The two women walked toward the restaurant without speaking, as though offering a brief silence for those who wouldn’t survive and for the survivors who would never be the same. She knew why Jamie didn’t say, “She’s okay” about Emily Osbourne. She wasn’t.
Chances were, even when the physical wounds were long healed, the emotional ones would remain. Emily Osbourne would likely think about the attack—her terror, the pain, the humiliation—most days. For the rest of her life. Their job was to help the victims survive the physical wounds long enough to get a chance to try to heal the emotional ones. There were casualties in that process like anywhere else.
“You’ll get him,” Hailey assured her, breaking the silence as they reached the door of Tommy’s.
“He’ll make a mistake eventually,” Jamie said. “They always do.” The words sounded like something of a pep talk and Hailey felt certain Jamie aimed it at herself. The belief that the system worked—that the perpetrators would be punished for their crimes—was the only thing that kept them in this job.
Otherwise, the fight wasn’t nearly worth the tremendous effort. The low pay, the long hours, and the constant evidence of human cruelty that were their daily existence.
After seeing the photograph of Natasha at Marchek’s house, though, Hailey wondered if there would be a higher toll before Marchek was stopped. She tried to set the thought aside as she walked through the doors of Tommy’s. The restaurant was already packed as they weaved through the throng of Friday-night bar goers.
Hailey reached the back table where five women were already seated. It was a table of powerful women. Most were nearly forty, a few older. They’d been on the force long enough to be jaded, but they were still there, braving the fight. Around the table, Hailey saw the marks of battle in their lined faces. Cameron Cruz had a greenish bruise on one side of her neck that Hailey suspected was from one of the massive rifles she wielded in her job as a sharpshooter.
She was in the middle of a story. Arms raised, head tilted as though she were aiming a rifle, Cameron was animated. Whatever had happened, Hailey guessed it had ended well. Across the table, Shelby Tate and Linda James were attentive as Cameron recounted some small victory.
Sydney Blanchard sat next to Jess Campbell from INS, Immigration and Naturalization Service. Jess was heavier than the last time Hailey had seen her. Her eyes were bloodshot. She clasped an empty beer glass in two hands. Hailey didn’t think she and Natasha were particularly close.
Maybe the red eyes had nothing to do with Natasha’s death. There was plenty upsetting in their jobs.
“Margarita,” Hailey said when the waitress came by. “Rocks, salt.” She slid into the chair next to Linda James.
Jess ordered another draft, sliding her empty pint glass toward the waitress.
Sydney pushed an empty glass toward Hailey, pointing to the half-full pitcher of margaritas on the table.
Over the years, Hailey had seen the Rookie Club change and grow, shrink, and almost fall apart. A few times there were only three or four of them. It had been six months or so since she’d seen Jess Campbell, and Jess looked worse for the wear. Her shuttered gaze also suggested she might be on more than her second beer. They would make sure she got a ride home.
Hailey caught Linda’s eye, nodded toward Jess.
Linda leaned in. “Man trouble,” she whispered. “I’ll get her home.”
“Thanks.” It wouldn’t be the first time someone had overindulged at a dinner. Hailey would check in, too—let Jess know that she was there, if Jess wanted to talk. That was all they could do, be there for one another.
It was usually enough.
Jamie appeared with a glass of soda. She raised her hand and said hello then took a seat to Hailey’s left. Settled at the table, she looked back over her shoulder, brow furrowed.
Hailey leaned in. “Everything okay?”
Jamie glanced at her, then back into the crowd. “I thought I saw someone.”
Hailey narrowed her gaze. “Who?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Jamie said, but something in her expression read like fear.
When the waitress delivered new drinks, Jamie was the first to raise her glass. “To Natasha Devlin.”
All eyes were on her.
“She didn’t deserve that kind of an ending.”
Glasses raised, clinked.
“First one down,” Jess said.
Christ. A dead cop. The first of their group to die. She hadn’t thought of that. Cops died. Regularly. Not just on the job but from what Hailey always considered were side effects of it. Heart attack, driving, accidents, suicide…
A crowd in the far corner roared, their laughs like the erupting of distant applause. The women officers remained silent.
Finally, Jess spoke up. “I always thought if we lost one, it would be in uniform, you know.” She shook her head, took a big swallow of beer.
Hailey searched for a way to break the silence, to give Natasha the kind of send-off she would have appreciated. Or at least to ease the tension.
“Did you guys hear about the case where Natasha went undercover?” Cameron interjected.
“As a prostitute, right?” Linda James asked.
Cameron nodded. “Man, she had ten cops drooling all over her. And the perp didn’t even put up a fight. He would’ve followed her all the way up to Folsom and right into a cell.”
They laughed.
“She actually got a date that night, right?”
“No way. With a john?”
“No, another cop,” Cameron said.
“Right,” Linda interjected. “It was—”
“Carl Lowell,” Jess chimed in.
Linda shook her head. “Right. God, he was in love with her. Used to show up at roll call with a different-colored rose each day.”
Jess nodded. “Guys in his unit called him ‘Lovewell.’”
“That lasted—what—a week?”
“Three days, I think,” Cameron said. “Then she was on to Charlie Parker.”
“She collected phone numbers like lint,” Linda added.
“She loved the attention,” Cameron agreed. “She never settled down.”
Linda shook her head. “Ten years and I swear she had a new guy every time I saw her. She broke more hearts than Elvis.”
“Good thing it’s a big department,” Cameron added. “I wonder why she never settled down. Seems like she could have picked her man.”
Jamie was looking over her shoulder again. Hailey cast a glance into the crowd. No one stood out. Sometimes when she stood in a crowd like this one, Hailey wondered how many of the people around her were criminals? How many had gotten away with it?
Men bellied up to the bar, displaying tatted skin or stupid golf shirts. Most had a girl—usually younger—at their side. How many men in that room had raped a girl? More than two, she’d bet. Killed? One, maybe. Impossible to say. It would certainly make the job easier if they were branded like cattle.
Hailey considered her own mother, those relationships that lasted only a week, sometimes just one night. How had that been enough for her mother? She had wanted things to be easy, not to be tied down.
But how easy was it to live alone with a child? That couldn’t have been easy either.
She sipped her margarita, let the salt burn her lips.
God, life was complicated.
“Did you have to do the next of kin notification?” Linda asked.
“I met her parents,” Hailey said. “And a brother.” She thought of Camilla and Ali, prayed she never had to hear that news. That they never had to hear it.
“Man, I hope it was a stranger killing,” Jess said.
“It wasn’t,” Jamie interjected.
Hailey watched her, waited for her to explain.
Jamie ran her finger through the perspiration on her glass. “This person had unforced sex with her before she was killed. Not a stranger crime.”
“I agree,” Hailey said. “It was someone she k
new.”
“Shit,” Jess said.
“You think it was an officer?” Linda asked.
“It doesn’t seem smart to have sex with a woman and then kill her, and the timing suggests that’s how it went down,” Hailey said.
“You’d think a cop would be smarter,” Jess added.
“Unless it was a crime of passion,” Cameron suggested.
Hailey nodded. “And from what we know, he used something from the scene to kill her, so that would fit the crime of passion theory.”
“Right,” Jess said, “He gets angry, picks something up, and smashes in her head.”
The table went quiet at the image.
“From experience, I’d say it’s much easier to pull a gun and start shooting,” Jamie said to break the tension.
The women laughed.
Cameron turned to Hailey. “You caught it, though, eh?”
“Lucky me.”
Jess shuddered. “Damn, I hope you close it soon. Murdering a cop takes a shitload of balls.”
The waitress came by and they ordered, exchanged stories. Jess ordered another beer. Hailey poured herself another half glass of margarita from a new pitcher. Dinner was arriving when Jamie jumped up from the table, her metal chair scraping across the floor. “Holy crap.”
Hailey turned to see her staring out the window, her expression frozen.
“What?”
Jamie pointed out into the rain.
Hailey followed her gaze, looked back. It wouldn’t be the first time dinner had been interrupted by a crime in progress.
Soon, the whole table turned.
“It’s Stephanie,” Linda James said.
“And Scott Scanlan,” someone added.
A dark car was parked on the curb, the door open. Stephanie had one foot out. Scanlan could barely be seen in the shadow of the car.
“Right,” Hailey said. “They’ve been dating a couple months. What about it?”
Hailey saw his face appear as he leaned over to kiss Stephanie. As she moved, Hailey caught sight of something dangling between them.
Jamie bolted for the door, darting between tables. “Don’t you see it?” she shouted back.
“See what?” Linda asked.
Adrenaline streamed in Hailey’s belly. She jumped up to follow, the others behind her.
She reached the door, saw Scott Scanlan step out of the far side of the car. He came around and opened the door for Stephanie.
Stephanie stepped out.
Hailey caught up. “Can you see it?” Jamie asked.
“See what?” Hailey replied, flustered.
“Scanlan,” Jamie shouted. “Step to the curb.”
Scanlan didn’t hear, or didn’t bother to look up.
Jamie called to him again.
A group of people had spilled from the restaurant to watch.
Stephanie stepped forward, tried to interject, but Hailey cut her off with a sharp stare. “Stay out of this.”
Stephanie retreated, but the crowd continued to surge like a swelling storm. This was getting out of hand.
Scanlan turned toward them.
He stared at Jamie, his face set in the grimace of a scared teenager.
“Step away from the car,” Jamie repeated.
“What is this about?” he demanded.
“Please,” she said. “I need to confirm something. It will only take a second. I won’t touch the car.”
“Who are you?” Scanlan shouted at her, starting to come toward her like a charging bull.
Jamie didn’t seem to care. She flashed her badge. “Inspector Jamie Vail.”
He stopped moving and planted himself in front of his car. “What do you want?”
“I need you to please step away from the car,” Jamie repeated.
He didn’t move, scanned the group of women watching him. Color rose in his cheeks and his eyes narrowed in anger. “What are you guys? Fucking Charlie’s Angels?”
Hailey stayed quiet, no idea what was transpiring. “Jamie? What is it?”
“Yeah, we’re Charlie’s Angels,” Jamie quipped. “Now, please step aside, before I pull out my gun and shoot you.”
Scanlan looked momentarily stunned as he stepped away from the car. At least no one had drawn a gun yet. Scanlan was in trouble over the burrito thing, but this wasn’t going to shine well on them, either. In general, it was best not to embarrass a cop in public and this was getting to be pretty damn public.
“Hailey, look at it.”
Confused, Hailey studied the dark car. She felt the jolt in her gut. “It’s—”
“Look at the crystal hanging from the rearview mirror,” Jamie said.
Hailey pictured Marchek’s photograph in her mind—imagined the tiny rainbows. The car that Natasha Devlin had been sitting in when Marchek took that picture.
The car where she sat, holding her trophy, after the awards banquet…
That car belonged to Scott Scanlan, the deputy chief of police’s son.
“Damn,” whispered Hailey.
Chapter 18
Emily Osbourne sat awkwardly in the car as her boyfriend drove toward the city. She’d spent the past three days with her parents in New Haven, and Paul had picked her up at the airport in her car. He always drove no matter whose car it was. She didn’t know why that fact suddenly seemed weird to her.
Maybe because it was the first time she’d been in her car since it happened. Or perhaps it was because she’d met Paul on the curb in front of baggage claim. He had pulled up in her car. He’d been waiting in the cell phone lot rather than coming in to baggage claim. When she came home from two weeks back east in June, Paul met her at baggage claim. With flowers.
Maybe it had nothing at all to do with whose car it was and everything to do with the fact that he’d said almost nothing so far. When she got into the car, it smelled like lavender, and it had almost made her sick. She’d stopped him from driving away so she could remove the small sachet she’d gotten from their trip to the Ritz from the glove compartment and throw it in the trash before they’d left the airport. The smell haunted her, seemed to ruin the memory of their night away.
Now she remembered the hospital room, the interview. Jamie Vail wore lavender perfume. Paul watched the whole thing with the lavender in silence. He didn’t want to know why she didn’t like the lavender smell. He didn’t want to know because he knew what it was about. It related to her—She stopped, couldn’t think it.
She ran a finger across the stitches above her eye. While there were fading bruises under her clothes, the stitches and her black eye were the only visible signs of what had happened. Paul turned left onto Greenwich from Franklin and found a parking space a block from her house. He parked, pulled the keys from the ignition, and handed them to her.
“How are you going to get back to work?” she asked.
He palmed his cell phone. “I’ll grab an Uber. I’ve got my car parked downtown.”
She fiddled with her silver heart keychain.
When they reached her apartment, he lifted the suitcase up the stairs.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside, Paul behind her. She gathered her mail and Paul followed her down the short hallway.
She had barely gotten the door to the apartment open when he set her bag down and stepped away. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Got to get back,” he said casually.
“We’ve barely talked since it happened.”
With the word “it,” Paul inspected his shoes carefully.
“Are we ever going to talk about it?” she asked.
His gaze remained on his shoes. “About what?”
“About what happened.” She saw some of the old Paul in his expression. Her Paul. Hurt, honest. “Please say something.”
“You—” He stopped himself. “I don’t know.” He looked away. “I don’t know if I can handle it.”
What did he mean? Whether he could handle it. After what sh
e’d gone through… Her hands trembled with anger. “You. Don’t. Know. You don’t know if you can handle what?” Her voice echoed in the small space of the entryway.
Paul didn’t answer, but he wasn’t getting off that easy. Furious, she stepped forward again, forcing him to step back into the hallway. “Handle what, Paul?” she repeated, seeing the spark of fear in his eyes—or maybe it was shame.
He shook his head.
“If you can handle what happened to me?” She poked her chest with her index finger, her heart pounding as she waited for his response.
“I don’t know how to act around you now,” he said. “I don’t know if you’re going to fall apart on me or—” He made a vague gesture at her body. “If—you know.”
“No. I don’t know. I might cry, Paul. I might have a nightmare. I was raped, for God’s sake.”
Openly cringing, he scanned the stairs above them, then glanced over his shoulder to the street.
“Did someone hear me? Are you worried what your friends will think?”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and moved it around in his palm nervously. “I—”
“That’s it, isn’t it? It’s not me. It’s you. You don’t want to be with me now. Is that it?”
He turned his phone over in his hand. Glancing at the screen, he started to read something.
She reached over and snatched the phone from his hand.
He frowned. “Give it to me.”
“Answer the question,” she said slowly.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you want to be with me?”
Paul stared at his feet.
“Say it.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Say it,” she repeated.
“I don’t know if I want to be with you.”
“Because I was raped.”
“Maybe. Maybe because of other stuff.”
“Bullshit,” she shouted. “We were at the fucking Ritz three weeks ago and you were talking about marriage. Now you’re not sure you want to be with me? Because someone attacked me? What—you think it was my fault?”
He didn’t answer. He kept his hand extended for the phone.
“Fuck you, Paul. Fuck. You.”
“Can I have my phone?”
“Sure. Here’s your damn phone.” She turned and pitched it as far as she could. She heard it land—the crunch of breaking glass, the skidding of pieces as it shattered against the wall of mailboxes.
The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set Page 14