out about Gray and Rose until a week later.
Gray moved further down the report, skimming ahead. "So they brought Di Buca in... but they let him go again?"
"He had a rock solid alibi for the time of Rose's murder," Mack assured him. "Besides, he'd have to be a pretty stupid criminal to go after the cop that arrested him — and to do so in the park, where he might have been identified by witnesses?"
"He is a pretty stupid criminal," Gray shot back.
"Not that stupid. And Rocco Di Buca definitely ain't." Mack meant Matty's father, the capo — head of the Di Buca family. "Remember, we had just cut Matty loose a week before. We didn't have enough evidence to hold him on either girl's disappearance. Why would he jeopardize that by going after you?"
Gray grimaced. "I... may have tried to scare him a bit before we let him go."
Mack froze. "You what?"
"I told him I knew it was him — he was guilty as hell, we just didn't have the evidence. I promised him I wouldn't rest until he'd been brought to justice."
"Great," Mack groaned. "Threatening a suspect. Where'd you even hear that line? Sounds like something out of a movie."
"I was trying to scare him into doing something stupid. Organized Crime kept him under plainclothes surveillance for a few days after we released him, remember? I thought if I riled him, he might try to dispose of some evidence — maybe even lead us to one of the bodies." Gray shook his head. "Failing that, I thought if I spooked him bad enough, maybe it would keep him from killing any more girls until we found the evidence we needed."
This wasn't the first time he'd considered Matty Di Buca in connection with Rose's murder. The mobster's son was one of many criminals with an axe to grind against Gray Gaynes, and he'd crossed Gray's mind several times since April — but there'd been no reason to suspect him specifically, especially considering he had nothing to gain and a lot to lose by attacking Gray. Now, though, there was circumstantial evidence that the heir to the Di Buca criminal enterprise liked killing with blunt objects.
For a moment, Gray felt emotion threatening to overwhelm him again. It was one thing to think Rose was dead because of Gray's work as a cop. That was the reality of the job. He and Mack arrested bad guys and put them away. It was good work, important work, but sometimes bad guys fought back, and innocent people got hurt. This, however... this was far worse. Gray had been trying to scare Matty Di Buca into doing something stupid. What if Gray himself had goaded the man into murdering Rose?
"Gray. Gray," Mack spoke into the tumult of emotion, demanding his attention. "It wasn't him. It wasn't Di Buca."
Gray focused on his partner.
"Matteo Di Buca had an alibi for Rose's murder," Mack spoke slowly, clearly. "You're not responsible for this. It wasn't your fault."
Gray took a deep breath. "Okay."
Mack eyed him. "You're sure you don't remember anything else from that day?" he asked, studying Gray intently. "You took a pretty bad blow to the head yours
elf, but... memories sometimes come back with time."
In truth, Gray did remember more than he'd told Mack, more than he'd told anyone, including the detectives investigating Rose's death. While he had no memory of the minute or so before the attack, he clearly remembered seeing a man he recognized standing some distance from them in the park.
And that man had been holding a bat, looking in Gray's direction.
"No," Gray lied. "I don't remember anything."
The problem was, while Gray could remember recognizing the man at that time — or at least thinking he looked familiar — he would never be able to identify the man now, not by appearance. The part of Gray's brain that recognized faces had been damaged that day. That was an even bigger problem for him than it would've been for most witnesses to a crime, because he couldn't let on to the NYPD that he was suffering ongoing complications from the attack.
And that meant he had to lie.
Mack studied him a moment longer. "You know, I think that's enough for one night." He checked his watch, then smiled. "I need to get home anyway. It's a Wonderful Life comes on in half an hour."
Gray snorted, grateful for the opportunity to step back onto emotionally steady ground. He opened his mouth to make fun of his partner, then stopped. In truth, he himself had taken to watching a lot of old black-and-whites since Rose's death.
He stood up and clasped his partner's hand. "Thanks for coming by, Mack. Sorry about earlier." He hesitated, then gestured to the strewn case files. "Mind coming back again tomorrow?"
"And spend Christmas with Gray and Gray?" Mack quipped. "I thought you'd never ask. Sure, pencil me in for tomorrow."
"Pencil?" Gray asked. "Not pen?"
"I'm half expecting Santa to bring us a dead body for Christmas." Mack cocked his head, thoughtful. "Actually, the kind of case you usually attract, that sounds about right. It would be some sort of freaky, demonic thing, and you'd end up arresting Old Saint Nick himself, real person or not."
This drew a much-needed smile to Gray's lips. "Merry Christmas, Mack."