Tony wanted to go. The job was the best thing about his life.
Mick had caught him coming into the firehouse, tried to send him home. He knew Tony had been drinking. It was chaos, and Tony had pushed by him, geared up, and jumped on the truck.
At that point, Mick’s only recourse was to report Tony to the captain. They both knew he wouldn’t.
But fire and alcohol don’t mix.
The heat of the fire, the weight of the gear—Tony had known as soon as he was inside the factory that he was in trouble. The fire was hot enough that the metal rafters were starting to bend, putting him at risk for being trapped.
By then, it was too late.
He’d gone in too far, couldn’t remember which door led back out.
The last thing he remembered was a wrenching sensation in his back and neck.
Tony had woken in the ICU. They told him later that a door cracked in the fire. Oxygen from the room fueled the fire, creating a back draft.
It was Deborah who told him that Mick had gone back in after him.
Mick never came back out.
*
When Tony woke, he was staring up at the ceiling in Jamie’s living room. He felt like he was sucking on cotton. He sat up, blinked hard, and stood. The room turned on its side and he grabbed the couch for support. He looked down at the bottle, two-thirds gone, and gave his head a light shake. It pounded. He staggered to the kitchen and turned the faucet on, letting the water run over his hands. He splashed his face, then drank thirstily, using his hand as a cup. The clock on the stove said 7:50. It was dark outside. He hadn’t eaten all day.
He shut the water off, leaned against the cool tile of the countertop. When he opened his eyes, he stared out the window. Clouds filled the gray sky, the sight of it almost soothing. He blinked hard and wondered if Jamie had any Aspirin in the place. He opened a cupboard, then another one, before turning toward the bathroom. Jamie would be home soon. He was surprised she wasn’t already.
He had to get his shit together.
He passed through the back hall when he heard a scream. He stopped, stunned, and listened. The wind whined against the window. He heard something slap the side of the house like a gate slamming closed.
He opened the back door. Behind him, Barney’s claws ticked against the wood stairs. Tony heard only the wind.
He started to close the door when Barney barked. He glanced at the dog, stepping outside. The wind cooled his face. He heard a sound from the far side of the house—a human cry. He turned back to the house for a split second, searching for something to use as a weapon.
He found a broom handle on the ground outside the back door. He lifted it, held it over his shoulder like a baseball bat, and crept silently into the dark. His eyes slowly adjusted as shapes took form against the blanket of gray sky. He saw a lone tree, the fence.
Had he imagined the noise?
Barney barked again. He halted, breathed. His head pounded. The numbness had evaporated into a dull fuzz. The pain was back. At least the cold wind eased his aching skull.
He reached the corner of the house, peered down the side. A garbage can, a water spigot. Below it, a puddle of water had formed. He studied the spigot, saw no leak. Someone had been running water.
Just then, Barney barked again. He turned back, heard a branch snap beside him.
A shadow dove at him.
He swung the broom handle, heard it crack on flesh as the man landed on him. Tony fell backwards, smacked his head on hard pavement. The shadow slammed him into the ground, grabbed for the broomstick. Tony gripped it harder.
The man wore a black ski mask, had dark eyes.
The two struggled. Tony shoved the stick upwards, trying to knock his attacker off-balance.
“Marchek,” he said, remembering the name Jamie had used.
The dark eyes narrowed, the pressure increased.
Tony wedged a foot up, kicked, and hoisted the bar over his head. The man flipped over his head. Tony jumped up, spun, the broomstick in his fists.
The dark form dropped down, barreled into his stomach. Tony crashed into the house, fell to the ground. Before he could react, the man bolted. Tony pulled himself up and sprinted after him.
The man escaped down the driveway. His legs long and lean, he moved fast. Tony dropped the broomstick, drove faster to try to catch up. His head thundered as he reached the street. A hundred yards down the road, brake lights flared red in the dark. An engine roared. Tony sprinted toward it. No rear plate. Reverse lights blinded him. The engine revved, tires squealed.
Tony dove into the bushes as the van charged backwards. The car hit the curb, skidded into the dirt. The driver shifted. Tires screeched again as the car roared away.
Tony paused, watched the car disappear. He gripped his head, cursed. He leaned over the bush, heart pounding, and vomited. Then, turning, he moved slowly back to the house.
The front door was locked. He rounded the side. He had to call Jamie. As he ducked around the garbage cans, he caught sight of a small, black tennis shoe.
He halted, saw the leg. A knee. Then the other foot.
A child.
Tony dropped to his knees, leaned into the bush. He found the boy’s face streaked with mud. He pressed on the small neck, felt the pulse strong under his fingers.
Cried out in relief.
The boy turned his head, pressed a hand to his ear, grimaced.
Tony lifted the boy from the bushes. Bits of leaf and dirt littered an overgrown Afro.
“Come on, buddy,” Tony said, gently pulling the boy into his arms.
The boy didn’t move. Tony’s heart roared in his chest.
The boy in his arms, Tony rushed inside. He laid the child on the living room rug and checked again for a pulse. Matted blood covered the boy’s shirt. Tony sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed scissors and the phone. Fingers trembling, he dialed 911, told them to send an ambulance. He couldn’t remember Jamie’s address.
He dropped the phone onto the floor. Lifting the scissors in shaky hands, he cut the boy’s shirt away from his chest. The blood was dry. There was no wound. He couldn’t find the wound.
He touched the boy’s face again.
“Talk to me.”
The eyes fluttered open. Once. Twice. Then shut again.
The boy’s arm twitched. His chest convulsed, and he rocked to one side, vomited on the carpet.
Tony shuddered, grabbed for the phone, and started to punch in Jamie’s cell phone number as he glanced up to the ceiling.
He couldn’t take another death.
Please don’t let anyone else die.
Chapter 29
Jamie couldn’t face Mackenzie after the lineup. Marchek had gotten away again. Jamie should have been supportive, reassuring, but instead, she’d muttered a few words and scuttled away like a roach under lights. So, she was a coward. Damn it. She had wanted Mackenzie to pick Marchek out of that line so badly, it hurt. Mackenzie had been so close. He’d spoken to her; he’d threatened her. How could he avoid being recognized?
But she knew how he’d done it, the slimy son of a bitch. He’d played all the right head games. In the lineup, he spoke like he was asking questions rather than making statements. He changed his tone. And the smartest thing he’d done was avoid being seen. Mackenzie had never seen him. He’d never let her see him. Dark hair was all she’d gotten.
Mackenzie was Jamie’s one shot at putting Marchek back behind bars immediately. That way, he would be off the streets, at least for a while. Jamie had known the chances were fifty-fifty at best, but she also knew he was the attacker. It killed her to let that bastard go.
Jamie hadn’t wanted Mackenzie to see how disappointed she was. She didn’t want to show her despair, knew she couldn’t hide it, so she’d told Mackenzie to get some rest, take care of herself. Then she’d left.
It wasn’t Mackenzie’s fault. The rookie had done her best. That was all Jamie had asked. For that and a little bit of luck, but there was no luck
in her draw. It had been a long time since luck was a friend of Jamie’s.
In the end, she couldn’t face Mackenzie. Instead, she’d asked a patrol officer to take the rookie home and Jamie headed out of the building. There was work to be done, but she couldn’t go back to the office now. She was too steamed to focus, too damn furious. Without any evidence, she could find no avenue to pursue Marchek.
Nothing infuriated her more than knowing who to arrest without having a way to arrest him.
She pulled out one cigarette after another with the rare sensation that she’d earned them, and smoked with a fervor as she walked the long block around the Hall of Justice. The weather was warm, or maybe it was the anger that made her hot enough to leave her jacket unzipped. As she moved, air caught in the wind shell and sent pockets of cool air down her arms.
She half expected to see Marchek emerge on the street in front of her, taunting her with his freedom, but he’d probably crawled back into a hole until the next victim caught his attention.
After more than an hour of walking, Jamie rounded the Hall and stared up at the words inscribed in gold in the marble facade: To the faithful and impartial enforcement of the laws with equal and exact justice to all.
Faithful, she believed in. Her father had been a faithful civil servant and she was confident she had followed in his steps. Impartial? Maybe not, but damn if she didn’t try like hell. The rest of it, though—equal and exact justice—those were a farce.
Was Marchek getting his equal justice?
What about a cockroach like Scott Scanlan or the deputy chief, who slept around on a wife of forty years?
And what about Tim, who had spent three nights in prison for a crime he didn’t commit?
Or Tony?
For God’s sake, did anyone really get justice or was justice only a notion devised by man in an effort to soften a dark reality? She glanced up at the words again, the commandments that she had subscribed to as a rookie. The words, carefully etched into the white stone, used to make her swell with pride.
She turned from the writing, disgusted. Now, the words served to mock her every effort. She sucked in the last drag of her cigarette and tossed the butt down at the base of the steps. Out of habit, she stooped to retrieve it and stopped herself. She watched the ember burn and stomped it out, leaving the blackened ash on the sidewalk. The gesture was as close to equal justice as she’d felt in ages.
Unable to bring herself to go back into the building, Jamie walked down the small street that led to the parking lot and scanned the darkness. As she reached the back of the building, she looked into the empty foyer. The metal detectors were silent, the hallways empty.
Justice, or what they served of it, had definitely shut down for the night.
In the distance, she could hear the purr of trucks and cars on 280, the constant flow of traffic north and south—out and home, out and home. She leaned against the cool brick facade of the Hall and focused on the humming. She’d grown up with that sound. As a kid, traffic had been the closest thing she could remember to hearing a lullaby.
She didn’t think she’d gone a night without the background noise of traffic until she was twenty. Now, listening to the comforting stream of engines, she wondered if she should move back to the city. She’d bought the house she was in as a knee-jerk reaction to the breakup with Tim, but maybe she should be here. She had some money from her father; she could probably afford something small. It’s not like she or Barney used the backyard.
Just then, her cell phone rang. She recognized an extension from inside the Hall and considered not answering. She’d had enough bad news for one day. But duty triumphed. “Vail.”
“It’s Hailey.”
Something in Hailey’s voice caught her attention. “You okay?”
“Been better. Where are you?”
“I’m outside. What’s going on?”
“I heard it didn’t go well with Marchek,” Hailey said.
Jamie exhaled, the frustration boiling up again. “We had to cut him loose.”
“I’m here with Washington. We’ve got a list of the men. You want to take a look?”
“Natasha?”
“Yep.”
“Sure.” It sounded like Hailey wanted her there. Dealing with a list of Natasha’s exes—men in the department—Jamie wouldn’t want to do it alone either. “Where are you?”
“We’re in the conference room in Homicide. Come on up.”
Jamie popped some gum and rubbed lavender antibacterial lotion into her hands as she made her way up to Homicide. The department was quiet when she entered.
In the interview room, Hailey sat with two cups of hot coffee in front of her. Across the table, Washington held a bottle of water.
“I poured you one,” Hailey said, pushing a cup toward her. “I left it black. I don’t know how you take it.”
“I take it like my day. Black’s perfect.”
Hailey gave her a half smile, but Jamie could tell something was wrong.
Washington said hello, his face solemn.
She glanced down at the paper Hailey held pressed under her palms. “The list?”
Hailey slid it to Jamie. “You’ve seen this?” she asked Washington.
“I just went over it with Hailey.”
“Any thoughts?”
He paused before answering. “I’m not sure what’s worse—that she slept with all those guys, or that someone was keeping a list.” His hands trembled as he spoke. He was right. It was an incredible breach of privacy, even if it was never published.
Jamie sat in the chair beside Washington and scanned the list. The names were numbered one to thirty. She recognized maybe a third of them. Tim Worley, Scott Scanlan, David Marshall—Hailey’s captain. “Christ. How far back does this go?”
“Not as long as you’d think from looking at it,” Washington said.
“A couple of years, I think,” Hailey added.
“Who put it together?”
“Daniels.”
Jamie glanced at the list again. “Well, at least he’s not on there.”
Hailey didn’t speak at first.
When she did, her tone was sharp and acidic. “Neither is Deputy Chief Scanlan. Doesn’t mean he didn’t screw her.”
“You think there are omissions?” Jamie asked.
“I’m sure IA was thorough,” Washington said. “Surely Deputy Chief Scanlan was purposefully left off the list.”
“They didn’t leave Scott off.”
“But Scott isn’t known for his discretion,” Washington said. “And his job’s not on the line either.”
“Not to mention that unlike Scanlan Senior, Scott’s not married.”
No one spoke as Jamie skimmed over the names. No Ben Jules. That was a relief, but like Hailey said, what did it mean? “How did Daniels put this together?”
“If you can believe it, this is an Internal Affairs unofficial project—to follow this sort of activity, make sure it doesn’t cause conflict of interest. Probably also to make sure the press doesn’t get wind of it. Especially for the high-ranking married guys.”
“Did you know they did this?” Jamie asked Washington.
“I had no fucking clue.”
Jamie believed him. She scanned the names again. “David Marshall?”
“Yep,” Hailey said. “Married. So are Ken Oliver, Paul Wyeth, Eric Rickens, O’Connell, White, Pilitzky…” She waved her hand. “More than half.”
“Christ. In two years, she had a new guy every month.”
“In the department,” Hailey added. “And those are only the ones they knew about.”
Washington stood up. “I’m heading home unless you guys need me?”
“No,” Hailey said. “Thanks for coming in.”
Washington left and Jamie shook her head. “You have to assume there are more men like Deputy Chief Scanlan—ones they wouldn’t write down. This is like a needle in the haystack—Natasha’s haystack.”
Hailey found anoth
er paper and slid it across the table. “I did get this.”
“What is it?”
“Roger’s cast of Worley’s head. It looks like Tim was struck with something about an inch thick, made of a heavy polymer material. Rectangular in shape. He took one side in the skull. The corner just scratched the skin.”
“Polymer? What the hell was it?” Jamie asked.
“I don’t know. Roger was on his way back to Natasha’s office to look for a match.”
“A letter holder or something?”
“Not heavy enough,” Hailey said. “Had to be three or four pounds. Paper weight, maybe?”
Just then, Jamie’s cell phone rang. She recognized her home number. “Hey.”
Tony’s voice was breathless. “Christ, Jamie. Thank God.”
She halted. “What’s wrong?”
“Marchek was here, Jamie. In the yard.”
Jamie stood from the table. “Marchek? Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Are you okay? Is he gone?”
“I’m fine. Marchek’s gone—took off in a white van, but there’s a kid here. He was in your yard—he’s hurt.”
Tony was dragging his s’s. “Jesus, Tony, you’ve been drinking.”
“He’s bleeding. For Christ’s sake, Jamie. He’s hurt!”
“Is he breathing?”
“Yeah. He’s breathing, but there’s blood all over him and I can’t find the source.”
“Call 911.”
“I already did, but I need you.”
Jamie turned and ran from the room. Hailey started to follow. “Find out what happened to our surveillance on Marchek,” Jamie said. “I’ll call you when I know more.”
To Tony, she asked, “Where are his parents?”
“He looks homeless, Jamie. I think maybe he was living in your backyard.”
Homeless.
“How’s his pulse?” She took the stairs, two at a time, running as fast as she could.
“Steady.”
She heard a whine in the background.
“The ambulance is here.”
At her car, she yanked the door open, shoved the key in the ignition, revved the engine. “Can you ID Marchek? Did you see him?”
The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set Page 20