“Vince? Vince, what the hell was it... ? Jerry wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, getting to his feet to lean over him. “Was it the Prague kids? Was it them?” When he didn't answer, Jerry swore and turned to go back inside.
Vince got up, grabbed his partner, jerked him around. “Don't go in there.”
“The hell I won't.” Jerry pulled free.
Vince punched him. Just like that, he clocked his partner in the jaw, knocked him flat on his back. Jerry lay there, blinking up at him in shocked silence.
“No man with kids has any business seeing what's in that room,” he muttered. Then he stepped over Jerry to reach into the car for the radio mike, and, keying it, requested a coroner and a forensics team.
Three days later, Vince and Jerry sat in Chief Rogers' office. Jerry and the chief seemed to be taking turns shooting worried looks Vince's way, but he did his best to ignore them.
The chief didn't waste a lot of time before coming to the point. “You two are off the Prague case.”
Vince surged to his feet “What do mean? Jesus, chief, we don't even have the autopsy report yet!”
The chief held up both hands and kept talking. “The FBI has it. They've taken over. They have three other cases with what they say are striking similarities in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Jersey. They've got a task force in place to deal with it, and they don't want any locals stepping on their toes.”
“That's bullshit,” Vince snapped. “I've been working this case for almost a month, dammit. I have to get this guy.”
“You're off the case, O'Mally.”
“I have to get this guy.”
The chief glanced sideways at Jerry, then focused on Vince again. “Sit down.”
Vince sat, but stiffly. He braced himself on the edge of the chair, his hands balled into fists on his knees.
“When's the last time you shaved, O'Mally? Huh?” The chief eyed him, looking more concerned than stern. “How long since you've eaten a full meal, or had a few hours' sleep? Have you walked by a mirror lately?”
Vince averted his eyes. “I've been busy.”
“You're running on empty. You can't possibly be thinking clearly. Now, I know that crime scene got to you. It got to all of us. The forensics team that went in there is undergoing group counseling, and they admit they're having trouble. And these guys have seen damn near everything.”
“I'm fine,” Vince insisted.
“No. I don't think so. Do you think he's fine, Jerry?”
Jerry shook his head. “No sir, I don't think he's fine at all.”
“Jerry, for crying out—”
“I'm sorry partner, but you've been messed up since you came out of that room. I don't know what the hell to do about it. You insisted on talking to Sara Prague yourself—breaking the news, when I begged you to let someone else do it. When you came out of her house that day you looked... dead, Vince. You looked dead. You're drowning in this case, man, and I don't know how to pull you out.”
Vince tipped his head back, rolled his eyes at the ceiling.
I’m gonna give you a choice, O'Mally,” the chief said slowly. “Take a thirty-day leave, get out of here, get away from this thing, and see if you can shake it off.”
“No way. I'm seeing this thing through to the end, Feds or no Feds. What's behind door number two, Chief?”
“An hour a day with Dr. Feltzer.”
“The shrink from hell?” The chief nodded. “For how long?” Vince asked.
“Until she says you're passably sane.”
“Hell, she didn't think I was passably sane the day they hired me.”
“Your decision. Either way, you're off this case. I want everything you have on my desk in ten minutes. That goes for you, too, Jerry.”
“So you can turn it all over to the Feds?” Vince asked, disgusted by the thought.
“Those are my orders. After that, I want you to go home. Take the rest of the day off, and let me know what you decide—the leave or the shrink.”
“But—”
“I'm done talking,” the chief said. “You can go now.”
“But, Chief, I—”
“Go. Now.” He lifted an arm, pointed at the door.
Vince stormed out of the chief's office and headed for his desk. Jerry was right on his heels, but he ignored his partner as he pulled file folder after file folder off the sloping stacks on his desk and dropped them into the little wastebasket beside it. Papers flew like confetti. He could feel everyone in the place looking at him as if he'd lost it. He ignored them all, opened drawers, rummaging through them, gathering up every scribbled note and every paperclip that had any connection to the Prague case. Slamming one drawer closed he yanked open another, and then another, until at last, he opened the drawer with the pile of framed photos inside.
He stopped, frozen, and stared down at the freckled faces. His shoulders quaked, but he caught himself, held himself in a hard, merciless grip.
“Those … probably ought to be sent back to the mother,” Jerry said, his voice hoarse.
“Yeah.”
“I'll take care of it for you.”
Vince nodded, then reached in and picked up the most recent photo. He handed it to Jerry. “All but this one, okay?”
“Vince?”
“I want the Feds to have this one. Tell 'em to look at it every day. Tell 'em this is what that bastard killed, not that pile of paperwork. This.”
Jerry nodded and took the framed photo. “So ... you gonna take the time off, or the treatment?”
“I don't know yet.” He picked up the wastebasket, handed that to Jerry as well. “Give this to the chief for me.” Reaching for the computer on his desk, he peeled off a half dozen yellow sticky notes, wadded them up and tossed them into the trash can as well. Lastly, Vince ejected a flash drive and dropped it into his shirt pocket.
“What's that, Vince?”
“What's what?”
Jerry scowled. “What did you do? Did you keep a copy of your files on this case?”
“Shit, pal, when did you ever see me organized enough to think of something like that?”
“Vince. You gotta let this one go.”
Vince met his partner's eyes for one long moment, then looked away. “I'm going home. I'll see you later.”
Jerry sighed as Vince left the office.
Halfway back to his apartment, three miles from the police station, Vince glanced down and noticed his coat lying on the passenger seat. It had been warm for this late in the fall. He hadn't worn the coat since ...
The kids. The house. The book. His senses prickled. He'd turned the book in, and then forgot he had. But there had been something...
Slamming on his brakes, he jerked the wheel and brought the Jeep Wrangler to a jerky stop on the shoulder. He grabbed his coat, searched the pockets and found his dog-eared notepad. Flipping it open, he read what he had written there: The Gingerbread Man. Dilmun Public Library, Dilmun, NY.
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author Maggie Shayne has published more than 50 novels and 23 novellas. She has written for 7 publishers and 2 soap operas, has racked up 15 Rita Award nominations and actually, finally, won the damn thing in 2005.
Maggie lives in a beautiful, century old, happily haunted farmhouse named “Serenity” in the wildest wilds of Cortland County, NY, with her soul-mate, Lance. They share a pair of English Mastiffs, Dozer & Daisy, and a little English Bulldog, Niblet, and the wise guardian and guru of them all, the feline Glory, who keeps the dogs firmly in their places. Maggie’s a Wiccan high priestess (legal clergy even) and an avid follower of the Law of Attraction.
Find Maggie at http://maggieshayne.com
Also by Maggie Shayne
Sleep with the Lights On
Wake to Darkness
Dream of Danger
Innocent Prey
Deadly Obsession
Cry Wolf
Girl Blue
/> Maggie Shayne, Girl Blue (A Brown and de Luca Novel Book 7)
Girl Blue (A Brown and de Luca Novel Book 7) Page 22