Barney let out a moan on the bed, went back to sleep.
Her mind settled on her family—on Tony, Mick, on Pat Galen, and her father. And on their mothers. She couldn’t remember her own—the memory was always still, an image from a photograph. But Lana—she could remember Lana with her dark hair and light eyes. Jamie pictured her bright eyes, wide and open and smiling, her contagious laugh. When she let it loose, it was untamed and free, like she couldn’t control it. It used to make the kids happy to hear her.
In the end, the pain had stolen her laugh.
Even her eyes had lost their humor.
That Lana tried to mask it from all of them was her way, but it was there below the surface. In the last weeks of her life, she’d let the kids into her room for only a few minutes at a time. Then she’d ushered them out so she could rest. And as soon as their backs were turned, her face would grow rigid in agony. Sometimes, when Jamie would look back, she’d see it.
Mick had been a fireball like Lana. Always the first down the pole at the firehouse when the alarms sounded, he was a born leader. Jamie had never felt as close to Mick. She felt more comfortable with Tony, who was quieter—shy, like Pat.
Tony had said they’d had it hard growing up, but Jamie disagreed. They’d had two parents—three for the years with Lana. They were comfortable, safe.
But after high school, she had been ready to leave.
She’d come to California for college, and the boys—Tony, Mick, Pat and her father—had stayed in New York.
She heard the garage door open, felt relief. She walked down the stairs, Barney trailing slowly behind. She opened the door. “Can I help?”
Tony nodded. “Sure. Grab a bag.”
They unloaded the groceries into the kitchen and Jamie slowly pulled things out—cheese, lunch meats, chips, chicken breasts, ice cream. “You got a lot of stuff.”
“I thought we could use some food around here.”
She was relieved. Suicidal men didn’t buy food, did they?
“I found these too. Remember them?” He passed her a pack of baseball cards like the ones they had collected as kids.
“You used to sell me and Mick your cards and you’d hide the gum in your drawer with the money.”
“I don’t remember that,” Jamie said.
“You did. I was collecting Don Mattingly cards. Must’ve been eighty-four because he was the full-time first baseman by then.”
“The Hitman.”
“Yeah. I wanted his cards so badly, but I didn’t have any money. Dad wouldn’t give me any and Mick would buy the damn cards and keep them for himself.
“I was desperate for more cards and you gave me a bunch of money. It felt like a thousand dollars to me. You must’ve pulled ten dollars out of your sock drawer one day. And you gave it all to me.”
She smiled at the memory, tried to picture Tony’s excited face. She was sure it had been worth every cent. “I hope you still have those cards.”
“Ah, shit. Deborah probably has them now.”
The moment burst like a bubble at the mention of Deborah. Deborah, Tim, divorces, deaths, the reality came raining back down. Jamie turned to put the groceries away, wondered where Tony got the money to pay for them. It had been a long time since he’d worked. “You okay for cash?”
His eyes hit the ground. He turned his back, whispered, “Dad left us some money.”
And he had gotten Mick’s piece. He didn’t need to say it. Jamie watched his back, searching for the right thing to say. She walked to the kitchen sink, struggling. Damn it. “I’m glad you’re here, T.”
His wide eyes were glassy, the pain etched in them as familiar as her own hands. Every victim had that look.
She’d seen it in her own eyes. Seeing the hollow look always stung.
She blinked hard.
Come on, Tony. She glanced at the ceiling and back, felt her own eyes fill. She stepped out, sucked a deep breath.
“Shit,” she said finally.
Then, she crossed to him. She pulled a box of crackers from his hand, set it down. She wrapped her arms around his back, pulled him against her.
She heard the quick intake of his breath and felt his sobs as they let loose.
“Jamie,” he croaked, and she held tighter as if she could squeeze the pain right out of him.
“I’m here, Tony.”
“You’re it, Jamie. You’re all I’ve got.”
“I’m not going anywhere, T. You’ve got me.”
He gasped and sobbed harder, and she closed her eyes, the tears flushing down her cheeks. They stood there for a long time.
She thought about their families and about Tim, about Emily Osbourne and Hailey and Mackenzie, and about Natasha Devlin. About all that life had handed her and all she knew was yet to come—the never-ending cycle of hardships.
And the tiny grains of joy.
They were there too.
As she loosened her grip, she wiped the tears from her face and wondered what obstacle would come next—a new rape victim, another attack?
Surely, things never settled for long.
Then, she considered that maybe she’d had enough. Maybe this time would be different.
Maybe.
Chapter 27
Monday morning traffic was bumper to bumper on 101 heading south toward the bridge, which had seemed empty over the last few months. Everyone said that there were fewer people on the roads because of the high cost of tolls and gas. Well, if everyone was taking public transportation, there must have been some sort of mass shutdown that morning.
Jamie arrived at the station house late and already sweating underneath a navy, wool blazer.
As she rushed through the department door, Dorothy, the Sex Crimes secretary, snarled, “You’re late.”
Jamie bit her tongue and passed the woman without a comment. “Hag,” she whispered loud enough for a few others to hear as she knocked on the conference room door.
“Come in.”
She recognized her captain’s voice and opened the door. The small room was full, and it took a few seconds to absorb all the faces that surrounded the pitted, old table. To her left, at the head of the table, was Captain Jules. Next to him, Linda James, and then Mackenzie.
Jamie stopped on her. “You’re out. You okay?”
Mackenzie nodded without speaking. Her face looked worse today—the bruising deeper, the swelling worse. One eye was completely closed. At least she was there. She could think and walk. Speak. She would survive this.
Chip Washington sat beside Mackenzie, and beyond him was a man Jamie didn’t recognize. She finally made it around the table and found Hailey Wyatt on her left.
“Sit down, Vail,” Ben Jules said, pounding on the table in an unfamiliar gesture of impatience.
Jamie took the chair directly in front of her.
“You know everyone?”
The man at the other end of the table didn’t stand and didn’t offer a hand. “Captain David Marshall, Homicide.”
Jamie looked over at Hailey, who raised an eyebrow slightly.
As soon as she was seated, Captain Jules turned to Mackenzie. “Officer Wallace, in your statement, you said you were certain that Officer Scanlan wasn’t your attacker.”
Mackenzie nodded.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Positive.” Mackenzie’s shoulders back, her chin high, she was different than she had been the first time Jamie had seen her.
Cooler, more controlled.
Jamie sat forward. “It’s all related, somehow, Captain. Devlin, the rapes, Mackenzie’s attack.”
Jules nodded. She’d already told him her theory when they’d spoken yesterday. He looked up at Captain Marshall. “They want to work it as one case, share information. I don’t have a problem with that. Do you?”
“Wyatt’s got two high-profile homicide cases going,” Marshall said. “I can’t have her pulled off of them on any tangents related to rape or any other crime. I need some arrests made on
these murders.”
Jules started to speak, but Linda interjected. “Officer Wallace would like to help. She’s sharp and will be good for legwork and that sort of thing—phone calls, follow-ups. Plus, she won’t be doing her beat for a while—not until we catch this guy.”
“In light of what happened, that seems like a bad idea,” Marshall said.
“Chief Jackson agrees they should work it together,” Jules added.
Jamie watched Jules, wondered if he was lying. It seemed odd that he would have talked to the chief of police on Natasha’s murder, especially since it was Marshall’s case, not his, that was so high profile. Maybe it had to do with Scanlan.
Marshall didn’t test him. Instead, he looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Fine. Get to it, ladies. But don’t let this conspiracy theory trip you up. You’ve discovered some coincidences, but nothing to prove it’s anything more. Not yet, anyway.”
Captain Jules began to address Marshall on a few logistics.
Mackenzie turned to Jamie. “Where do we start?”
“I’m going to drag Marchek in, see if you can ID him in a lineup.”
Mackenzie nodded, and Jamie could see her throat tighten with anxiety.
Jamie kept her voice low. “If we trust the message we got, I guess the best place to start the murder investigation is with the men Natasha was involved with inside the department.”
“If this guy’s a cop and he killed Natasha, that seems like as good a place as any,” Linda said.
“That’s going to be a long list,” Jamie said. To Hailey, she whispered, “Maybe there will be a stutterer on it.”
Hailey nodded, eyes narrowed.
Jamie watched her. “You have an idea.”
“I think maybe I know who to ask first.”
From the corner of her eye, Jamie saw Linda and Mackenzie exchange a questioning glance.
But when Hailey’s gaze met hers, Jamie knew exactly whom she meant. If Bruce Daniels was having an affair with Hailey, why not one with Natasha, too?
Hell, everyone else had.
“People. People,” Marshall called, returning the focus to the meeting at hand. “Is Daniels coming in with Officer Scanlan or are we done? I’ve got a briefing in twenty minutes.”
Jules glanced at Jamie.
“I’m ready,” she said.
Chip Washington opened the door and waved them in. Scanlan came in behind Daniels. He took the seat beside Jamie.
Jules spoke first. “Okay, we’re all here to talk about the incident on Geary on Friday night. Officer Scanlan has agreed not to press charges against his fellow officers. So, we can avoid an investigation on that.”
Jamie sent a glare at Scanlan and turned to Captain Jules. “That’s a load of crap.”
Jules raised a hand. “Let me finish.”
Jamie crossed her arms and tilted her chair back.
Scanlan put his foot under the leg of the chair and pushed her back.
She lost her balance and the chair toppled backwards. Hailey grabbed hold of the chair in an attempt to stop her from falling on the floor. The chair hit the wall, preventing Jamie from landing on her ass. She rocked it back onto all four legs and was out of the seat in two seconds. She bent over Scanlan, seething. “Listen, asshole. You touch me again and I’ll shoot your fat ass.”
Jules was up too. He took her arm and pulled her back.
Hailey stood beside her. “He knocked her back, Captain. He was out of line, not her.”
“Enough,” Bruce Daniels said. “If we can’t act like adults, then we’ll have to put someone else on this case.”
“Fine by me,” Jamie said. “You want to take it?”
Daniels’s face reddened.
Captain Jules led Jamie to the other end of the room, away from Scanlan, and motioned for her to sit in his chair. “He’s got something to help, Jamie,” he said, motioning to Scanlan. “Let him get it out and we can get rid of him.”
Jamie waited.
Jules wiped his brow and turned back. “Officer Scanlan, watch yourself. Your father doesn’t run Sex Crimes. I do. You understand me?”
Scanlan dropped his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Daniels. Let’s hear what your boy has to say. Then, I want all of you out of here.”
Daniels didn’t look happy, but he nodded at Scanlan, who leaned forward in his chair, rested his elbows on his knees. Jamie glanced around the room, settling on Mackenzie. Jamie saw a smirk behind the very swollen lips.
“I drove Natasha—uh, Inspector Devlin—back from the awards banquet that night.”
“And you had sex with her?” Jamie interrupted.
Daniels glared at her.
Scanlan shook his head. “No.” He kept his head down.
Jamie felt a shift in the room. Jules looked perplexed. Daniels was distinctly uncomfortable. Marshall looked awkward and annoyed, and Washington didn’t meet her gaze.
No one spoke.
What the hell was going on?
“Someone had sex with her in that office before she was killed,” Jamie said. “And you brought her here.”
“I didn’t have sex with her.”
Jamie watched Scanlan. His face was ruddy, sweat beading on his lip. He was like a school kid in the principal’s office.
Jamie stared at Bruce Daniels. He picked at invisible lint on his pant leg. Avoiding eye contact, fidgeting. They were lying—both of them. What were they hiding? Jamie opened her notebook to the pages where she’d noted Roger’s findings. She skimmed the words. Natasha had two samples of semen inside her—one six or so hours old, one within a half hour of her death. The most recent sample contained no sperm.
According to Roger, there was no way to determine why the second sample was aspermatic. It could have been a genetic anomaly or the man had undergone a vasectomy. Pure odds favored the vasectomy. Scanlan was young. He’d never had children. Why would he have a vasectomy?
Unless it wasn’t him.
“Did you bring Natasha Devlin back to meet someone else?”
Scanlan’s eyes widened.
Daniels spoke up. “I think it’s enough that Officer Scanlan has told us that he wasn’t with Devlin that night.”
“It’s not enough, Officer Daniels,” Jamie retorted. “Because whoever was with Natasha that night is a key suspect in her murder.”
“I have to agree with Inspector Vail,” Jules piped in, staring at Daniels.
Daniels looked at Scanlan, who seemed to plead with his eyes.
And suddenly it made sense. Scanlan’s discomfort, the other men’s awkwardness, the vasectomy. “It was your father, wasn’t it? He was the last person to have sex with Natasha?”
Scanlan dropped his head into his hands.
Daniels sank back into his chair, let his head fall back.
“Jesus Christ,” Washington whispered.
Someone else uttered a curse under his breath.
The room silenced.
Jamie glanced at Hailey. She shook her head.
Deputy Chief Scanlan was the last person to have sex with the murdered inspector.
Their case had just gotten a hell of a lot more complicated.
Chapter 28
Tony waited a half hour after Jamie left. He stared at the clock, not allowing himself to go near the garage, not until thirty minutes had passed. The last five minutes were the longest. Then, it was finally over. It wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning.
He didn’t care.
He half ran to the garage and pulled out the fifth of Jim Beam he’d hidden under an unopened bag of potting soil. He stared at the bottle, shook his head. Goddamn it. He couldn’t help himself. He twisted the black cap in his fist, felt it pop off in his hand.
He closed his eyes, searching for the strength to resist. In the end, desire won out. He tipped the bottle to his lips, savored the harshness of the whiskey, the way his throat automatically closed on the liquor. He coughed, cupped his hand over his lips to catch the dribble on his chin
. Then he licked it off his fingers like a kid with a melting ice cream cone.
The burn in his throat was the best part—that and the numbness. He needed the numbness today. He hadn’t expected to find liquor in a grocery store. In New York, you couldn’t buy it there. But in California, it was right alongside the wines and beers, just an aisle away from the chips and crackers.
He’d spent the weekend sneaking drinks and imagining how nice it would be once Jamie was gone. Just enough to survive the day. Maybe she knew, but she didn’t let on. They were still so good at avoiding the tough subjects and there were so many of them. Or, maybe she wanted to believe he could quit on his own.
He couldn’t.
They both knew he couldn’t.
He walked back into the house, cradling the bottle like a child. He sank onto the couch, rested his eyes. The bee buzzed in his brain. Thank God for the bottle. He glanced around at Jamie’s house, at the unpacked boxes, the uncovered windows.
She was as messed up as he was—maybe more so, because she wouldn’t admit how bad off she was.
He was relieved that she was gone today. The constant weight of her stares had grown too heavy. Deborah had become the same way, especially at the end. It felt as though she was waiting for him to fuck up—to go get drunk, to lose the latest job, to come home a failure again. And it was that stare that ultimately led him to do that—all in one fucking day.
It was his day off, no less.
“You need to mow the yard, Tony, and get the leaves out to the curb,” she’d nagged. “They’re picking them up on Monday and if we miss the pickup, we have to haul them someplace. And it’s supposed to rain tomorrow, so you have to look at the seal on that window. I have to go to work. I need you to take care of these things.”
It was like a recording on replay, and the words bounced off his skull until it was too much.
Then, she’d left and he mowed the damn lawn and raked the leaves and got silicone to seal the window and while he was out, he bought a twenty-four pack of Bud.
He did everything she had asked him and he wanted to relax.
He must have had six or eight beers in him when he got the call about the factory fire. It was a two-alarm call. Shouldn’t have been a big deal, except that there were two other big blazes that day, all within a couple square miles. They were calling in volunteers.
The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set Page 19