Double Scotch

by Steven Henry

  She'd put Anna to bed and stayed at the house until her brother had come home, fresh from surgery and exhausted, at quarter to midnight. Patrick was going to be okay, of course, but Michelle was still at Urgent Care with him. Erin hadn't gotten to bed herself until almost twelve-thirty.

  Four hours of unhealthy sleep would have to be enough. She had work to do. She drank two cups of coffee and gulped down some oatmeal. Then she put on her jogging clothes and took Rolf for their morning run. She already felt exhausted, but she pressed through it.

  Eventually, she managed to find a little inner calm, listening to the thud of her shoes on the pavement, feeling her heartbeat. For a few minutes, everything else closed down.

  Then the euphoria passed and she was back at her apartment, facing the same bullshit. She took a quick shower and went in to the precinct.

  “Hey, O'Reilly,” the duty sergeant called. Then he did a double take. “Whoa. You okay?”

  “Fine,” she said over her shoulder, on her way to the stairs.

  “Must be that time of the month,” she thought she heard him mutter. She ignored it. Some battles weren't worth fighting.

  Webb was waiting for her up in Major Crimes. He had a cup of department-issue coffee in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other.

  “Morning, sir,” she said.

  “Morning,” he said. “You've got a meeting downstairs.”

  “What about?”

  “Departmental psych guy wants to talk to you.”

  “Oh, come on!” she snapped. “I just talked to him last month!”

  “I know,” Webb said.

  “You're kidding.”

  “Do I look like I'm laughing? A Critical Incident is a Critical Incident. Stop pretending you don't know the protocol.”

  “Forget it, sir. I just want to get back to work.”

  “Then you should hurry down, because the sooner you talk to the doc, the sooner you'll be cleared for duty.”

  Erin swallowed her retort and stomped back down the stairs to the departmental psychiatrist's office, Rolf at her side. The door was open. She knocked on the doorframe.

  “Come on in, Erin,” the doctor said, standing up. “Could you get the door, please?”

  She took two steps into the room, closed the door behind her, and stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind her back, staring straight ahead. Rolf sat beside her.

  “Relax, Erin,” he said, smiling. “This isn't an inspection.”

  “I thought that's exactly what it is,” she said without moving.

  “Okay, have it your way, Soldier,” he said, sitting on the front edge of his desk. She glanced at him for a second, then went back to looking at his wall.

  Doctor Evans was a few years older than Erin. His hair was going a thin and gray. He had a very ordinary face for a psychiatrist, with the exception of a fearsome scar that ran the whole length of his left cheek. No one knew how he'd gotten it, though of course there were all kinds of stories.

  He really wasn't a bad guy. Erin even liked him. But she didn't like what he represented. She didn't like anyone telling her what she could or couldn't do.

  “I understand you swapped bullets again yesterday,” Evans said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Do you want to get better?”

  “I'm fine.”

  “We're not machines, Erin,” he said, taking off his glasses and wiping them with a pocket handkerchief. “We're living creatures.”

  Erin didn't say anything.

  “Machines that break down can't fix themselves,” Evans went on. “But people aren't like that. We're in a constant state of growth and decay, life and death competing in us. Some parts of us are growing, even as other parts are dying. You know what I mean?”

  “I guess so.”

  “When something bad happens, parts of us wither. It's my job to make sure the whole works don't shut down.”

  “I'm not broken, sir.”

  “No, you're not,” he said. “Not yet.”

  She looked at him head-on. “I'm not going to break,” she said. “No matter what.”

  “Are you wanting me to tell you you're strong?” Evans said. “Why? Do you need someone else to tell you that?”

  Erin blinked. That wasn't what she'd meant. Was it?

  “I'm going to ask you a couple of questions,” he said. “I just have one rule. You're not allowed to answer them 'fine' or 'okay.' Can you do that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How are you sleeping?”

  The first two words that wanted to come out of her mouth were the ones she wasn't allowed to say. She hesitated. She was honest, but she wasn't a whiner.

  Evans waited.

  “I wake up still tired,” she said at last.

  “Do you know why?”

  “Sometimes I... have dreams.” It was hard to say it.

  “What sort of dreams?”

  “Like instant replay. Stuff that happened.”

  “The gunfight at the airport?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The shootout in Brighton Beach?”

  “That, too.”

  “Do you know why you wake up tired?” he asked again.

  She shook her head.

  “Our subconscious is there to help us,” Evans said. “We're social animals. We're built to deal with things by communicating with other people. We're so focused on that, it's like we have a built-in conversation partner in our own heads. The problem is, if we don't talk to other people about things that bother us, we end up having the whole conversation with ourselves. You're trying to work through something tough, Erin, and you're doing all the work yourself. You don't need to talk to me.”

  “Like hell I don't. My CO ordered me down here.”

  Evans laughed. “I have to sign a form that says we've talked and you're cleared for duty,” he said. “The form says I've evaluated your mental and emotional health. But you don't have to say a word to me about what's really on your mind, not if you don't want to.”

  Erin looked at him, not knowing what to say.

  “But you do need someone,” he said. “Some people find it easiest to talk to a mental health professional. Others have a close friend, a family member. You have someone like that?”

  Erin thought of Kira and their lunch the day before. Then, for some crazy reason, she thought of Carlyle. “I don't know,” she said.

  “Your father's a retired officer, isn't he?”

  “Yeah.” Of course he'd seen that in her personnel file.

  “Would he be a good person for you to talk with?”

  Erin snorted. “He never even fired his gun on the job.”

  “Most officers don't,” Evans said.

  “So I'm special, huh?”

  “Do you feel special?”

  “I feel like shit.”

  The words hung there in the office. Erin wished she could suck them back into her mouth.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There's a gang of hitmen running around New York right now,” she said. “They've killed four people we know of. And there's another guy who's knocking off women in hotel rooms.”

  “A serial killer?” Evans asked, looking closely at her.

  She wasn't supposed to say so, but at this point she didn't really care what Webb said. “Yeah.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Of course it does!”

  “I mean, does it bother you particularly?”

  “Why should it?”

  One corner of Evans's mouth curled up. “It's not very politically correct of me to bring this up,” he said. “But you are a woman.”

  “You noticed.”

  “It would be natural to feel more empathy with a female victim,” he said. “You know this, of course. Just like I know you're a woman in a job that's two-thirds male, and dominated by masculine traditions and what I think you probably refer to as 'macho bullshit.'�
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  Erin couldn't help smiling a little at that. “What about it?”

  “You probably feel some pretty intense pressure to measure up. To be more manly than the men.”

  “That's not always hard to do.”

  “That's exactly the sort of mindset I mean,” Evans said, nodding. “When you're on the job, you feel like you have to clamp down pretty hard on anything you think of as weak, soft, or feminine.”

  “Feminine doesn't mean weak!” she retorted.

  Evans raised an eyebrow. “Of course it doesn't,” he said. “But it's a part of you that you keep locked down in your subconscious, along with your shooting trauma. The more baggage you cram in there, the more crowded it's going to get. The subconscious can be a real pressure cooker, Erin. I'd like to see you let off some of that steam safely.”

  She could see his point. But she could also see just enough of herself to know that if she let some of those feelings out, she might totally lose it. She had to keep her shit together. “I'll think it over,” she said.

  “That's what people say when they're planning not to think about something, if they can help it,” Evans sighed. “Don't worry, I'll sign your form. Congratulations, Detective. You're cleared for duty.”

  “That's it?” Erin blurted out. The way he'd been talking, she'd expected him to press harder.

  “Half the officers in the NYPD are closer to the edge than you are,” he said. “It's a stressful job. Why do you think the city pays my salary? Go on, take your dog and dive back in. But drop me a line when you do decide you're ready to talk.”

  “Copy that.”

  “I'm glad you've got your partner there,” he said, indicating Rolf with a tilt of his chin. “Dogs are good helpers for this sort of thing.”

  “I don't need a psych degree to tell me that,” she said.

  “Welcome back,” Vic said when Erin and Rolf walked onto the second floor. “What's the verdict?”

  “Turns out I'm not crazy.”

  “I should've gone with you,” he said. “I could've told him that wasn't true.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Psycho.”

  “Get a room, you two,” Kira said. “Take care of some of that tension and come back when you're ready to work.”

  Webb ignored her and looked at Erin. “You good to go?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “What'd I miss?”

  He sighed. “The guy we've got in custody won't say anything. Not word one. He hasn't even asked for a lawyer.”

  “I think he only speaks German,” Erin said.

  Webb shrugged. “Doesn't matter. He's got no ID on him, we don't have his prints on file. You think he could be this Rüdel guy Carlyle mentioned to you?”

  It was Erin's turn to shrug. “Beats me. From what Carlyle said, it sounded like he didn't know him personally, just by reputation.”

  “Any idea why Rüdel would be gunning for Carlyle?”

  “Taking over the O'Malleys, maybe?” she guessed. But even as she said it, it didn't sound quite right to her.

  “Or just taking out Carlyle,” Kira said. “A guy in his line of work makes a lot of enemies.”

  “Rüdel's a contractor, going by what Carlyle told me,” Erin said. “That means he's working for somebody.”

  “Carlyle won't say who,” Vic said.

  “Did you ask him?” Erin asked.

  Vic snorted. “He's a mob guy. Yeah, he's just aching to spill his guts and tell all his secrets to the NYPD. Why the hell didn't I think of that?”

  “Anyway, that's not our only problem,” Webb said. “Holliday called me a couple minutes ago, gave me a heads-up.”

  “What'd the Captain want?” Erin asked.

  “He's letting us know the Feebies are nosing around,” Webb said. “Homeland Security, too.”

  “Shit,” Vic muttered. “Goddamn Feds.”

  “What for?” Erin asked.

  “They're saying it's potentially international,” Webb explained. “If this Rüdel is a German national, and if the Scottish guys were killed in international waters, then it's a federal case.”

  “No way were they killed that far offshore,” Kira said. “I checked the tide charts. The bodies were dumped close in.”

  “Whatever,” Webb said. “The Captain's handling the Feds for the moment, but there's a lot of pressure. Plus, with the explosives, Homeland Security is considering calling these guys terrorists.”

  “This was an attempted murder,” Erin said. “Not terrorism.”

  “This was actual murder, O'Reilly,” Webb corrected her. “Four of them, in fact.”

  She shook her head. “Those were incidental. Carlyle was the target. The others were just in the way.”

  “Bodyguards,” Vic said.

  “You think the killers knew about them?” Kira asked.

  “Absolutely,” Vic said. “You saw the bullet pattern in their booth. One of them didn't even have the chance to get up. These guys came in and gunned them down right on the spot. Tierney, the waitress, said they didn't even say anything, they just started shooting. And they didn't bother to come behind the bar and shoot her or the bartender.”

  “They weren't trying to eliminate witnesses,” Erin said, understanding.

  Vic nodded. “Which tells us nothing.”

  “It tells us the same thing the breaching charge does,” Erin said. “The hitmen had inside information about the Barley Corner and Carlyle's defensive measures.”

  “Which they probably got from torturing the guys on the boat,” Webb said. “And of course that's where they got the C4. Taylor and the Bomb Squad ran the chemical markers on the explosive residue.”

  “It's British military issue,” Kira said. “Probably from a batch that went missing from Walcheren Barracks in Glasgow last month.”

  “I called the Brits to verify,” Vic said. “They'll get back to us. Sometime.”

  “Stolen, or sold by corrupt soldiers?” Erin asked.

  “This is the British army we're talking about,” Webb said. “These guys don't sell their weapons for extra cash. What do you think they are, the Russians?”

  “I resent that!” Vic said.

  “Am I wrong?” Webb retorted.

  Vic silently fumed.

  “The Glasgow connection strongly suggests this was a smuggling operation the Loch Druich was involved in,” Webb went on. “I'm guessing we'll find out Smiling Jack is an arms dealer. It's a safe assumption that Garrity and Carr were working for him, helping transport the C4 to the States.”

  “What for?” Erin asked.

  “Resale, probably,” Kira said. “Unless you can think of a reason the O'Malleys would want a few kilos of military-grade explosives.”

  “Kilos?” Erin echoed. “They didn't use that much to blow the door at the Corner.”

  “Then the rest of it's still out there,” Webb said. “Happy thought.”

  “So, the guy we've got,” Erin said. “We don't even have a name?”

  “I said that,” Webb said. “No prints, no facial recognition, nothing.”

  “Interpol?” she suggested.

  Vic smiled humorlessly. “I called them and sent the prints over. I asked about Rüdel too. They're checking.”

  “What about tracking Rüdel?” Erin asked. “Assuming he's not the guy we've got now.”

  “We'll put out a BOLO,” Webb said. “For a guy in a mask with a German accent.”

  “Right,” Erin said, feeling a little foolish. “Never mind.”

  “We're going to have to wait until we hear back from our friends in Europe,” Webb said. “In the meantime, we have to work the O'Malley angle. Find the motive, we may find who's behind this. You want to take another run at Carlyle?” he asked Erin.

  “Sure,” she said. She wanted to talk to him very much. She had the feeling he knew something important. “Where is he?”

  “He wasn't hurt badly enough to be hospitalized,” Webb said. “And he's technically a victim, so he's not under arrest. We asked f
or contact info, and he said he'd be staying at a friend's place while the Corner gets repaired.” The Lieutenant checked his case notes. “Looks like he's staying with James Corcoran.”

  “This keeps getting better,” Erin said under her breath.

  “Is there a problem?” Webb asked.

  “Nothing I can't handle, sir.”

  “Apparently, he also passed along word that he wouldn't mind seeing you in person, to thank you for your assist.”

  “Great,” Erin said, putting as much sarcasm into one word as she could.

  After her abortive fling with James Corcoran had come to an end, Erin had assumed she'd never see the inside of Corky's home. Now the circumstances were a little weird, to put it mildly. But Erin had told Webb she could handle it, and she was determined to do just that.

  Corky's address was Midtown Manhattan, in a ludicrously overpriced high-rise. Crime, apparently, paid some people just fine. Erin flashed her shield to the doorman, who opened the door for her and Rolf without comment. In the lobby were three tough-looking young men. In spite of the warm weather, the three guys were all wearing bulky jackets. Erin wondered what she'd find if she did a stop-and-frisk on them. Probably enough weaponry to take over Panama. But she wasn't a Patrol officer anymore, and besides, stop-and-frisk was on its way out. Too much political fallout and too many innocents getting targeted. Erin settled for giving them a hard stare as she passed them. They replied with similar stares. One of them gave a slight nod that hinted at respect. Behind her, she saw the doorman sending a text on his phone. Clearly, she was expected.

  The elevator took her all the way to the top. The doors opened to reveal two more bulky guys, one with a Celtic neck tattoo. There was a tense, silent moment.

  “NYPD,” she said, cocking her hip to show her shield where it was clipped to her belt.

  “Detective,” the guy on the left said, giving an appreciative look both to the shield and the hip it rested on. Both of them watched her all the way down the hallway to Corky's door.

  She rapped on the door with her knuckles. Almost before the sound died away, it swung open.

  “Erin, love,” Corky said. “I'd been wondering when I might find you standing in my doorway.” He was smiling that boyish, irresistible smile of his, with a bright sparkle in his green eyes.