The Rookie Club: Dead Center Part 24

Chapter 27.

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 pa.s.sed. 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. G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 melted ice cream cone.

The burn in his throat was the best part-that and the numbness. He needed the numbness today, just for a while. 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.

He'd spent the weekend thinking about the first drink he'd take once she was gone. Just enough to survive the day. Maybe Jamie knew, but she didn't let on. She didn't want to know about his problems. Maybe she had once. Maybe a long time ago. He tried to remember life back then, but it was gone. Any tangible memories had grown into a handful of snapshots of grinning kids in goofy outfits.

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 G.o.d for the bottle. He glanced around at Jamie's house, at the unpacked boxes, the uncovered windows.

She was as f.u.c.ked 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 just waiting for him to f.u.c.k up-to go get drunk, to lose the latest no-end job, to come home a failure again. And it was that stare that ultimately led him to do just that-all in one f.u.c.king day.

"You're going to be late for work, Tony," she nagged. "You can't be late. We need this job. We have to pay the mortgage. I can't do it alone." It was like a tape on repeat, and the words bounced off his skull until it was too much.

Then came the day he just didn't want to go. It was a worthless job at a stupid factory in Jersey. It wasn't even a job he would have taken if not for her. He would have just collected unemployment and waited for a chance to get back into the department. He was a firefighter-that was his calling. He'd been a firefighter in New York's Battalion 1, Civic Center, for eleven years. She wanted him to go to work in a f.u.c.king factory. Christ, even a lame security position was a step in the right direction compared to that.

He woke up on a Tuesday-a Tuesday so much like the one when Mick had died-a beautiful crisp Tuesday in the fall. Blue skies and clear. Clear enough to fly a G.o.dd.a.m.n plane right into downtown Manhattan.

s.h.i.t, he just didn't want to go to work, couldn't handle it.

"I'm not going in today," he'd said. That should have been okay. She should have known that he just needed to blow off some steam. It was understandable. Some years had pa.s.sed, but it was almost the anniversary of that day. s.h.i.t, September 11th. On that September Tuesday, he'd been out of the department for two months. And he'd been sober.

Thank G.o.d he'd been sober that day. Not that it mattered. Not that sobriety had kept him and Mick from arguing. Tony had been heading into the North Tower. Mick was already inside. He told Tony to get lost, but Tony was too stubborn. He wouldn't leave, so they'd argued. Mick left, taking the South Tower instead. That was the last time Tony saw his brother. Mick never made it out.

Tony must have replayed those last minutes with his brother a thousand times. Maybe if he'd been drunk that day, Mick would still be alive. Mick might have gotten Tony tossed out of there altogether. Tony might have stumbled home, away from the towers before either had fallen. Mick might have gone up the North Tower instead of the South Tower. Or maybe Mick would have been the one to drag Tony away. Maybe taking care of his little brother would have saved his life.

If Tony hadn't been there, Mick might have gotten out. Tony took another drag on the bottle. He closed his eyes and pictured that day-the cloudless sky, a perfect fall day in New York.

It was just two months after Tony had gotten canned. Fired for showing up drunk. It had been a four-alarm fire at the Millennium Hilton on Church Street. They'd called him in and he'd come. It was his day off, but they needed the manpower. He shouldn't have gone.

Deborah had tried to stop him, but he didn't listen.

He got in his car and drove there, stinking drunk. Mick sent him home immediately, but he didn't listen. Mick had pleaded and fought, dragged him away from the burning building. Mick had tried to save Tony-his life, his job. And in return, Tony had gotten Mick killed-gotten him killed with his own stubborn stupidity. Tony thought he could handle it. Tony always thought he could handle it.

He knew better now. His battalion commander had come to see what was going on, why Mick wasn't up in the building, why they were wasting time fighting each other instead of the angry blazes. Tony had tried to push by. He'd fought with his commander, told him off, and was fired. That was July 9th.

Two months, two days later, he was working security in 5 World Trade Center. He'd been on at seven a.m., was in the lobby of his building, watching people in fancy suits come and go when they'd heard that first explosion. He'd looked at his watch exactly one minute before-eight forty-five. He had a break at nine. He never took it.

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, let 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 s.h.i.t together.

He pa.s.sed 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. He heard only the wind.

He started to close the door when Barney barked. He glanced at the dog, stepped 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 he could 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. As he turned, 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 still 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, pushed himself faster, fighting 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. Holy s.h.i.t, 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 looked down at him, felt his own heart roar in his chest. He saw the gentle rise and fall of the boy's breath.

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.

"Come on, buddy. 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 didn't think he could take another death. Please don't let anyone else die.

Chapter 28.

Jamie couldn't face Mackenzie after the lineup. Marchek had gotten away again. Jamie should have been supportive, rea.s.suring but instead, she'd muttered a few words and scuttled away like a roach under lights. So she was a coward. d.a.m.n 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 b.i.t.c.h. He'd played all the right head games. In the line up, he repeated his lines as though 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d go.

Worse, Jules had drawn the line on more surveillance. The current hold ended an hour ago. Nothing she could do. It was too cost prohibitive to watch him. She wondered what a future victim would pay to avoid being attacked, but she knew she couldn't think about it in those terms.

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 d.a.m.n 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 sh.e.l.l 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 d.a.m.n if she didn't try like h.e.l.l. The rest of it, though-equal and exact justice-these were a farce. Was Marchek getting his equal justice? What about a c.o.c.kroach 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 G.o.d's sake, did anyone really get justice or was it just 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 language, disgusted. Now the words served to mock her every effort. She sucked in the last drag of her cigarette and tossed the b.u.t.t 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."

"Hey."

"Where are you?"

"Outside."

"I heard it didn't go well with Marchek," Hailey said.

"We let him go."

"I'm here with Chip Washington. We've got a list of the men. You want to take a look?"

Jamie frowned. "Devlin?"

"Yeah."

"Sure."

"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 h.e.l.lo, his face solemn.

She glanced down at the paper Hailey held pressed under her palms. "The list?"

Hailey nodded, slid it to Jamie.

Jamie turned to Washington. "I didn't think Devlin was your case."

"No, it's Anderson's, but he's got court tomorrow, so I came in his place."

"You've seen the list, then?"

He nodded. "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.