by J. R. Ward
Curling his left hand into a fist, he felt the worn spots burn and the heavy calluses protest at the contraction. Across the knuckles, there were countless cuts from the thorns on those bushes he’d ripped out, and then there was a bruise on the back of the wrist from when he’d clonked it on something.
He hated his left hand now—
“You comin’ in for breakfast or just gonna hang out here and give yourself cancer?”
Danny glanced over at a screaming-yellow Dodge Charger that had black rims, blacked-out windows, and a red stripe down the side. Moose was leaning against the quarter panel, arms crossed, mirrored sunglasses making him look like a bearded eighties action figure.
“I’ll take the cancer if Duff’s at the stove.”
Moose frowned. “You shouldn’t say shit like that.”
“It’s the truth.” He deliberately took an inhale. “People need to stop being so politically correct.”
“Got nothing to do with politics. It’s bad luck.”
Danny laughed with an edge. “Oh, I’ve already had my share of that. I won the shit out of that lottery, thank you very much.”
As Moose just stared at him, Danny shook his head. “You got something to say to me?”
Although come on, it wasn’t like he couldn’t guess.
“Duff told me he took you home Saturday night.”
“Jealous? Don’t worry, we stopped at third base. And besides, you have your beautiful new wife to keep you warm at night.”
“Still bitter about that, huh.”
Danny opened his mouth, but he stepped off that ledge. His dislike of the human race had only intensified since last November. There were some things, however, that went too far even for him, and Deandra, Moose’s new old lady, was one of them.
But he wasn’t jealous of the marriage. Hell, if he were, all he had to do was snap his fingers and that gold digger would be on her back in his messy bed in a heartbeat. And Moose knew this. Which was why he’d insisted on putting a ring on it.
Like that meant she wouldn’t leave him.
“Whatever,” Danny muttered as he exhaled.
Moose looked away. Looked back. “You got a lot of people worried about you.”
“That’s on them.” He examined the lit tip of his cigarette. “Have I been late for work, even once?” When there was no response, he glanced at his former roommate and cupped his ear. “Did I hear you say no? I think I did. And have I slacked on scene? Wait . . . is that another no? Why I believe it is.”
“Your drinking is—”
“And here’s a last one. Have I asked you, or anybody else, to comment on my fucking life?” He grabbed his duffel bag and got out. “We both know the answer to that one.”
Taking a last drag, he blew the smoke over his shoulder. “So how about all of you shut up and worry about your own goddamn situations. I know all too well exactly how not-perfect your marriage is, for example, but you don’t hear me going on about that, do you.”
Before shit got way to real, he started to march off.
“How about you say hi to Anne for me,” Moose bit out. “The next time you see her.”
Danny stopped dead. As his hand tightened on the straps of his duffel, he felt a rage that went so deep, he knew without a doubt that he could kill from it.
But what was behind the anger was even more toxic, a swill of pain and self-hatred that made all the crap he’d gone through about his brother’s death and then losing Sol seem like warm-up exercises for the real challenge.
On the surface of his life, he was going through the minutes and the hours of the present. His reality, though, was stuck in that collapsing stairwell with Anne . . . and what he’d done with that axe of his. It was Groundhog Day 24-7, and shit was wearing his ass out, but that was where some people ended up in life.
He did not need the reminder from his best friend, however. No bright lights needed in this darkness, considering they only showed the alligators chewing his ass.
“Fuck you, Miller,” he said as he started walking again.
chapter
10
New Brunswick Firehouse No. 617
McGinney Street and Third Avenue
Behind the wheel of a city-issued SUV, Tom shifted his cell phone to his other ear as he made the turn onto McGinney Street. “I don’t know whether the mayor’s serious or not . . . no, I don’t. Get over yourself, Brent. She’s a goddamn politician, and she’s just announced she’s running for a second term. She’ll tell us anything we want to hear just to get the union endorsement. So no, I don’t trust her.” He let the union president drone on a little, and then had to cut that shit off. “Listen to me, do not confuse this woman’s looks with virtue. She’s charming you up and I’ll be goddamned if I let us get pulled in a bad direction just because you like the smell of her perfume.”
As he cut the call and tossed his cell onto the empty bucket seat in his Explorer, he thought . . . hell yes, this was his car. Even though the vehicle was issued by the city and in his possession only because of his job as chief, it was his personal property, damn it.
Then again, he considered all of the stationhouses and each one of the engines, ladders, trucks, ambulances, and all the marked cars as his.
The people, too. Which was why he needed to get Brent Mathison out of that job at the firefighters’ union. The guy was too soft on that mayor and could not see the way she was manipulating him.
Stupid. But he didn’t dislike Brent or anything. How could he? All the men and women in the fire service were . . . well, not his children, no. He was not parent material. And they weren’t his family.
Hell, even his family wasn’t his family. Wife had hit the road. Anne was off the radar and out of the Christmas card photos. All he had left was his mother, and even with her, there was a lot of duty there—he was all she had.
Even though she really wanted her daughter involved in her life.
Thoughts of Anne put him in an even worse mood as he pulled onto the concrete pavers that went up to the four bays of the stationhouse. Everything was open, the sunshine glinting off the chrome and the glass and the red panels of the engines and the ladder trucks.
The 617 was the newest of the six houses in New Brunswick, functioning as the Fire Rescue Master Station. Built two years prior, the four-story brick building had state-of-the-art facilities, including an office for him with a conference area, a restaurant-quality kitchen, a mess hall and rec room, a weight room, and, on the third and top floors, private suites for the overnighters.
No more common bunk room or communal shower. Which was good news.
With the divorce, this wasn’t his second home; it was his only one.
And bonus—at least to the beleaguered city? The building had been erected as a gift by Charles Ripkin, a billionaire property developer, in thanks for the city’s firefighters saving his daughter in a blaze. Now, if Tom had been asked, he would have preferred for the several million dollars to be apportioned around the five older stations for upgrades. But rich guys liked to make a statement, and the city was hardly in the position to turn that kind of cash down.
Heading around back, he eased the muni SUV in between Chuckie P’s Jeep and Vic Rizzo’s blacked-out F-150. Behind the shallow parking area, there was a lawn with a volleyball net as well as some picnic tables and a grill. The big fat-topped trees that had been spared during construction were brilliant red and gold, and the grass was still green—although none of that would last. The grays of November and blue-whites of December and January were coming fast.
Just before he got out, he reached across and snagged his cell phone. The screen was cracked because he threw it a lot, and going by its current state of degeneration, he was guessing he had another month of functionality left, tops.
He hadn’t expected to be so angry as an adult.
And as he thought ab
out his sister, and how she wouldn’t have answered if he’d called her, he decided he hadn’t expected a lot about life.
He left his vehicle unlocked and went to the back door—
What . . . the fuck?
A shadow thrown on the lawn from the far side of the building suggested some douchebag was taking a piss on the stationhouse.
The bastard was literally planted there with his hand on his hose, a fine stream of urine arcing from the tip of his dick.
Tom marched over without screaming so he could catch the SOB and rub his nose in the mess like a fucking dog—
As he came around the corner, he stopped and became even more furious. The guy was wearing a New Brunswick FD navy blue T-shirt, navy blue work pants, and work boots. Everything was so new, there were no scuffs on those Carhartts, and both the shirt and pants still had creases from when they’d been folded at the factory.
“Goddamn it!”
The new recruit spun around, and his cock came with him, a golden stream fanning out so that Tom had to jump back.
You want to talk about pale? The f-nug, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, twenty-two, turned white as a Band-Aid pad. Then again, Tom’s mug had been in the paper a lot, and there were few in town who wouldn’t have recognized his salt-and-pepper hair.
Which was turning whiter by the frickin’ second.
“OhmyGod.”
“He pulled the lemonade trick, didn’t he,” Tom muttered.
“The bathrooms are out of commission! Chief, I swear, I—”
“Zip your dick up and get back inside—but first hose off my fucking house.”
Tom left the recruit and nearly tore the door off its hinges as he went inside. Sure enough, front and center on the mess hall’s table was a big fat jug of lemonade—that was three-quarters of the way empty. As well as a glass.
“Damnit!” he yelled. “You get your ass to my office right fucking now!”
Same shit, different day.
* * *
Across town, at Metro Emergency Veterinary Clinic, Anne stood up as the vet came in. She’d been waiting in this exam room for the last hour and she wiped her sweaty hands on the seat of her slacks.
“How’re we doing?” she asked.
Dr. Delgado was a fifty-year-old woman with thick dark hair, no makeup, and the kind of face that made your heart rate ease up.
“Well,” she said, “we’re malnourished. We have worms. Fleas. Ticks. An infection in the ear flap and in the shoulder. A paw with a laceration in between the pads. There’s a tooth cracked in the back our mouth that will have to be removed. Do you want to come see him?”
“Ah . . . sure. Yes.”
The vet smiled. “Come this way. He’s been neutered, by the way, so he was owned by someone at some point.”
Anne followed the woman out and down the corridor of exam rooms, the muffled barks and meows behind the closed doors suggesting the practice was a busy one. Entering a more clinical space, they proceeded over to a line of cages. The stray was down at the far end, curled in the corner as if he were terrified but used to being helpless.
“Hey, big guy,” Anne murmured as she went across and got down on her haunches. “How you feeling?”
A tentative wag greeted her, just the tip of the tail moving.
“He recognizes you,” Dr. Delgado said. “Anyway, you can pick him up tomorrow, assuming he does well on the antibiotic shot. I had to give him some powerful—”
“Pick him up?” Anne got to her feet. “I don’t understand.”
Now the vet’s face grew remote. “I thought you were adopting him.”
“I can’t— I mean, no. I’m not a dog person. I’m not a pet person.” She rushed on with, “But I mean, I’ll pay for the charges. And his food and stuff until he’s adopted.”
“We’re not really equipped to hold onto him after he’s been treated.”
“You must have people who want dogs, though.”
“I’ll do what I can. But he’s part pit and that can be a problem. If we can’t find someone, he’ll have to go to a shelter.”
Anne took a deep breath. “Okay, and someone will take him home from there, then.” There was a pause. “Right? I mean, people adopt all the time. He’ll find somebody to care for him.”
“He’ll have a week. If he’s lucky. But again, with the pit in him, I’m not sure anyone will want him.” The vet took a step back. “We have your credit card. I’ll keep you posted on the charges.”
“And how he is?”
“If you want”—the vet put out her hand—“I’ll be in touch.”
Anne shook the palm that was offered and then looked back through the steel weave of the cage. The dog stared up at her, his exhausted, pale brown eyes suggesting that all the things getting done to him and the stuff being pumped into his frail body was just one more scene in a nightmare that had started a long time ago.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the dog. “I really am.”
He wagged one last time and put his head down on the paw that wasn’t bandaged. As Anne turned away, she got busy checking out the clinical space, everything so neat and clean, the techs and vets walking with purpose, the stainless steel tables and X-ray machines and clear-fronted cabinets of supplies as professional as any human-grade clinic she’d ever been to.
The next thing she knew, she was behind the wheel of the municipal sedan in the parking lot. Looking over to the front seat where the dog had been, she noted smudges of dirt and some stains she knew were blood. She was going to have to clean that all up.
As her phone rang, she jumped and fumbled in her bag. When she saw who it was, she cursed. “Hello? Mr. Marshall?”
“I told you, call me Don,” her new boss said. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing. Making progress?”
She stared at the outside of the vet office. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” Reaching forward with the key, she started the sewing-machine engine under the hood. “I should be back in the office in an hour. Or two.”
“Well, that would be good, sure. But tell me, are you planning on spending any time at the scene?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The GPS on the vehicle you were assigned to is reporting you’ve been about seven miles away from the fire scene for the last hour and twenty minutes. I’m just curious what you’re doing and where?”
Grimacing, she put her forehead down on the steering wheel. “I, ah, I found a stray.”
“Bullet?”
“Dog.”
There was a beat of silence. “I’d like you to come back to the office if you don’t mind. I need to have a word with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Don Marshall hung up, and Anne didn’t waste time. Putting the sedan in drive, she lowered the window and took off, making her way back to the Fire and Safety building. Traffic was pretty light, and it took her less than ten minutes to trade one parking lot for another.
As she was getting out and locking up, she composed a little speech along the lines of how seriously she was taking her new job and how much she wanted to work for—
Don was waiting for her at the front entrance of the sprawling black, steel, and glass building, the man standing in the sunshine, eating something. He was a tall, thin guy, built like the basketball player she’d heard he’d been, and his tightly trimmed Afro had all kinds of gray at the temples. Rumor had it he’d dropped out of Syracuse, where he’d been playing Division I college ball, and joined the Army. Considering how cut-and-dry he was, she could see him in a military uniform.
And he certainly had the been-through-it-all affect of somebody who had seen combat action.
“I’m so sorry,” she said on the approach. “I won’t ever get distracted again—”
“Walk with me,” he ordered as he turned away, not waiting for her to catch up.
It was a bagel. He was eating half an onion bagel that had about two inches of cream cheese on it.
“So you know how many people wanted your job?” he asked as she fell into step with him on the sidewalk that made a square around the building.
“No, sir. I don’t.”
“Take a guess.”
She thought about how bad the economy was. “Ten? Fifteen?”
“None.” He stopped and looked down at her. “No one. The position was vacant for six months before you applied.”
“Oh.” Was she supposed to apologize? “I’m sorry.”
“I think you and I need to be clear with one another.” He put the last bite in his hopper and wiped his mouth with the napkin he’d been using as a plate. “I will fire you and go back to an empty desk before I put up with crap for effort. I took a chance on you—”
“Because of my arm,” she said bitterly.
“No, because I know you don’t actually want to work here.” He resumed his long stride. “You’d rather be back on an engine, dragging hoses into a fire. The reality, however, is that you’re out of options, and I’ve got a back load of cases that need to be looked at with only three investigators—one of whom is relocating because his wife took a job in St. Louis. Oh, did I mention another is pregnant and probably going on bed rest in a week? I won’t have her back until after she’s through with maternity leave. But allow me to reiterate. I would rather have an empty desk than someone who isn’t getting work done. I don’t care if I have to go out into the field myself. So you either get real and be serious about this opportunity, or you can file for unemployment for the twenty-four hours you’ve earned it for.”
Anne shook her head. “You don’t know me.”
“Yeah, I do. You’re someone who walks off the job site before she gets started. And lies to me when I call her and ask her how things are going.”
“I’m sorry. That was the wrong thing to do, and from now on, I’m not going to let you down.”
“Me? You’re not going to let me down?” Don Marshall stopped again and frowned. “Wrong way to look at this. Someone died in that fire you blew off so you could make a trip to the vet’s. A crime against property was committed, and in the course of it, somebody died. Maybe it was a vagrant. Hell, it probably was. But they had a mother and a father or they wouldn’t be on the planet. What you fail to understand is that this job you think is a step down from your calling, your passion? It’s actually justice at work. Unless there was faulty wiring involved—which is impossible because the grid to that block was shut down two years ago—someone walked in there, set a fire, and let the structure burn to the ground. I can’t make you care about helping the police find that criminal. I can’t wake you up to the fact that this work you no doubt consider a desk job is critical to making people safe. But what I will do is boot you out of my department if you don’t prove to me you’re worthy of my standards. You had your calling. This is mine. Are we clear?”