The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set

by Danielle Girard

  Neither man had asked Hailey what she wanted. Quitting her job was not an option. She was proud of what she did. Once upon a time, John had been too.

  Ali stomped back into the kitchen. “It’s not fair that she gets to do everything first.”

  John walked into the kitchen and gave Hailey a smile—like everything was fine. Everything was exactly how it should be. He didn’t see her frustration. Or he didn’t care.

  “Once Grammie and Cami are gone, we’ll make popcorn and watch Lady and the Tramp,” Hailey promised Ali.

  John brought down two crystal highballs from the cupboard. They would be pouring scotch now. How could they have a proper campaign meeting without a little scotch? Tink, tink went the glasses on the concrete countertop. Ice cubes pinged against crystal. Hailey waited for the sound of the cork coming out of the bottle of Glenlivet John had given his father for Christmas, the splash of liquid pouring. Only there was no pop of the cork releasing from the bottle. John wasn’t pouring. He held the bottle in one hand, the other on the cork.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “My dad just gave me a gun,” he whispered as though in shock.

  “What?” Hailey scanned the kitchen and was grateful that Ali had left the room. The girls knew how they felt about guns. She did not want to try to explain why their grandpa would have one. “A gun—why would he do that?”

  “He’s worried about the threats.”

  Over the past few weeks, John had received a series of death threats at the DA’s office. They came mostly via phone message, but only a few days ago, someone had sent a rather grisly package—a sheet soaked in pig’s blood.

  “The DA’s office always gets threats,” Hailey said. “You know that.” Jim had always been anti-gun too. Why would he arm his son?

  John had recently helped put away a high-level drug dealer, and it wasn’t uncommon to receive threats after a successful conviction. Some of the more seasoned Assistant DAs took the threats as a badge of honor. Had Jim gotten wind that John was in real danger?

  Of course John’s father would worry. His mother too. John was their whole world. What different experiences Hailey and her husband had as only children. While she and her mother had taken care of each other, John was protected by his parents.

  John uncorked the scotch. “So you don’t think we should keep the gun?”

  “God, no. I’ve got my service weapon. One gun in our house is more than enough.”

  She stared across the room at the man who’d sworn he’d never touch a gun, let alone own one. How many times had she come home with a story of how a gun in the home had killed someone it was meant to protect? How many times had she heard Jim preach about the need for stricter gun laws? What had changed?

  John watched her scatter slivered peppers over the layer of breaded chicken. “I wish I could be as calm as you are,” he said.

  “Look at it rationally,” she said. “Why come after you? If you die, another Assistant DA takes your cases. The guy doesn’t get off because you’re dead.”

  He was silent.

  “If I were a delusional psychotic who thought murder was the answer, I’d take aim at Scott Palin.” She nodded to the oven. “Could you get that?”

  John opened the oven door, and she slid the casserole onto the top rack.

  “Palin?” he asked.

  “Sure. I’d go straight to the top. Why take out an assistant when I could take out the DA?”

  “That’s sort of dismissive of the work the ADAs do. Palin’s not the only one in that office who’s a threat to criminals.” He rubbed his face. He’d shaved. For a Saturday night at home with his parents. When had he become so much like his father?

  Jim called out from the den. “You gonna bring those drinks before I die of old age?”

  “I’m coming.”

  Hailey closed the oven. “Dinner will be ready soon,” she said as John lifted the two glasses and turned to leave. “I need to make it an early night. Got a huge week ahead of me.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s Saturday night, Hailey.”

  He used to say that when he wanted to stay out for an extra round of drinks with their friends. Now it was spending time with his father, closed off in their inner sanctum. Man to man. John and Jim could sit in that room for hours. Not tonight. Not her. She was too tired. Dinner and then home.

  Liz entered the kitchen in a cloud of Chloe perfume and the musty scent of her fur coat. “Can we help get dinner on the table?” she asked.

  “It’s almost ready.”

  Camilla trailed in behind her grandmother, and Hailey leaned down to give her eldest a kiss. The masses of curls Hailey loved were pinned back from her face. Though she had grown leaner recently, her cheeks were still as round and rosy as they had been since her birth.

  “You look beautiful,” Hailey said.

  “The show will be over by ten, and we’ll come right home,” Liz assured her, grabbing Camilla’s hand. “We’ve got church in the morning.”

  Camilla made a little face, but Hailey held hers void of expression. Her in-laws had been talking about the girls attending the confirmation program at Saint Mark’s, and Camilla was finally old enough.

  “Camilla, why don’t you finish packing up your clothes and cleaning up so you don’t have to do it tomorrow? I’ll call you down as soon as dinner is ready.” At some point, Hailey would need to talk to Liz about the confirmation. Did she want the girls to be confirmed in the church? They were baptized. Was it any different than that?

  They should at least have a say. Hailey wasn’t sure Liz had considered her feelings on church. Liz had always gone and simply taken the girls when they were with her on Sunday mornings.

  But Hailey was too tired to have that conversation with Liz tonight.

  Camilla frowned and headed for her bedroom.

  Jim’s sister walked into the kitchen. As always, Dee’s makeup was flawless, her hair looked like it had just been styled, and her slacks and light pink sweater were pressed—all the signs of a woman without children. Standing in the kitchen now, Dee fingered the gold locket around her neck. She also had a hard time sitting still. “Would it help if I set the table?”

  “It would,” Hailey told her. “Thanks.”

  Jim barked from the den. “That’s a load of horse manure, and you know it.”

  Hailey turned toward the door, listening as Jim’s voice grew muffled, the volume dropping.

  Jim and John rarely fought. Had Jim been drinking before they arrived? Would that explain why he wanted John to have a gun?

  She took a couple of steps toward the den and listened, but the room had grown quiet again.

  The oven timer buzzed, and she stooped to pull the casserole from the stove. “Dinner,” she called. A moment later, “Dinner’s ready.”

  The crack of gunfire. Shattering glass. A window.

  She dropped the casserole dish on the floor. Reached for her holster. Her gun was locked in her case in the car.

  “Help!” Jim shouted. “Someone help me!”

  Hailey sprinted from the kitchen and almost barreled into Dee coming out of the dining room.

  Liz came running down the stairs. “What was that noise? What happened?”

  Hailey pushed past them, heading for the front of the house. The door to the den opened and Jim stepped into the hall. He held Ali in his arms, his body hunched over hers. Protecting her. Her legs hung over his elbow. Her head against his shoulder. Her eyes closed.

  Liz shrieked. “What happened?”

  Jim’s face was ashen, his lips open, exposing small gray teeth. Hailey touched the thin, pale skin of Ali’s neck.

  Pulse was quick but strong. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Jim!” Liz shouted.

  “She’s fine,” Jim said, gasping silently as though struggling to draw air. He was trembling. His brow and lip sweaty. Shock.

  Hailey took her daughter from his arms, laid her down on the hallway rug. />
  “What happened?”

  Jim glanced toward the den. “Shooter.”

  “John?” she called.

  Jim’s mouth fell open. Fear.

  Something had happened to John.

  Liz shrieked.

  No.

  Jim leaned against the wall and then sank to the floor. His head made a hollow thud against plaster as he began to sob.

  Hailey stood and ran for the open doorway. Her shoulder caught the jamb and she fell into the room. A breeze blew in through the broken window. “John!”

  Gasping, he opened his eyes. Blood saturated his white collar. Hailey dropped beside him and pushed his tie out of the way, fumbling to unbutton John’s shirt. The buttons were stubborn. Her hands shook.

  Stop the bleeding. Find the source.

  “Call nine-one-one!”

  Liz and Dee appeared at the door, Camilla behind them.

  “Call an ambulance!” Hailey yelled.

  “Mommy?” Camilla asked from the doorway.

  Dee took Camilla by the shoulders and led her away.

  “Get me a towel,” Hailey barked. “Do it now.”

  John’s eyes followed her movements. Skin pale. Sweating. “It’s a Façonnable,” he said, trying to joke.

  Hailey thought of how she always called the shirts “Fassa-snob” for their outrageous price tag. “Liz!” she screamed toward the door. “Ambulance?”

  No response.

  John’s chest stuttered under the strain of breathing.

  “Liz!”

  John’s mother ran into the room, clutching a dish towel. Hailey grabbed it and pressed it against the wound. “What about the ambulance?”

  “Jim. They’re on their way…”

  “How long?”

  “Eight minutes.”

  “You’re kidding? We’re less than a mile from the hospital. I could run in eight minutes.”

  “Mommy,” Camilla called from the doorway.

  “I need to help Daddy, Cami. Stay with Aunt Dee.”

  “Hailey,” John whispered, struggling to speak. His hand flinched as though to reach for hers.

  Slow the bleeding. Keep the blood in his vital organs. Work. Think.

  “The ambulance will be here soon. You’re going to be okay. We need to stop the bleeding.” She pressed his hand to the towel. “Hold this.”

  She lunged for the ottoman, dragged it toward him, and lifted his feet. Took hold of the towel again.

  Already, it was wet on her fingers.

  Eight minutes.

  Eight minutes was forever.

  “Where’s Ali?” he whispered.

  “She’s okay. She bumped her head. She must’ve heard the shot. She’s fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m positive. She’s going to be fine. You are too.”

  John’s breath was ragged. “Take care of the girls.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” she said, feeling a rise of anger. “Don’t you dare, John Wyatt.”

  “Make sure they’re okay.” He struggled to breathe. He gasped. He wasn’t getting air.

  She pushed harder on the towel. So much blood.

  “Hailey.” The weak, whispery quality of his voice was terrifying. “Give me your hand.”

  Jim cried out from the doorway. Small and broken.

  She pressed her free hand into John’s.

  John turned toward his father. “You take care of her.”

  “John!” she shouted. She could take care of herself. She didn’t need Jim or Liz. She needed John. “Damn it, John. You stay right here. You fight for us!”

  He drew a trembling breath.

  “Focus on me,” she pleaded. “Fight for me.”

  His nod was barely perceptible in the shift of his chin. An involuntary shiver twitched in his shoulders.

  The towel was saturated. Blood leaked between her fingers.

  His eyes fluttered closed as the paramedics pounded on the door.

  *

  Rain struck John’s black coffin like sprays of tiny silver bullets. The air was bitter, the sky a gray so thick it looked like ash spread upon a canvas. The wind stung their skin through coats, threatened to tear their umbrellas from tight fists, and snapped the pages of the priest’s Bible.

  Behind the damp of the rain were smells of earth, cedar mulch, and a pungent rotting scent that reminded Hailey of tramping to the waterfall in Kauai on their honeymoon, plodding along in the wet mud with the ripe smell of rotting guavas beneath their feet.

  The girls clung to her long black coat. She held one under each arm. Hailey pressed her nose to Ali’s head, taking in the buttery smell of her scalp before standing straight against the cold.

  Even the bitter, angry wind couldn’t break through the chill she’d felt since John’s death.

  The rain slowed, but the air remained heavy. She didn’t know most of the faces in the crowd, although many were familiar—politicians and powerful business people who worked with John’s father.

  The crowd of friends was smaller.

  Jamie Vail, an inspector in Sex Crimes, stood with her friend Tony and her adopted son Zephenaya. Captain Linda James and Jess Campbell of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) were talking with them. Three of John’s closest friends were pallbearers. The other three were Hailey’s friends from the station.

  They had divided themselves—John’s friends carried the right side of the casket, hers the left.

  John’s friends were polished, their suits dark, finely pressed, and high-end. They seemed to struggle with the coffin’s weight.

  The others, hers, wore their dress uniforms. There was her partner Hal, Cameron Cruz, who was as tall as two of the men on John’s side, and Tim O’Shea from Homicide. The officers were sharp in their dress uniforms and more at ease with the job.

  Cops had buried men before. John’s friends had not.

  In the last five or six years, their marriage had been divided in much the same way.

  How much had changed since they were newlyweds, volunteering nights stuffing envelopes for Bill Clinton. Back when Hailey had been new with the department and John had finished law school and taken a job in the DA’s office.

  At night, they returned to a tiny South San Francisco apartment and drank wine from big jugs of Gallo, using chipped mugs or two glasses that had come free with a bottle of Jameson she had bought him for their first Christmas.

  Those were days when John had dreamt of being DA, when he’d been proud of his newly promoted inspector wife, when they had devoured each other’s stories.

  When they had been on the same side.

  Before everything had changed.

  Staring at the box that held his body, Hailey struggled between cataloguing those moments, clinging to every memory of that man and, at the same time, feeling overwhelming anger at the man he had become. A facsimile of his father.

  When it came time to sprinkle dirt on the coffin, Hailey couldn’t step forward. She couldn’t let go of the girls who clung to her sides.

  Her father-in-law caught her eye. He looked at each of the girls and stepped forward in Hailey’s place, the grief in his face palpable. Losing John was something she and Jim shared. In some awful way, it had made her lean on him. That was okay. It was okay to need him right now.

  Ali gripped her mother tighter. Her pupils were too wide, her pallor too fair, as though that night was imprinted on her eyelids, visible at every blink. She slept with Hailey most nights, waking her mother with the smallest whimper, while Hailey whispered into her hair that Mommy was there, that Ali was fine. Praying that she was, that she would be.

  Camilla was more stoic, quieter.

  In some ways, Hailey worried about her more.

  The ceremony ended with the blessings of the priest John had known since childhood, the one who had married them ten years before.

  Ten years, four months, and three days before, when Hailey and John had stood at the altar and promised to honor and obey, to
love and cherish.

  Hailey had failed John.

  And now he was gone.

  As the dirt struck the hard, dark coffin, Hailey pictured her husband in his casket. The starched collar of his favorite Façonnable dress shirt, his best navy suit, the tie Hailey had chosen that brought out the green of his eyes, the one she noticed even on the days when she could hardly stand to look at him.

  Liz had suggested a lighter one.

  “No,” Hailey had said sharply.

  Liz had looked surprised.

  “This one,” Hailey had said, more softly.

  Liz had deferred. Maybe she had understood Hailey’s need to dress him this last time, or perhaps she thought it had simply been a power play, some attempt to recapture her husband from his parents.

  Something Hailey had failed to do when he was alive.

  She shivered thinking of him inside that black box. She would never see him again. Never touch his skin.

  Hal took hold of her arm then, and she was surprised to see the crowd walking away from the gravesite.

  *

  Back at her in-laws’ home, people Hailey had never met showed up with casseroles, cakes, and trays of food. Tom Rittenberg was there. A short, heavyset man with a cane, he moved slowly, head down. He’d suffered a stroke a few months after his daughter—Abby Dennig—was killed. Now, he seemed so broken, so much smaller than before. She remembered him from Jim’s political functions as a bit shy, but happy—almost jolly. She watched Tom shuffle through the crowd and wondered how Jim would change with John’s death. And Liz.

  Her friends from the department also came to the house after the service. Cameron brought green chili enchiladas, “My favorite comfort food,” she’d said. Linda James brought tiramisu. Jamie and Tony brought a lasagna he’d made, while Hal came with a potted hydrangea.

  Hailey was so thankful for them. Thankful that they looked at Liz and Jim’s house the same way she did—as though it were a museum where none of them belonged.

  They were her people.

  Even Bruce Daniels came. Hailey thanked him but only briefly, too afraid that Jim would realize that for the six months before his son was shot, Hailey had been in love with another man. A man now standing in his home under the guise of mourning his son.

  Until the few final moments of John’s life, Hailey had no longer loved her husband, often couldn’t find a way to like him. But, in those last moments, Hailey had loved John more than she had ever loved anyone.