Over and Again

by Brooke Edwards

  “Haven’t been able to find him,” Cohen says from his spot by the door. He frowns, mouth twisting down at the corners. “Phone’s been disconnected. None of his known associates, at least the ones we’ve been able to track down, are giving anything up.”

  “There goes our inside man,” Daniel mutters. “Any more activity? No more bodies pulled from the East River?”

  “Silent as the grave,” Rhys pipes up from the back of the room, where the files are stacked up on one of the tables. “Never thought I’d want zombies, but they’d come in handy about now.”

  “Grunting and trying to eat brains?” Daniel scoffs. “Why would that be helpful?”

  “Zombies are more than that now,” Cohen puts in. “They could be helpful. Have you watched anything about them made in the last decade?”

  “How is this my life now?” Daniel rubs at his forehead. “Table the zombie discussion, Brock Hart should be here any minute and I’d like to continue the illusion that we’re all competent professionals.”

  “We kept this place going without you and James,” Rhys points out. “So you can take your illusion and sho—”

  “Mr. Hart!” Cohen jumps back as the door swings open.

  Daniel gets up, crossing to the doorway and reaching out with a hand. Brock looks immaculately put together—dressed in pressed slacks and a crisp shirt with a blazer folded over his arm—especially considering he’d barely sounded awake an hour ago when Daniel had gotten off the phone with him. Daniel’s come across him a few times over the years he’s been on the force. Derek usually called Brock in as backup on bigger cases, ones that Daniel wasn’t really in the loop on, but he’s joined them for celebration-and-consolation beers more than once. Daniel likes him, for the most part, but more importantly, respects the hell out of him. He feels better just thinking about the fact that Brock will be the prosecutor taking a run at Jake Bartlett when he gets his day in court.

  “Good to see you,” he says as Brock takes his hand and shakes it firmly. “Wish it was better circumstances, but glad you’re here.”

  Brock nods curtly, the faint shadows under his eyes just visible at this distance. Daniel thinks that once everything’s said and done, they’re all going to sleep for a month. “Good to see you too.” He glances around the room, nodding at Rhys and then at Cohen. “Officers. Have there been any developments?”

  “No,” Cohen says. His eyes are fixed on Brock, intent and bright, and Daniel narrows his own eyes as he looks between them. “Nothing new.”

  3

  Peter isn’t sure he’s cut out for the cop-adjacent lifestyle, especially not when Daniel’s cell starts squalling and lighting up on the bedside table just after 3:00 a.m. He buries his head under the pillow with a whine while Daniel stretches out to grab it. “Silent is a thing phones do,” he mumbles into the sheets.

  Daniel’s hand lands on his bare lower back and starts rubbing gently. He’s making thoughtful sounds into the phone, his thumb kneading Peter’s side. “Okay, so you get out there and see what we’ve got,” he says, his voice breaking through the muffle-zone the pillow creates. “I’m going to swing past the last address we have on file for Sal on my way there on the chance it isn’t him.”

  By the time Peter wriggles out from under the pillow, Daniel’s on his feet and moving across to the dresser. “What’s going on?” he asks, biting back the yawn until the words are out and then letting it go, his jaw cracking.

  “Gang shoot-out,” Daniel says, the drawer squeaking as he pulls it out. “Think one of the victims might be an informant.”

  Peter props himself up with one arm, rubbing at his eyes with the other hand. “One of your informants?”

  “Yeah, the inside man who told us that Fairhall was working with the gangs,” Daniel says, rustling about in the drawer. “God, I need to do laundry.”

  “Does that mean they found out he was working with you?” Peter asks, wide-awake as his heart rate picks up speed. “Do you think it was Bartlett?”

  Daniel kneels on the edge of the bed, leaning down to press a brief kiss to Peter’s mouth before he can ask any of the other questions clamoring to get out. “I think you should go back to sleep and let me worry about what is probably just normal gang murders,” he says against Peter’s lips. “If it’s nothing, I’ll be back with breakfast around eight.”

  “You’re the worst,” Peter lies, hooking a hand behind Daniel’s neck and reeling him back in for another kiss. “Be safe, okay?”

  “Safe’s my middle name,” Daniel says as he pulls away, pushing Peter back down onto the bed.

  “No it’s not,” Peter mutters to himself, settling back into the mess of covers and re-positioning his pillow. “It’s—wait, what is your middle name? Daniel!”

  Daniel’s laughter filters back from the hallway.

  Brock knows that there are unread messages, the notification light has been flashing since around midnight, but can’t bring himself to open them. He knows that anyone with anything urgent at this time of night would call, and the thought of Evan dropping by makes something catch at the back of his throat. He can smell the phantom cigarette smoke and taste the sticky, sweet alcohol that always clings to Evan’s skin when he comes straight from the bar. It makes his own skin crawl in a way it never has before, not with Evan.

  Avoidance is the best idea he’s got, especially after the frustration of the day. He hadn’t really expected the NYPD to have anything new on Jake Bartlett in the short time between Cohen Bailey briefing him and Daniel Callahan returning. Looking over the aftermath of Coy Fairhall, though? That had left a sour taste in Brock’s mouth. The file Callahan handed him had pictures of the smoldering wreck of a boathouse on the edge of Lake George and medical reports that made his teeth catch the insides of his cheeks. No one knows just yet how Fairhall found James and Derek, but Brock is pretty sure once they find that thread and start tugging, it will lead them to Bartlett.

  A good half a dozen fingers of whiskey have gone down in the hours since midnight, and the clock on the nightstand blinks a bright blue 03:27 when he glances at it from his spot by the balcony doors. The sky is clear, by New York standards anyway, and dotted with a few faint stars that make it through the light pollution. Brock tips the last of the whiskey back, letting it wash away the stale taste on his tongue, and puts the tumbler on the nightstand next to the clock as he sits on the edge of the bed.

  He pulls his T-shirt over his head, tossing it toward his open suitcase blindly, and reaches over to flick the lamp off. The sheets are cool against his skin and he sighs, stretching out as the tension starts to seep from his muscles.

  Cohen looks down at the body sprawled against the pavement. A good third of the face is obscured by blood, most of the back of the skull blown to pieces by the exit of a large caliber bullet, but he can see enough to be grimly certain that it’s either Sal or a very convincing doppelganger. The other body, though? That one doesn’t make sense in the rival gang shoot-out context.

  Middle-aged, graying hair, and an expensive suit were the first signs that something wasn’t quite right. Cohen crouches down, working his hand into the glove Sean O’Hare had thrown at him the second he ducked under the tape. He reaches out and slides the wallet out of the dead man’s jacket. Flipping it open, he sees the license in the clear sleeve and frowns.

  “Howard Masters,” he mutters. “Why do I know that name?”

  “Is that the guy?” Sean crouches next to him, looking at the license too. “Looks like him. Masters—hey, isn’t that the guy from Wall Street facing criminal charges?”

  “Which guy from Wall Street?” Cohen flips the clear sleeve over and sees a neat column of shiny credit cards, stacked one atop another. “Aren’t most of them criminals?”

  “Fraud, racketeering, insider trading, money laundering—you name it and they’ve probably got it on their rap sheet.” Sean ticks them off on his fingers. “It was in the news, not sure when, but pretty recently. They’re building a huge RICO case
against a bunch of Wall Street bigwigs.”

  “If they’re building a case against him, how the hell did he end up here?” Cohen flips the wallet closed and stands up, glancing around. There aren’t any civilians around, the first officers on the scene having established a perimeter and marking it off, but there are lights on in the surrounding apartment buildings. “And what’s he doing with Sal?”

  “Good questions.” Sean hums thoughtfully. “Makes it less likely it was a random gang shoot-out, though, doesn’t it?”

  Cohen’s jaw cracks around a sudden yawn. “Nothing in this city is ever random,” he says once it passes. “Especially not lately. You got a bag for this?”

  Sean holds out an evidence bag and Cohen drops the wallet into it. He strips the glove off and tucks it into his belt loop, rubbing his hands together to get rid of the powdery residue on his palm and fingers. “Daniel should be here soon,” Cohen says, and Sean nods. “I’m going to start canvassing that apartment building in the meantime. Let him know where I am, and that I’ve taken Jenkins with me.”

  Sean nods again, the bag with the wallet swinging as he waves Cohen off. “Sure thing, kid.”

  Daniel didn’t expect anything else, really, but the apartment door isn’t latched properly and opens under the force of his knocking. He draws his gun, calling out “NYPD!” as he steps through the doorway. The apartment looks sparse and a little messy, but not ransacked. Daniel can’t tell whether there’s much actually missing, or whether it was just like that to begin with. A crash from further into the apartment makes him startle, thumbing the safety on his gun and putting his back to the wall as he heads toward the noise.

  A sudden yowling sound is the only warning he has before something darts out from the hall and sharp claws are sinking into his ankles. He yelps, stumbling backward and only barely managing to hold on to his gun. Instinct is telling him to fire but he keeps the safety on, sticking it back in the holster, and reaches blindly down. Claws rake across his exposed wrists and he swears, grabbing whatever is beneath his hands. When the metaphorical dust settles, he lifts it up and finds himself eye to eye with a small black-and-white cat.

  It hisses at him, twisting in his grip, but he doesn’t let go. “I’m already going to need a tetanus shot,” he says to the cat. “I don’t feel like stitches too.”

  Daniel realizes his predicament the second he goes to reach for his radio. The cat is still staring at him with narrowed, hatred-filled eyes. Daniel breaks the staring contest and starts backing toward the door. He’d seen a box in the hall near the stairwell on his way in that would do, at least temporarily.

  Brock gets out of the cab a few blocks away from the precinct, desperate for coffee and something to soak up the remnants of whiskey still clouding his head. There’s a coffee shop on the next corner with bagels in the display cabinet, and by the time he gets to the counter he can almost taste the thick-cut bacon and fried egg. The young woman behind the counter looks at him strangely when he asks if she can put it under the grill for a minute but doesn’t argue. By the time he collects his coffee, she’s coming around the side of the counter with a brown paper bag. It’s warm to the touch when she hands it over, and Brock manages a smile, already desperate to snag the table he can see a couple getting ready to leave out of the corner of his eye. He slips into one of the chairs split seconds before two lanky, plaid-clad men with matching oversized earphones can snatch the table, already bringing the coffee to his lips.

  They narrow their eyes at him in unison and he drops his gaze to the paper bag with the bagel in it, setting his coffee down and hurrying to tear the bag open. He feels at least 90 percent better the second he starts chewing, the grease and crunch of the bacon cutting through the soft dough and crumbly bits of fried yolk. A reasonable person would assume that, seeing as though he’s closing in on fifty, Brock has grown out of drinking away uncomfortable feelings at 3:00 a.m. They would be wrong.

  Logically, by the time he gets to the precinct, he knows that no one is judging him. None of them have the slightest clue what he was doing the previous night, and the only one obsessed with the thought that he’d given up a night of objectively good sex with a hot young man in favor of a bottle of whiskey and brooding is Brock himself. He drops the cardboard coffee cup into the bin out the front of the precinct, tugging at his tie and then smoothing down the front of his shirt. Professional. Brock can be the epitome of professional, especially with so much on the line.

  A dead gangster and a dead banker definitely calls for professional, which is why he isn’t expecting the receptionist to burst into giggles when he stops at her desk. She waves a hand at him, covering her face with her other hand, and then sucks in a deep breath.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she says. “They’re expecting you, it’s fine. Just head on in.”

  Brock lifts an eyebrow but she just turns, hunching over and breaking into giggles again. She says something to herself that Brock can’t quite catch, before the laughter turns into hiccups. He moves into the bullpen and sets a course for the conference room they’ve met in each time so far, nodding at the officers he recognizes.

  He’s greeted with the tired face of Roger Murphy in the corner, shaking his head but looking amused too, and the sound of more laughter. Cohen and Rhys are braced on the table, shaking with laughter, while Daniel aggressively flips through files. There are adhesive bandages dotting his bare forearms, and when Brock steps further into the room he can see that Daniel’s pants are rolled up to show the bandages on his ankles and calves too.

  “Don’t even ask,” Daniel says, not even looking up from the files. “I am not talking about it.”

  Brock looks to Cohen and Rhys, already feeling a smirk teasing at his mouth. Rhys curls the fingers of one hand into claws, his eyes crinkled with the force of the grin he’s sporting. Cohen mouths something at him but he misses it, distracted by the blur of movement as Daniel swings around.

  “Okay!” he hisses. “I got attacked by a cat, all right? I had a tetanus shot and the nurse laughed at me, and the people at the shelter thought it was the funniest thing they’ve ever seen too. Peter won’t even talk to me because apparently taking a psychotic cat to a shelter instead of adopting it when their owner gets shot is unforgiveable.”

  Rhys bursts out into guffaws, and Cohen drops his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking.

  “Simmer down, lads,” Roger says. “We’ve got two bodies, a psycho on the loose, and a ticking clock. Let’s get to work.”

  His brain has always been Derek’s biggest asset. He takes care of his body, eats well and exercises regularly, but his strength has always been in his command over words and facts and the people listening to him. The cotton wool stuffing his skull, overlaid with the constant bone-deep anxiety that won’t fade away, keeps pulling the words out of his reach. He knows that the doctor who talks him through post-concussion syndrome has done it more than once, but remembering anything that complicated is difficult. He knows he’s been to see James at least three times in the days they’ve been in the hospital, most of the time he can even remember each individual time, but it doesn’t stop the panic catching him off guard whenever he’s alone for more than a couple of minutes at a time.

  The doctor tells him that the sense of déjà vu he’s getting sometimes is a good sign, and they’re confident he’ll make a decent recovery. Derek isn’t brave enough to ask what a decent recovery is in comparison to a full recovery. He spends a lot of time thinking about the difference later, when the doctor is gone. Even through the haze, he knows he’s been in the hospital a lot longer than normal for a regular concussion and the other, minor, injuries.

  When Sam and Lydia appear in the doorway, the déjà vu hits again and he sits up straighter in the armchair. By the time he manages to lever himself up, his mother is at the doorway greeting them with kisses to their cheeks and quick hugs. His father has a gentle grip under his elbow, easing him up the rest of the way to his feet. Derek knows they’re there in the
room most of the time he is, but still ends up surprised when he jerks out of a doze to see them sometimes.

  “Hey,” Sam says, taking a couple of slow steps around his mother until he’s in front of Derek. The bloodshot whites of his eyes are even more obvious against the dark skin underneath them. “It’s good to see you awake.”

  Lydia comes forward to join him, moving slowly enough he can track her progress with slow, tired eyes. “You look better,” she says, her voice softer than it usually is. Rather, Derek thinks that it’s softer than normal. He knows who she is, and has distinct memories of her, but digging any deeper stirs up a dust-storm he gets lost in.

  “Doing better.” He straightens, the hand beneath his elbow falling away. His father still hovers close at his shoulder, a reassuring presence, but one that makes him bristle, too.

  “That’s good,” Sam says. He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again they are shuttered and darker, fixed somewhere around Derek’s chin. “We just wanted to drop in, see how you were doing.”

  “That’s kind of you, sweetheart,” Derek’s mother says, closing the door and coming around to Derek’s other side. “We dropped in on your dad earlier this morning and he seemed in good spirits.”

  “Kay was here yesterday for a couple of hours.” Lydia grins, shaking her head. “Sniping at each other for a while did him a world of good.”

  Derek thinks back to the day before, wondering whether Kay had dropped in to see him too, and why he couldn’t remember it.

  “She said to give you her best,” Lydia continues, her gaze steady on Derek’s face and the grin softening into a smaller smile. “When she dropped by your room you were asleep.”

  The fact that he hadn’t just forgotten something is a tangible relief and Derek musters up a half-hearted smile of his own in response. His father shifts behind him, and Derek startles, looking around as he takes a step forward. He regrets it immediately, a swell of vertigo punching out a hiss from behind his gritted teeth. Strong hands push him down into the armchair, and Derek keeps his eyes open even as everything blurs.