by G. K. Parks
“What is it?”
His expression shifted to an unreadable mask, a trick he perfected from years spent undercover. “We go inside. We drink. We talk about the meeting. That’s what we do every Monday and Thursday. Let’s not break from tradition.”
“Screw tradition. Something’s going on. What am I missing?”
“You don’t want to know.” He opened his car door. “Let’s go inside. I really need that drink.”
Two
“The call came in yesterday afternoon.” Heathcliff sipped his beer. “Since I was next up, I went to see what the fuss was about. Most of the injuries could have been inflicted prior to the man’s death.”
“What kinds of injuries?”
“His fingertips were removed, which could be accidental, but the four bullets in his torso were not.”
“Would you like another?” the bartender asked, gesturing to my glass.
“Sure, thanks.” I slid it closer for him to refill.
“Still light on the rum, miss?” he asked.
“Super light,” I said.
Heathcliff watched as the bartender filled the glass with cola and added just a splash of rum. “That’s a travesty. At this rate, you might as well stick with a straight-up coke. It would save you five bucks on every refill.” The detective glanced around the room, but no one crowded us. “Don’t tell me you have to go back to the office after this.”
“No, but this way, I don’t notice the rum, so I can drink more. It’s ingenious.”
He eyed the glass for a moment, shook his head, and took another sip of his beer. “I didn’t mean for this case to upset our routine.”
“No problem. It’s not like I look forward to these sessions.” I blinked, feeling my throat tighten as I recalled the choked back tears of members of the support group. “You know what these meetings have taught me? That this shit isn’t isolated, and a part of me is relieved this doesn’t just happen to me. But at the same time, it breaks my heart that so many other people have to go through this. That you’re going through this.” I gulped down my drink, barely tasting the rum. “It’s not fair. I don’t want other people to feel the way I do.”
“They might feel worse.”
That sentiment made my already aching stomach tighten into knots. “I hate that. I hate this feeling of helplessness.”
“Despair,” he corrected.
“That too.” I curled the edge of my napkin around the bottom of the glass. “No matter what we do, how many people we arrest or try to save, it doesn’t make a bit of difference.”
“It does to the ones who survive.”
“Surviving isn’t easy either. You were in that room. You heard the stories.”
“No one said surviving isn’t hard, but it makes a world of difference. By living, we can still make things better.”
“Or worse.”
“Only if we stop trying.”
I turned to him, wondering if he actually believed it. “Unless we keep failing, over and over again.”
“The human brain focuses on the negatives, not the positives. It’s how we’re wired. It’s probably a survival instinct.” He snorted, finding the thought amusing. “You’ve done good. You’ve helped more people than you realize. The few names you remember, the ones you failed, that’s just the universe’s way of balancing the scales.”
“I don’t like it.”
He drank some beer. “You don’t have to. That’s just life. Take comfort in knowing that’s how we all feel.”
“That makes it worse.”
“Because you take comfort in knowing you aren’t alone in your grief? I get that. Believe me, I do.” He exhaled slowly. “Did Cal say anything to you?”
“Cal?”
“The guy who runs the group.”
“Oh, Sergeant Pain-in-the-Ass.”
Heathcliff chuckled. “He’s not a bad guy.”
“He tried to get me to open up, but I don’t want to.” I turned to face the bar, placing both arms on the counter while I spun the glass around and around.
Heathcliff put his hand on my forearm. “You don’t have to share with the group. I told you that. There’s no pressure.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. He cornered me after last Thursday’s meeting. I’m just glad you stepped in to save me. I appreciated that.”
“Cal’s just worried. He wasn’t giving you the third degree. He talks to everyone who attends the meetings, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I hadn’t. The only thing I ever wanted to do once a meeting was over was escape so I could lick my wounds. “When you first started going to these meetings, how long did it take before you decided to share?”
“Alex, we’re all different. Some people have been going for years and never say a thing.”
“I don’t want to be there that long.”
He moved his hand up to my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “When I’d been stuck in mandated therapy, it took me two months before I said a word to anyone. But my progress was monitored by the department shrink. I didn’t have much of a choice. You’re not on a deadline. I’ll go with you as long as it takes.”
“You don’t have to. Isn’t your attendance voluntary?”
“It is. Until last month, I hadn’t been to a meeting in years, but lately, I feel like I could use some help. I think you can too.” He dropped his hand and finished his beer. “You know, if you don’t want to talk to the group, you can talk to me. You can always talk to me.”
“I’m talking to you right now.”
He smiled. “I know.”
Admittedly, I’d opened up to him more after these sessions than I had to anyone. Perhaps it wasn’t group therapy that was helping. It might have been Derek.
We sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, contemplating everything that had been said during today’s meeting. Eventually, my mind went back to the mysterious body, and I cursed Heathcliff for distracting me again. “Why is Moretti so obsessed with John Doe?”
“I’m not sure he is.”
“Our trip to the ME’s office tonight says otherwise. The LT told you to stay on top of this. Tell me why.”
“I already told you. He thinks he knows who the victim is.”
“And you want the suspense to kill me?”
“Fine, but you didn’t hear this from me.” Heathcliff waited for me to nod before continuing. “Moretti worked a case eight years ago. A guy vanished off the face of the earth. He left almost everything behind and never touched his bank accounts.”
“Any sign of foul play?”
Heathcliff popped a handful of pretzels into his mouth and chewed, possibly to buy time or to clue me in that he didn’t want to talk about this. Too bad I was determined to remain distracted. “The front door to the guy’s house was left open. His security system had been turned off, and the hard drives taken. His blood was found in the shower drain. Moretti figured he’d been killed, but he could never find the body. Until now.”
“How does he know John Doe’s the same guy? Did John Doe have a wallet or any personal effects with him?”
Heathcliff reached for more pretzels. “That would make this easier, wouldn’t it?” I didn’t know if that was a yes or no, but I could tell from his interest in the bowl of pretzels that he had no intention of answering my question. “Search teams are scouring the area for additional forensic evidence.”
“The lab tech said they’re running DNA and dental records.”
“They’re doing what they can. John Doe was missing a few back molars, so dental records might be a bust.”
“Do you think he was tortured?” I asked.
“Possibly.”
“The victim’s fingertips are gone, and he’s missing a few teeth. It sounds like whoever killed him wanted to make sure he’d never be identified. Why didn’t he take a brick to the guy’s face?”
“Who says he didn’t?”
“Are you serious?”
“I don’t know.” He gestured to th
e bartender for another beer. “The remains were badly damaged. It’s hard to say for certain when it happened, but the ME’s working on it.”
“Too bad the guy didn’t have his driver’s license with him.”
“No license. No wallet. That would have made my job too easy.”
“But he had something with him that Moretti recognized.” I hoped Heathcliff was drunk enough to answer my questions if I danced around them.
The look on Heathcliff’s face indicated I was right, but he didn’t tell me what they found with the body. “Let’s talk about more pleasant things.” He jerked his chin up, just as a hand slid across my back.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” James Martin took a seat on the empty stool beside mine and leaned over to kiss my cheek. “How are you tonight, gorgeous?”
“We could be worse,” I said.
Martin tightened his grip on my waist. “Is that the consensus, Detective?”
“No, I’m good. Though, I was threatened with forcible removal from the Cross Security offices by a spunky receptionist when I went to pick up Alex.”
“She told you I wasn’t there,” I reminded him.
“But you were.” Heathcliff chuckled. “In other words, Alex tried to pull a disappearing act again.”
“She does that.”
“It’s called self-preservation,” I said.
Martin leaned in closer. “Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
The bartender returned. “What can I get you, sir?”
“Another round for my friends,” Martin gestured to our nearly empty glasses, “and I’ll take a Macallan, neat. Also, a cheeseburger, two orders of fries, boneless honey barbeque wings, and whatever the gentleman will have.”
“Actually, I’m going to take off. It’s been a long day.” Heathcliff slid off the stool. “I’ll see you Thursday, Alex.”
“I might be busy.”
“Thursday,” he insisted, leaning down to give me a quick hug before shaking hands with Martin. “Take care of her.”
“Always,” Martin said.
“I don’t appreciate the sentiment. I am capable of taking care of myself.” But the men ignored me. Shaking it off, I tried to clear away the melancholia that had only gotten worse in the last few seconds since Heathcliff’s case was no longer distracting me.
“What were you talking about?” Martin asked. “You shut up pretty quickly when I sat down.”
“A case.” I changed the subject. “You must be starving. You ordered enough food to feed a small army.”
“I’ve been in meetings all day. I didn’t even have time to grab coffee, let alone lunch. Plus, you ought to eat something.” He eyed the glass in front of me. “How many of those have you had?”
“Two.” I squinted. “No, three.” The bartender returned with a refill. I picked it up and sucked on the straw. “Make that four.”
“Yeah, you definitely need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.” I swiveled around to face him, propping my head up with my hand. “Is that why you didn’t bother to ask what I wanted? You knew I didn’t want anything.”
“That, and while I find it adorable how you steal my fries, I thought you could use a plate of your own.”
“Am I really this predictable? First, Heathcliff, and now you. I give up.” I dropped my head to the bar, tired of fighting to remain functional.
“Did you want something besides wings? They have nachos. You like nachos.”
“I’m already a little queasy. The spiciness will rip my stomach apart.” I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “That’s why you ordered honey barbeque instead of buffalo. Damn you.”
He laughed. “Do you want to take off? We can skip dinner and just go home.”
“No, you’re hungry. You should eat.” His order played through my mind. “What happened at work today? You only order cheeseburgers when shit happens.”
“Nothing happened. I like cheeseburgers.”
“Yes, but you rarely eat them. They’re your comfort food.”
“I’m fine.” He trailed his fingers up my back and gently massaged my neck. “I’m just worried about you. Did you share in group today?”
“No.”
He frowned, continuing to rub my neck. “Do you think you might one of these days?”
“I don’t know. Everyone’s been through the same thing. It’ll just be more of the same. I don’t want to unload on anyone else.”
“But they unload on you.”
“They unload on everyone in the room. That’s the point.”
“That is the point,” Martin said.
“Subtle.”
He chuckled just as the bartender returned with two plates. “Can I get you another scotch?” the bartender asked.
“Please.” Martin slid the fries closer to me.
I sat up and looked at the food, and he pushed a cup of ranch dressing closer. “Fine, but if I spend the night with my head in the toilet and end up developing an aversion to the wonder that is the French fry and boneless wing, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
“Deal.” He snagged one of the wings out of the basket.
We ate in silence. Well, Martin ate. He hadn’t been joking. He inhaled his burger and fries, followed by most of my fries and three quarters of the wings. I switched to regular cola and sipped the fizzy liquid while the emotions roiled around inside of me and my mind fought to remain focused on Heathcliff’s case and my list of things to do in the morning, but as usual, my thoughts drifted to the stories I’d heard earlier tonight.
“Are you ready to go home?” Martin asked as he waited for the bartender to return his credit card.
“Are you? Or do you want to stop somewhere for dessert?”
“I’m stuffed.” He shrugged into his jacket. “I’ll have to double up on my workout tomorrow.”
“Why? Afraid your eight pack abs might turn into only six or four?”
“Says the woman who kills herself every morning with pilates and barre routines.”
“Not true.”
“It is true.” He put his arm around me as we headed for the door. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the bruises on your legs and the damage to your feet.”
“I’ll stop going en pointe.”
“Alex, barre workouts were meant to be rehab. They weren’t supposed to turn into an obsession. Is this what it was like when you were a kid? Two hours a day working on routines?”
“No, back then, it was at least three.”
“Jesus. Someone should have reported your parents.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “For what?”
“Child abuse.” He opened the car door. I got in and slid across the seat, so he could climb in next to me. “Marcal, home, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Marcal, Martin’s driver, offered me a smile, which I automatically returned.
“That’s not abuse. Most ballerinas train just as hard or harder. My parents were never abusive,” I said.
“Maybe not physically, but withholding love, affection, and just being assholes did a number on you.”
I stared at him. “I’d expect Mark Jablonsky to be that blunt. I’m not used to you doing it.”
“I’m sorry. I just see how much you’re hurting now, and I can’t help but think if they’d been decent and treated you the way children are supposed to be treated—”
“I’d be better at coping.”
He pressed his lips together, realizing this might cause an argument. “Yeah.”
“You’re probably right. I’d also have been a functional member of society and gone into some other profession, and none of this would have ever happened.” I turned to stare out the window, and he reached for my hand, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles against my wrist.
Three
As usual, things never seemed as bleak in the morning. In fact, I felt better. It didn’t make any sense to me, but after grief counseling, I always felt better. Lighter. More at ease, even though
the session itself made me miserable and ruined the rest of my evening. But in the light of day, it was little more than an afterthought, just like Heathcliff’s case.
The alarm sounded again. Martin switched it off, rolled over, and kissed me. “How are you feeling today, beautiful?”
“I’m okay.” My eyelashes were stuck together and I was congested from crying myself to sleep, but it was the truth.
He kissed me again. “Do you want to join me for a swim?”
“No.”
“How about a run?”
“I could go for a run.”
“Good. Give me an hour in the pool first. You can go back to sleep until then.”
I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of him getting ready before disappearing from the bedroom. Once I heard the alarm beep, indicating he deactivated it in order to go outside, I climbed out of bed and peered out the French doors.
That man didn’t waste a second. He was already splashing around in the pool. The muscles in his back and shoulders rippled as he glided through the water.
Watching him took my breath away and filled my insides with a pang of longing. I loved him more than anything. It’s why I let Heathcliff manipulate me into going to grief counseling. It’s what Martin wanted. He wanted me to bounce back, and I’d do anything I could to give him what he wanted. He always did the same for me. Some people called that love. Others called it unhealthy codependence. But for us, it worked, even if I’d spent a good portion of my time fighting against it.
While he was outside, I put on some leggings, a baggy tank top, and tied my long brown hair into a knot. Then I went into the kitchen, drank a glass of water to combat the hangover, and went downstairs to the home gym to stretch and work through one of my old barre routines before we went for our run.
When Martin came inside, he wasn’t surprised to find me working out. Instead of trying to force me out of the dance studio, he took to the heavy bag while keeping an eye on me. By the time I finished executing several jumps in a row and wondering if I’d broken a toe in the process, he was doing push-ups while in a full handstand. Every muscle in his torso was taut and pronounced.
“And you say I push myself too hard,” I said.