by Alana Lorens
“You didn’t have to. What did he say? Did he threaten her?” Now that it was confirmed, Nick’s thoughts began to spiral off into what-ifs. Surely Reickert wouldn’t have bowed to any open threats. He would have reported those immediately, like he should. Nick studied his boss, seeing Reickert slumped in his chair, as if he were ashamed to even be there, more like he wished he could vanish under his heavy oak desk. By God, he’d better have.
“He didn’t threaten anyone, Nick. Th-That’s the thing. He didn’t really say anything so much as implied it. You know our budget’s up for approval before the council, and we’re in a bad way with the economic downturn. We need every dime just to keep everyone on that we have now, and we may still lose some of our part-timers.” He straightened up a little, at least looked him in the eye. “I can’t let my troops down. All I’m asking is for you to cool it off for awhile, at least till after the budget passes at the first of the year.”
Incredulous, Nick stared at him. “You’re serious. This is all about money. Money?”
“Money’s what keeps this place running and keeps the citizens of Pittsburgh safe. You’re damned right I’m talking about money. I’m asking you for a personal favor. Just hold off seeing her for another three weeks, till the budget passes. I’m asking you to take one for the team. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Stunned, Nick leaned back in his chair, wondering if he’d stepped off his world onto another planet that morning without noticing. “You’re going to let that man run the private lives of your officers, because he doesn’t want the world to know what kind of consummate asshat he is. That he’s an abuser. And an abuser of power.” And a whole lot of other things I better not say under the circumstances…
Reickert shrugged. “You can do what you want, Nick. I’m not taking any action either way. Like I said, I’m just asking this as a personal favor. Three weeks. Doesn’t seem like such a hardship to me, considering all the good it’ll do for thousands of people.”
No, I guess you wouldn’t think it was a hardship. Nick felt sick inside, like he’d eaten broken glass. How would he explain to Suzanne that after the successful dinner with her parents, that quintessential step to the next level of a relationship, that he couldn’t see her? He sure as hell couldn’t tell her it was because of Morgan. She’d go off on some legal white steed, all dressed in her white knight armor, ready to joust. He eyed Reickert, not trusting himself to respond. He hated politics. He hated bureaucratic garbage. He hated lying. This mess was the bastard offspring of all three. Clearing his throat, disgust filtering into his mindset, he sat straight in the chair. “Is that it?”
Reickert’s chin sagged. “Sorry you’re caught up in this. Three weeks, Nick. I promise.”
Nick growled and shoved himself up from the chair. “We’ll see.” He stalked out of the chief’s office and back to his own. Clara Malron looked up as he came through, her face lighting with interest at his scowl.
How was he going to deal with Suzanne?
He pushed the door closed, gaining some small satisfaction as it hit the frame hard enough to rattle the glass. Plopping into his chair, he leaned back, tension settling right into the muscles of his neck. The last thing he wanted at this point in time, this precarious point, would be to jeopardize what looked like a hopeful development. He’d enjoyed his day with Suzanne’s parents, and they’d seemed to accept, no, welcome him with open arms. Suzanne’s father Paul had practically added him to the family roster already.
But now I have to avoid her?
What might work? Nothing about a conflict of interest; anything in that line would pique her professional curiosity, and he’d seen her work. She never gave up on that kind of thing. Not like he could fake a three-week trip away. Maybe a contagious disease? That could be dangerous, if she was the drive-out-to-drop-off-chicken-soup type. He didn’t think she was. Well, at least not just yet. But he couldn’t take the risk.
For now, he’d have to stall her with murky, vague complaints about the budget process or something. Not like that was a lie, exactly. This was tied right to the budget.
Nick was more upset that he’d been left in this position by the weakness of his boss. Shame on Chief Reickert for not having the backbone to stand up to Greg Morgan. The respect he’d carried for the chief all these years took on a tarnish, and faded a little. The man in charge was supposed to protect his officers, not leave them vulnerable to attack.
He’d go along with this request, just this once, because of the long-term association and deference he had with Reickert. But it wouldn’t happen again.
****
Suzanne finished reviewing the last file she’d brought home and rubbed burning eyes. What the hell time was it? Exhausted, she glanced at the clock. Half past midnight. Well, no wonder. She carried her empty teacup to the kitchen, setting it in the sink. All the locks around the downstairs were fastened and chained. Flipping off the last light in the hallway, she headed upstairs.
She turned off the hall light, but not before she caught the sudden extinguishment of the light in Riviera’s room. A frown edging onto her face, she opened her daughter’s door, finding the room dark and her daughter ensconced under her thick pink comforter. “Riv?”
Nothing.
“Riv, I saw the light.”
Still nothing.
Annoyed now, she turned on the light. “I’m not playing around. What are you doing up?”
Riviera stirred, then peered out from behind the edge of her bedclothes. “Sorry, Mom. I’ll go to bed now.”
“What were you doing?” Not homework, Suzanne surmised. Otherwise, she’d have been protesting up on side and down the other. She glanced around the room. The laptop was missing. “Where’s the computer?”
Riviera sighed. “Here.” She pulled it out from under her blankets.
The admission fired Suzanne’s annoyance into full-blown irritation. “You know better. Bedtime was ninety minutes ago. Are you gaming this late?”
“I’m not!”
Another admission. Sometimes it was almost unfair to her kids that she was a lawyer. “Then what?”
“I…” Riviera bit her lip, looking down at the computer. “It’s just…I mean… Joss wouldn’t let me get off. He needed to talk, Mom. He’s having a hard time with his parents, and he didn’t have anyone else to talk to.”
“Tell you what. If he needs therapy at midnight, he can call the crisis line. Give me the computer. You need your sleep so you can get up for school in the morning.”
“But, Mom—”
Irritation was moving up the scale to medium hot. “You want to argue with me? I can keep the computer for a week.”
Riviera pouted. “No.”
Suzanne took the laptop, feeling it warm in her hands. The kid must have been burning up the modem lines for hours. “Get some sleep, dear. Life as you know it will continue in the morning.”
Her daughter didn’t reply, but Suzanne heard the under-the-breath muttered reply as she left. A little smile crossed her face. Complaint department’s down the hall. Although the fact that her daughter had a boyfriend, a normal life, was somewhat reassuring. Everything was so dramatic at that age, seeming to encompass life and death in a split second. The instantaneous nature of the Internet didn’t help parents out in the least. As far as she was concerned, her job as a parent was to make the kids toe the line.
If only she could make her clients do the same.
Chapter Nineteen
Nick struggled with those next weeks. He’d even had to turn down an invitation from Suzanne to come to her house for the weekend, explaining—lying—that he was on a stakeout detail. Not being honest with her made him sick to his stomach, and frankly pissed him off, especially when he didn’t know if she’d ask again. Winning her trust had been such a huge part of his effort to date her.
And now he was letting it all go, for the money to sustain his department.
The Tuesday before Christmas, he arrived early, and took the stairs two
at a time, travel mug in hand, briefcase in the other, ready to start the day on fire. The squad room seemed to be unnaturally quiet, especially for morning, but he greeted his co-workers and continued to his office. Through the open blinds, he noted speculative eyes upon him. The eerie feeling increased as two dark-suited officers from Internal Affairs came off the elevator and headed for his office.
Damn it. What’s Vasquez and Washington done now? Couldn’t they even handle one vice assignment? So far, he thought the temporary transfers had gone well. In addition to those two, other officers from around the department had filled in shifts when needed. He’d even done a couple himself, though it had been a long time since he worked vice. Still too many young girls, too many kids strung out on drugs. The streets, he found, didn’t change much.
He rose to his feet, his hand extended as the two entered his office. They both shook his hand, then one of them closed the door.
“Gentlemen,” Nick said, taking a seat behind his desk. One of the IA guys was silver-haired, tall and Caucasian, with lieutenant’s bars on his collar. The other was more compact and clearly of Latino derivation. Both faces were vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t put a name with either one. Both faces were also grim. “What can I do for you?”
“Lieutenant Jackson,” the taller one said by way of introduction as they sat across from him. “We’re investigating a report of inappropriate conduct.”
Nick nodded. “From vice?” Here it came. What had his bad boys done now?
The other officer looked surprised. “Exactly, Lieutenant Sansone. We’ve received allegations that last month you sexually assaulted a young woman in your custody before you brought her in to be booked.”
“What?” Nick rose to his feet, stunned. He was sure he hadn’t heard correctly. “That—would you repeat that?”
“Sit down, Lieutenant,” Jackson said, his voice pitched at just the right tone to “handle” him. “We’re not done with our investigation. Obviously we’ll want to interview you. You may want an attorney present.” He cleared his throat, then waited for Nick to return to his seat. “Or you may want to talk to us now.”
Nick considered the alternatives, still reeling. He’d never touched any of the young women he’d arrested. Ever. Never. He couldn’t imagine that anyone could sustain such an allegation. Or any reason.
“Lieutenant?” Jackson had the decency to look embarrassed.
“I—I’m sorry. I need a moment.” Nick stared at his desk as if he could possibly find the answer there. He didn’t.
A knock came at the door, then it opened. Butch Reickert stepped in. He pulled the door closed behind him. Nick thought he detected a few more lines on the older man’s face, and the expression it currently held was one laced with guilt. Was this more fallout from Morgan’s arm-twisting? “Nick, you know the routine. You’ll be on suspension pending the investigation. I need your shield and your gun. Shouldn’t take too long, right, boys?”
“No, sir, Chief,” Jackson’s companion murmured.
Nick stood and took off his suit jacket, ready to punch someone and trying hard to control it. Through the window to the squad room, he could see Clara Malron studiously applying herself to the work on her desk for the first time he could remember. Maybe this wasn’t something that originated with Morgan. He had his own issues to deal with. Could this have come from his ongoing dispute with the Three Amigos? Jaw set tight to keep himself from saying what he knew would only hurt him, he took the department-issued Ruger from its holster, ejected the ammunition, and handed the clip to Reickert, then did the same for his police shield.
Jackson cleared his throat. “We’ll need you to make yourself available for questioning, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll call you,” Nick said, his mouth dry.
“The sooner, the—” Jackson continued.
Reickert interrupted, his voice like granite. “He’ll call you.”
“Of course, chief.” Jackson studied Nick, pity in his eyes. “Let’s go, Lieutenant. We’ll escort you out.”
“Chief, come on,” Nick said. “You can’t believe this crap.”
Reickert wouldn’t meet his eyes, holding the gun and shield before him like burnt offerings. “Not up to me, Nick. Department policy. You know it and I know it.”
Anger boiling up in him, Nick couldn’t control the words that came out. “I didn’t think being a coward was department policy.”
That got his attention. Reickert stood up tall, his voice whipping like an Arctic wind. “Watch yourself, lieutenant.”
Lieutenant? Really? Considering the personal sacrifice I made on your behalf, pal? This was a serious crock of crap.
Nick picked up his jacket and his briefcase, leaving his coffee. He’d lost his taste for it. Holding his head high, though every fiber of his being wanted to crawl away and hide, he walked with the IA officers to the elevator, passing longtime co-workers who stared, speechless, as they proceeded. No question what might be going on here. The IA guys always had a certain look to them. Like career executioners.
The men didn’t speak to him, though Jackson shoved a business card into his hand. They walked him to the front door, then waited inside as it closed behind him.
He found himself out on the street with nowhere to go.
****
Suzanne was deep into typing a brief when Donna poked her head around the door frame. “Nick Sansone’s on the line. He…” Donna pursed her lips a moment, thinking. “He sounds like he’s lost his last friend.”
Now that was odd.
She’d tried to get in touch with him several times over the last couple of weeks, but he’d been standoffish. First he’d pled preoccupation with last-minute budget negotiations, then he’d been unavailable because of some kind of vice stakeout.
Whatever the reason, she was glad to hear from him. And about bloody time…
Suzanne picked up the phone. “Nick?”
He didn’t waste a second on small talk. “Can you take a break?” Donna was right; his voice was haunted.
Suzanne wondered which disaster this call might relate to. Possibilities clicked thought her mind like a slideshow. If something had happened to Maddie, he’d have come personally to tell her. Same if he’d gotten a heads-up on something with her children. So, something else then. She’d never heard him sound so unsure of himself. “If you need me to, of course.”
“At the coffee shop at the Warhol in fifteen minutes?”
“All right.” The Warhol? What an odd meeting place. Even more curious now, wondering what new hell had appeared on the horizon, she scrambled for her jacket and purse, then the door. Donna started to ask, but Suzanne just waved a hand. “I’ll let you know when I know, okay?”
She drove as quickly as she could in morning traffic, heading for the museum. Neither of them even liked Warhol’s wacky art. At first she’d thought maybe he had a surprise for her. As she drove, her fears reinforced that thought—all indications were, however, that it was a very bad surprise.
As she entered the café, accessible from outside the museum on Sandusky Street, she found Nick sadly out of place among the minimalist glass and chrome tables. The hand that held his coffee cup shook like someone who was freezing.
“Maybe coffee’s a bad idea. Hell on the nerves,” he said, with a ghost of his usual smile. “You want some?”
Suzanne shook her head and studied him. She’d seen him angry, elated, jovial, disappointed, but she’d have to call this Nick frightened. It was something new. She didn’t like it.
He began to speak several times, but couldn't seem to transfer his thoughts to spoken words. A jelly-like quiver formed in her belly which grew larger as she waited. Whatever it was, this was big.
“Bastards!” The word tumbled out of his mouth, accompanied by the slamming of his fist on the table. Amid the rattle of glassware, and the shocked stare of the effete young man behind the serving counter, Suzanne wondered if anger was better than fear. She reached for Nick's hand before he co
uld slam it again. Tight with emotion, even the pressure of her hand didn't relax him.
“Nick, come on, tell me what happened.” She squeezed his hand, ignoring the looks of the old couple at the other end of the counter. “I’ll help if I can. Is it Morgan?”
That was the word he needed to release the dam that trapped his words. He looked into her eyes. “I don’t know.”
Then he told her, first, about the “request” Reickert had made of him about the budget, then about the happenings of the morning, not letting her interrupt, no matter how hard she tried. Finally she just sat back to absorb it all, almost too disgusted with the whole situation to be incensed.
No wonder he’d sounded so bad.
How could this have happened? While he fiddled with his cup and stared, lost, out the window, her mind filled with rushing images. The precinct. The park. Scenes of dark streets where prostitutes patrolled like starving tigers, waiting to pounce on the unwary. What kept coming to the top was Sandoval’s banquet and that intent conversation between Greg Morgan and the three young troublemakers.
Morgan by himself was a dynamo of bad attitude and acts. Adding in the energy of three others with an ax to grind jolted the potential impact and trouble to the next level. Maybe this level.
“Did you see any kind of written statement? Did they tell you who?”
“No, and they wouldn’t let me know who, anyway. Protocol. But my record is solid. They've never had a complaint against me. I can’t understand why they believe this woman. Even Reickert’s someone I just can’t count on for help this time.” His eyes were fixed on the dark liquid quivering in his cup.
“I can’t believe he’d cave to Morgan about the budget. That’s garbage.” Her foot tapped nervously against the table, drawing the attention of the couple again, and finally even getting under her own skin. She stopped. “But Morgan and your little friends may be working on this together.”
When he showed interest in her theory, she shared what she’d witnessed at the banquet. “If what you say is true, Morgan has way too much influence on what’s going on in your office already, and if Washington and the others are out to get you, there’s no question this situation could have been created, tailor-made.”