In the bathroom, Jamie walked through her nightly routine to ward off the smell of cigarettes. She showered again, brushed her teeth three times, painted them with the Crest whitening paste, and put her molds in. Some nights, she thought she should quit smoking. Definitely not tonight.
In the mirror, a set of tired eyes looked back. Eyes Tim had once told her were like mood indicators. Blue when she was calm and peaceful, sea green when she was feisty or angry. Now they were a flat steely gray-green. What mood was that? Depressed?
Back in the bedroom, she remade the bed with military precision, changed into generic gray sweats that had once fit, but were now two sizes too big, added a long-sleeved T-shirt from her police academy days. Near her left breastbone, a hole cut between the yellow N and C of Francisco. Through it, she could feel the tail end of the snaking scar from an old knife wound. A routine traffic stop gone bad.
As she sank onto the edge of the bed, restless exhaustion overcame her. The sheet corner, carefully folded back, was waiting, but the desire to sleep had waned.
Eighteen months Tim had been gone.
Eighteen months and she still missed his fidgeting in bed, the way his hand sought out her thigh in the dark. The way he met her with a cup of coffee after a bad night at work, the way he always seemed to know which nights had been especially rough.
Her life remained suspended in the months after he left. After she’d thrown him out. After she’d bought this house and moved in, but never really lived here.
Outside, the bedroom light cast shadows across the overgrown yard. Occasionally, they seemed to move like people, but Jamie had long since gotten used to the strange, ghostly figures. Inside was no better. The house’s windows were bare of blinds or curtains. Except for the old, striped couch she and Tim had picked out at IKEA early in their marriage and a TV without cable, the living room stood empty. The kitchen housed a small, worn oak table that Jamie had picked up at a garage sale. On one end was an older model Gateway desktop and at the other, a stack of unopened mail. The only thing on the three-person breakfast bar was a single, tattered place mat where she ate. Mismatched dishes, glasses, and some silverware occupied some small percentage of the kitchen’s cabinets and drawers, along with a few pots and pans.
Most of her clothes were unpacked into the bedroom closet and a single dresser, but full boxes of things from her life with Tim littered each room. Boxes that had done nothing over eighteen months but house moths and gather dust. Filled with things she couldn’t remember now and didn’t want to.
Jamie plumped the pillows, tucked her feet under the covers, and lay down. Stared at the ceiling.
From the floor, Barney whined.
Without moving, she patted the bed. He jumped up and after spinning twice, settled down beside her. The dog tucked his head on her shoulder and she scratched it. He whined, sniffed her ear.
At least she had Barney.
Dumped at the site of the sixth of seven victims in a serial rapist case that took Jamie twenty months to crack, Barney had a broken leg and the worst case of fleas the vet had ever seen. One part German shepherd, some border collie, ninety-eight parts mutt. He was the size of a large hound with the same basic shape. With pointed ears, he was a muddy brown except for a few spots of caramel behind his ears and on his belly.
At that scene, Jamie had arrived still drunk from the night before, and hurting like hell.
The separation was only a few months old. She’d filed for divorce, bought the house, and moved her belongings, but there was no next step.
She’d done what she could to create a new life, but the momentum had stalled out. Her response was to drink more, smoke more, work more.
When the dog showed up, sniffing around that scene, walking on three legs, she saw herself in him. A mutt. Dirty, broken. Pathetic. A couple of patrol officers made fun of him. Jamie bit off their heads and brought him home.
For eight days, she bathed the dog three times a day with a special prescription dog shampoo. Only on the last day did she settle on calling him Barney, because of his incessant whining at every bath time. The sound changed pitch in short spurts, reminding her of the Barney Miller theme song.
So, Barney it was.
It required four months of carefully wrapping his right front leg with plastic before the leg healed and he still walked a little funny when it rained. Three thousand in vet bills.
It was worth it.
She couldn’t imagine life without Barney. Sometimes she’d wake with his head resting on her arm, the sound of his breath like the rumbling of a far-off train. Sort of like Tim, but nicer, better smelling, and certainly more loyal.
Barney’s breath shifted into sleep. Jamie, too, felt herself relax into the sheets. Maybe she would sleep tonight. She exhaled into the mattress, drifted.
The doorbell rang.
She jolted from sleep.
Barney lifted his head.
“Forget it,” she said.
The bell chimed again, and he let out a whine.
Another bell.
“Damn it.” Jamie yanked off the covers and got out of the bed. Grabbed her gun from its holster hanging on the back of the door. Stomped down the stairs. “What?” she shouted through the door.
“Jamie? Is that you?”
Tim. She halted. Held her breath.
The sound of his flat palm slapping the door. “Jamie? It’s me. Please.”
What was he doing here? She shook her head. She didn’t care. Not her problem.
“Go away,” she hollered through the door. She pictured him. Warned herself to keep her distance, go back to bed.
“Jamie.” More slapping on the door. Then, pounding.
His desperation seeped around the wood.
She stepped away from the smell of it. Too late. Imagined his green eyes from kinder moments. Wondered how he was. She didn’t care. She shouldn’t care, but she did. She crept to the door. She saw his eyes, and her stomach sank. She pressed her head to the door, willing her silence to send him away.
The first time she’d met Tim had been at a Bay Area police event. She was twenty-four, only two years out of the academy, and still a rookie. He was doing contracting computer work for the department and was making small talk with a group of officers, drinking Budweiser from the can. She’d been standing alone, as she almost always did at those functions, until someone came and ushered her back into the group.
She’d watched as he ran his finger under his collar, then adjusted the waist of his pants like he’d never worn a suit before. She’d felt the same in a skirt suit and hose. He’d made his way over to her and asked straight out, “Are you laughing at me?”
She hadn’t realized until he was beside her how attractive he was. Greenish-gray eyes half cloaked under a mane of thick, dark hair. He was trim, average height—maybe five-ten.
Now, standing on the front porch, he had a bluish-black ring under one eye like he’d been in a bar fight.
Why had she looked?
“Jamie, please let me in.” No slapping or pounding now. Just begging.
She started to turn away from the door and stopped. Chest tight. “You’re an idiot.” He screwed around. With your friend. But as she said it, her fingers gripped the knob and turned.
She opened the door and stared at Tim’s left eye, swollen and black. It looked worse close up. “What happened?”
He stepped into the light and she caught sight of dark blood on his white shirt. She guessed by the quantity that the blood was from a broken nose, but his looked intact.
“Are you hurt?”
He didn’t answer.
“Was it a fight?”
His head lolled back.
She grabbed his shoulder, shook him. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I went to see her, to talk things over.”
Jamie let go. “Who?”
“I saw her car at the station, so I went up.”
“Jesus.”
Tim stared at the floor,
arms hung limply at his sides. “I would never have hurt her, Jamie. Never.”
Jamie’s stomach clenched. She tightened her grip on the gun. “Tim.”
He shook his head. “She wasn’t moving. I leaned down to touch her.” He glanced around the room and Jamie followed his gaze as he took in the boxes, the sad, empty house. He said nothing.
Her heart hammered in her chest.
“Then, someone hit me in the head.”
“She hit you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Tim, answer me. Are you hurt?”
He touched his head absently. “Someone hit me in the head. I fell forward and hit my eye.” He shook his head. “I don’t know on what.”
She fingered the spot on his scalp. She felt blood, but not enough to explain his shirt. “Whose blood is this?” She heard the panic in her tone.
“It’s hers.”
She clenched his wrist. Blood covered her hand. She cringed at the thick coolness of it. “Whose, Tim?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t do it.”
Oh God. She stepped backwards.
He followed.
She put a hand out. “Stay there, Tim.”
He moved toward her. “I know what it looks like, Jamie. I know how bad it looks. That’s why I came here. To you. I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.” He reached out for her, but she froze in place. “I went to see her, but I didn’t hurt her,” he said. “She was already dead.”
Already dead. Jamie stared at his face and hands, the blood on his shirt. What had he done?
“You have to help me, Jamie. You have to. I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t.” He wiped the back of his hand across his face. He left a smear of brownish, red blood on his cheek.
Heart racing, Jamie spoke slowly. “Who is dead, Tim? Tell me who is dead.”
He choked out the name. “Natasha.” He grabbed her hand and she pulled away. With nothing to hold onto, Tim collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
Jamie looked down at her darkened hands. Natasha’s blood was on her hands.
She gasped for air.
Natasha Devlin was dead.
Chapter 8
Hailey Wyatt stood at the perimeter of her children’s room and watched them sleep. Camilla was almost five, a head full of brown curls and the untamed personality to match. Ali was three, straight, dark hair, an even temper, and a smile as bright and quick as a bolt of lightning. Both had their mother’s brown eyes. Camilla lay sideways in her bed, facedown. Curls covered her face. Ali was on her back, arms straight beside her. So different. Hailey leaned into the doorjamb, gripping her coffee cup. God, she loved them. Felt her heart expand like a balloon when she watched them. Especially asleep. No bickering, no whining. Just her sweet beauties.
It was nearly seven-fifteen. She had woken at five o’clock. They’d be up soon. Thankfully for them, they had their father’s sleeping genes. Hailey turned and walked into her bedroom. She passed her husband, asleep in bed. A larger version of Ali. Calm, sweet, peaceful.
Hailey was the restless one.
In the bathroom, she swallowed the last of her coffee and set the cup on the white tile. She started the shower, glanced in the mirror. Let the robe slip off her shoulders and stepped into the steaming water.
She could never pick one.
No one would ever suggest it. She could love them both. Different, but equal.
Camilla for her cunning, Ali for her sensitivity.
Mothers weren’t supposed to admit a preference for one child over the other but, of course, they felt them. For her, it depended on the day. How much energy she had to expend, how much time she needed for herself.
Camilla was more helpful, better at doing what was required of her. Typical of the first child. Planning for a family dinner or working around the house, Camilla trailed her like a shadow, asking how she could help. She would sit and fold clothes or set the table, wash lettuce for a salad, any little task Hailey asked.
As long as she could sit beside her mother and talk. But she expected the attention in return.
Demanded it.
On days when Hailey wanted the world to float along peacefully, unruffled like a feather falling in gentle wind, Ali was easier.
Frustratingly carefree at times when there were tasks to be done, Ali never demanded.
Hailey let the water run down her back. Hoped the steam would clear her head. Shampooed, soaped. No one ever said you could love only one child. From time to time, one might be easier than the other. So why did they say you could love only one man?
Because Hailey Wyatt loved two.
One felt like a freer love—without the complications of family and a household. A selfish love. Then, there was the deep connection of family and history, the profound love a woman had for the father of her children.
Just then, the shower door clicked open. John stepped in, naked. He wrapped his arms around her waist. Kissed her neck. Groaned. He’d come in late the night before—out fundraising for his father’s senatorial campaign after work.
“You’re up,” she said.
“Not by choice. Your phone rang.”
“Sorry.”
He tucked his face into her neck, held her from behind.
“The dinner go okay last night?”
He groaned again. Sounded like a yes.
“You answer my phone?” she asked.
“Uh-uh.”
She turned around, kissed his cheek. “I’d better go find out what’s up.”
He pulled her close, held her, ran his palms across her breasts. Coddled them. “How about a sick day?”
She relaxed against him. The water sprayed over their shoulders. “Rain check?”
“It’s not raining.”
She kissed his lips, softly. “How about an early night tonight?”
He pressed back. “Deal.”
She stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and put her robe back on. Her phone was on the bedside stand. It started to ring again before she reached it.
“Wyatt.”
Captain Marshall’s voice was as groggy as John’s had been. “Homicide at 850 Bryant.” The award ceremonies had run long last night. She’d left long before they were over and when she left, Marshall had been holding a drink in his hand. Collar loosened, eyes a little narrow, the drink was brown liquor—Dewar’s if she had to guess—on ice. It hadn’t been his first, and she was guessing from his voice that it wasn’t his last either.
“Homicide at the station?” she repeated. “Did dispatch call you?”
He didn’t answer her question. “They need you ASAP. Crime guys are already there.”
She glanced at the clock. “It’ll take an hour.”
At least the Crime Scene Unit would secure the scene.
“As soon as you can.”
The line broke and Hailey frowned. Homicide worked in rotation. If her name was next, she got the next call, whatever it was. Normally, though, the call came from dispatch, not her captain. A homicide at the department. If it was an officer, he would have told her… wouldn’t he?
She dressed quickly and when John emerged from the shower, she was nearly ready to go.
“You got one?”
She nodded.
He didn’t speak.
John had been so smart, so sexy when they were younger—so focused on bettering the world. They had made promises to one another—agreed not to let their lives be dictated by material things the way his parents’ were, or to ever work at any job that they didn’t believe in, as her mother always had.
Now, her husband was his father’s campaign manager—his father whose campaign was based on beliefs that she and John had once rejected together.
Suddenly, he didn’t understand why she loved her job. She had joined the police department when he went to work for the DA’s office. He wasn’t sure where he would go from there, but she had never wanted to do anything else.
He’d known that when they dated. When they married. When
they decided to have kids. It was reasonable that the job didn’t make sense to him. Sometimes it didn’t make sense to her.
Doing it felt right.
He had stopped respecting that she loved it. He had started to shift his sights on politics—planned to leave the DA’s office to run for state legislator in the next election.
He hinted at her ending her own career to support his. The hints were subtle, almost deniable.
Raised by a career politician, John was adept at making statements opaque—things he could later insist were innocent comments.
They both knew better.
And with every comment, Hailey felt the gap between them grow.
He crossed the room, stopped in front of her. He fingered a lock of hair, tucking it behind her ear. “Early night, right?”
“Promise. Have the girls call when they’re up.” She pocketed her phone and unlocked her holster and gun from the safe in their bedroom closet. She peeked in the girls’ room one last time and was in the car by 7:40.
Traffic coming in on Highway 80 was already bad, so she used her lights to warn cars aside. By the time she reached the bridge, she had a caravan on her tail, like racing cars trying to take advantage of the leader’s tail wind.
She wished her partner, Hal Harris, were back at work. It had been almost three weeks since the shoulder surgery to repair his torn rotator cuff—an injury he’d gotten playing in his over-thirty basketball league. How long would it take before he could shoot his gun and come back to work? She depended on his steadiness, his calm. They worked well together and she didn’t feel as competent without him. It was a feeling she hated.
Her phone rang again as she was crossing over Treasure Island.
“Wyatt.”
“Hey.” The voice she heard now had been up for hours.
“You already at the station?” she asked.
“Not much to do at my house. Alone.”
That was clearly a dig. She couldn’t be with him whenever he wanted. They couldn’t be a regular couple. “Buck—”
“I know.”
Bruce Daniels never said anything he didn’t mean. She switched lanes, passed a slow-moving Mercedes.
“When can I see you?” he asked.
The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set Page 5