Sunday, December 19, 2004 10:47 p.m.
There were a few reasons you might be sitting at a bar late on a Sunday night; bad relationship, losing money, losing time, depressed about your team's losses or hell, your hair loss, balding, weight gain, wrinkles. There were a few reasons and she couldn't pick just one, but if she had to, she'd say...she loved a guy once who maybe didn't love her back and shit, hadn't she become what most adults were in this perpetual state of longing?
She teased a glass of scotch, had only taken two sips, and decided alcohol just wasn't going to cut it tonight.
Her phone rang and she pulled it from her coat, furrowed her brow at the number she didn't recognize.
"Hello?" she asked of the voice.
"Hello, Alexis. You might not know me, but I've been watching you. You're trying to solve my work, " the voice whispered.
The voice was an entity entirely of itself, though it belonged to a whole person. The voice was this misanthropic misfit cast out of society that had forgotten right from wrong and decided to play by its own rules. The voice had no name. You had to be human for that.
"Your work, " she spoke, "what a politically correct word for slaughter."
The voice made a clicking sound.
"Not nice, Alexis, not nice at all. Now, I have someone here who would like to talk to you."
She could hear the phone being passed off and suddenly a new voice took over. A shaky, frightened, God-please-help me kind of voice.
"Say your name, " the evil voice said.
Then the scared voice spoke.
"M-my name's S-sally Grenfield. Can you -- can you please come and get me? We're right here on 62nd Avenue. P-please?"
Alexis shut her eyes in pain, swallowed the lump in her throat. She threw a few bills on the bar, pulled on her coat quickly and left, keeping the phone to her ear awkwardly. She took off down the street, not bothering to hail a cab that, in the sudden traffic jam gathering, would take forever to manuever merely two blocks down.
She ran as fast as she could, the fastest she'd ever run, and a doom settled in her heart. She would get there quickly, but Sally Grenfield would be dead. He would never have let her divulge her location if he hadn't been sure of that.
"Hey, hey, pal, " she called to the voice, hoping if she could keep him talking he might forget he was intending to kill someone.
A silence passed for a few seconds that dragged on into years until the voice spoke again. She could've sworn, too, that she'd heard a bang go off in the distance.
"Sally was tired, Detective Collins. When you get here -- and it's the warehouse down the alley on 62nd, just so you know -- try not to wake her, okay? I wish I could stay and chat with you, but I actually have another appointment. Two women in one night, I must be lucky, right, Alexis?"
She went to speak again, but the click on the other end cut off any further attempts at conversation. It was perhaps the longest, most defeating run she'd ever had. As she neared the entrance of the warehouse, the smell of gunpowder stung her nose and she staggered at the entrance, putting a hand on the wall.
Pulling out her gun and flicking on her flashlight, she neared the body of Sally Grenfield, strapped to an old hospital gurney, a bullet through her head.
"Come out!" she shouted to the air.
"Come out here, you son of a bitch!"
Nothing moved, but she kept her gun poised and punched in Matt's number on her cell phone. After three unsuccessful tries, she the Lieutenant -- who promised he'd been down at the station in half an hour -- and Jeffrey Pesna who was already wide awake and offered his assistance where needed. He was damn well needed now.
After a while, she heard distant sirens. Not wanting to contaminate any possible evidence, she'd moved as far away from the body as she could, keeping her gun raised at all times, and just watched the woman she'd spoken to on the phone mere minutes ago.
Something bothered her suddenly. How the hell had the serial killer gotten her cell phone number?
Unless...
"Collins. You needed me, " Jeffrey Pesna said as he walked in, sporting gloves on his hands.
"Yeah, got another one, " she gestured to the body in front of her.
A team of CSUs came in behind him, evidence kits in tote, and scoured the scene. This was the freshest murder they'd seen in a long time and it was troubling to all, most especially Alexis.
Jeffrey stepped next to her, shaking his head.
"Shit, you must have gotten here almost immediately after she died, " he said, pulling at the latex around his fingers.
She nodded stoically, a swarm of emotions invading her body so heavily she couldn't be open to all of them or she would sink, right now, to her knees.
"He called me, " she said, distantly, her voice a flat line of numbness.
"What?" Jeffrey turned his head to look at her, suddenly noticing for the first time how hollow her eyes were.
"The killer, he -- he got a hold of my cell number somehow and called me. He put her, " she pointed at the body, "on the phone, made her beg me to find her. I -- I heard a gun go off and by the time I got here --"
He moved to her quickly, hand on her shoulder, "It wasn't your fault, come on, this guy's a sick bastard. He's playing with you, with all of us. He was going to kill her anyway, it's not your fault."
She nodded absently.
"And how the hell did he get a hold of your cell number?"
She shrugged.
"All right, after we brush over the scene, we'll track your call log and see what we can dig up."
Silence answered him and he brushed his shoulder against her, nudging her lightly from a nightmarish fog.
"Hey, come on. It's not your fault."
The words, repeated so profusely, rang empty now -- empty and meaningless. Suddenly, a thought came to her.
"Oh, God, Jeffrey, he said he had other business to take care of, talked about how lucky he was that he could kill two women tonight. He's going after another woman."
He nodded gravely, spoke to a few uniforms that had followed him, dispatched them, and called in for more backup.
"They're searching the city. We can't do anything right now but clean up this scene."
He nudged her forward with his gentle words and she cringed at the 's' carved in Sally Grenfield's chest. It was deep and long and would have killed her, she supposed, even without a bullet to her head.
That knowledge, however, wouldn't ease her guilt. She wouldn't be sleeping tonight, or for a long time.
Sally Grenfield's scared voice begging her to find her would echo in her heart and mind until the day of her own death.
*
If you sit, sit in a chair or...a bench -- a bench, a sturdy bench -- long enough, you see yourself in mirrors. Some of the mirrors are normal, like the one in your bathroom or dressing rooms. Some are distorted like the ones in a circus. You see yourself, all of yourself; how you were at five and ten, as a teenager and young adult; you see yourself as how you already are and how you might be.
Jack sometimes saw that little boy he once was, the one who cocked his head to the side and thought to ask his father one day why mom was sitting on the back porch smoking cigarettes she hid in her purse, crying about things he wouldn't understand until he was an adult and felt, himself, the absurdity of a cold ring that tended to slip off his finger anymore now if he wasn't careful.
Jack remembered being sixteen and finding his mom, for the first time, in the garage.
Why are you crying, Ma, what's wrong?
The walk home, the walk away from Samantha's apartment, was slow and long. Her words burned in his head, her tears stung his lips.
Ma, what's wrong?
Nothing, Jack, nothing. I'm just -- honey, let's...let's not tell anyone about this all right? It'll be our secret, okay? We like having secrets together, you and I? Remember when you were little and I used to tell you secrets and we'd have that special thing -- just us? Just don't tell anyone...
Sixteen. Sixteen was old enough to know that...people could be unhappy. So unhappy sometimes that they -- they just couldn't stay where they were. They were tired of sitting in a chair or on a hard bench watching themselves in mirrors that cracked with age and hollow screams. He should have known these things at sixteen, but he was too busy cleaning his own mirror for a time.
And he missed her most at Christmas. She had this way, this special way of decorating the house and making it warm and friendly and cooking the turkey just right for their huge family. The first Christmas that her stocking wouldn't adorn their fireplace was the first one he realized just how much he loved those things about her. He missed the way she messed up his hair when he would stand in front of their tree; the way she'd sneak up behind him and wrap a choking arm around his neck until he guessed who it was. He missed her most when he forgot what her perfume smelled like and how she used to do up her hair for church.
The first Christmas she was gone he had made a wish in church. It would be the last time he went to church for many, many years, save for the time he was obligated to be there by his marriage.
I haven't been the best son, I know that. If I was a good son, I would've...I would've kept her from dying. But I -- I miss her so much and I...it's Christmas. And I just...I just want my mom back, even if it's just once and only for a little while. I just want to...I just want to see her smile...
How young he had been then. With his knees bent over the hard kneeler in church, hands folded over the old wooden pew, there he'd knelt and asked for something he'd known, even as he said it, wouldn't come true. Then he had gone to war and he couldn't kneel quite like that anymore.
When he finally reached his home, he was satisfied to see the very alert police still guarding his house, nodded to them, and walked through his front door. His hands were numb, his body chilling. He looked down at himself and realized he was still wearing his work suit, nothing else. He hadn't even put a coat on.
The house was quiet and dim and Maria had gone to bed. A fog came over him and he felt surreal here all of a sudden, like he had a feeling that this would be the last time he could walk in this house as her husband.
Tugging at his tie, he threw it casually on the nearest chair, padded softly against the carpet and reached her door in silence. Once there, he pressed one hand on the wood, the other on the knob, and turned slowly as he pushed, stepping in with just enough room.
And there, in the darkness, he is the same man he's been since he was sixteen and sat on his own private bench, watching himself in mirrors and wanting to get up when those mirrors started to crack just like his mother's.
In the darkness, he's Jack Malone. Jack Malone whose great regret was always loving some people too much, too much he had to stop loving them -- and loving others...loving others not enough, not nearly enough.
Maria was turned to him, her face a mixture of anxiety and peacefulness, her comforter pulled tightly to her chin.
He stood next to bed, ran a hand against her comforter, through her hair and against her skin.
Then...then he knelt beside the bed and her, hands atop the sheets.
"I'm sorry, " he whispered at once.
"I'm just -- I'm just so sorry, " he spoke again, his voice breaking but staying so quiet he could barely hear himself.
"This -- this wasn't the life I wanted, Maria, I wanted -- I wanted everything I couldn't have when I was a kid. I wanted to love my wife so much she wouldn't have to hide her smoke and cry alone. I wanted my kids to see me all the time, so much they were sick of me...."
He folded his hands, flipped them over and through each other.
"This wasn't the life I wanted, Maria. I wanted to give you something you could smile about. I wanted...I wanted my faith because I haven't had it for so long. And I thought I could get it back if I had a good family, if I had this faith in family. But I wasn't strong enough."
She stirred a little, her eyes opening slightly and looking up at him in confusion.
"I'm sorry, " he repeated for the last time.
Maria stared at him for a moment, a stark understanding of everything coming over her. Then she pulled an arm out from underneath the comforter, squeezed his hand, and smiled sadly.
"It's okay, Jack. Just -- just kiss me goodbye."
He stood, wiped a few tears from his cheek, and kissed her forehead. He closed the door quietly and sat on the couch, hands dangling between his knees, head bent back against the cushion.
If you sat in a chair or on a bench, stayed in one place long enough, you saw the person you had been, the person you were, the person you wanted to be; saw the people around you and thought about who they were and how their own reflections melded with yours.
If you stayed in one place long enough, you stayed the same age forever and your life passed you by.
*
She had stolen money from her mother once. Had stolen it to run away from that house on Payton St., away from him and even her mother, because she lived there, and the irony of it wasn't lost on her. A moment of indecision had kept her still on that icy tile for a few minutes, her heart pounding as she pictured her father stumbling through the garage after a binge and finding her there.
But she'd done it and made it to the bus stop in the next town. It wasn't a long walk and it gave her time to think about where she was going. She had originally planned to take the first train possible, but decided to sit on the decision until morning, give her mind time to think about everything.
Her brother lived in Manhattan, she knew. She had spoken to him as much as she could, but then she stopped eventually when he started sounding like their father and it scared her. It scared her that the boy who had once stood in front of her to deflect their father's angry tantrums, the boy who had cringed in disgust at the drunken mess their father had become -- that this boy had become the man who sickened him years ago.
And she felt so very alone.
She had this picture in her mind of her brother as she sat in the bus stop on a warm summer night. Samantha had seen quite a few veterans come back from Vietnam. Most moved away, but one had stayed. He lived next door and had known her brother in high school. She remembered him giving her piggy back rides as a kid. When he'd returned, she'd walk by there sometimes and see him standing on the front porch, his clothes needing to be washed, a bottle of beer next to him, cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Sometimes she'd smile to him and he'd smile back and one day he asked her about guns and what she thought of them. Well, I don't like some guns, Patrick.
Which ones? he'd asked. The bad ones, she'd said, the ones that kill.
They all kill, Sammy, they all kill...
She touched the hilt of her gun now, ran her fingers along the barrel. That nickname reminded her of her father and Patrick Morrisey, the guy who'd once slipped her a five-dollar bill for candy and ice cream and took her trick-or-treating with her brother.
Stay away from guns, kid, they're no good for anybody. You go near one, you can't walk away from the screams of the dead...
Okay, Patrick, okay, she'd said, and walked away. Some time later, she'd walked by that house and he wasn't on the front porch, so she'd continued down her street to the bus stop, climbed on the bus and covered her ears the entire way to school. She'd heard a gun, she thought, a gun quiet and sinister and meant for death. She never saw Patrick Morrisey on that porch again and sometimes she missed his laugh.
She'd sat in the bus stop, scared to death her brother would become that, scared to death of being alone, scared to death about what would happen to her mother in that house with their father by herself.
Eventually, she'd made it to New York and joined the NYPD, moved up to Narcotics, and was paired with Vincent Marro, who she'd known little about. As time passed, she became aware of where the money he'd been making came from. He had been making money off the drugs they busted, reselling them on the streets. He caught her spying one time, slapped her around a bit to scare her. Her brother found out and helped her push a probation and transfer for him. Before it could fall through, he had tried to rape her. He'd finally gotten transferred and temporarily suspended for his actions and forgotten about her for a while.
She'd always figured his brother had helped with the light sentence he was given, seeing as he was a Lieutenant and friends with the Chief.
As she stayed lost in her thoughts for a moment, a man came up behind her, hit her on the back of the head. Before she fell to the darkness, she heard a voice say, "You'll be paying for what you did soon, bitch..."
*
Second chances tended to be few and far between and even the best of people weren't granted them, so if you got a second chance, you had to feel as though you were living on borrowed time because that's what it was. Everyday was a gift and if you forgot that, even for a minute, it would be a waste.
He'd found second chances in big and small things; in being able to wake up without a hangover; have a license he could keep; get a job he could enjoy and help people through; find his sister again and be the brother he hadn't been for so long.
And then there was his partner. God, was he an asshole. She'd wanted to talk, to help him, and he had to be so damn stubborn, let himself rise into that agitated state where no one could talk to him, not even her.
He finally stumbled into his apartment, drunk with fatigue, and played his blinking message.
"Matt? Matt, it's me. Listen, I'm uh, I'm down at the station, we've...God, we've got another one. Shit."
Her voice was trembling and laced with tears and he wanted to reach through the speakers and pull her into a hug.
"It was my fault. I should've -- maybe I should've called for backup, I don't know. I just -- I was at a bar and the killer, Matt, the fucking killer called me on my cell and had his victim, this woman, talk to me, tell me her name and where they were and beg me to find her..."
Shit, Lex. Christ Almighty, he thought.
"But she was almost gone, she was, I know, I saw the way he mangled her chest, but I just -- he shot her, I heard it. Maybe...maybe she could've made it, I don't know. I don't know anything right now. I'm tired of this, of all of it. Anyway, I'm heading to the lab, you don't have to come in right now, I'm working with Pesna. If we get anything positive, I'll give you a call."
The message ended and he picked up his phone to call her, to no avail. If she'd left for the lab by now, she would have turned it off. She didn't leave it on when she went there.
His heart broke for her and how he'd already hurt her himself. He should've been the one she could trust to never hurt her. And he'd broken that unwritten vow, and it broke him now. And he realized it then, in the dark of his apartment.
God, if she wasn't the reason he remembered to live each day.
*
12:31 a.m.
When he'd sent her on a walk with Jack, he hadn't intended for her to be gone so long. He thought they'd step outside for a while and be back. He'd dozed off for a little, woken up to find her still gone and now...now, he was starting to worry.
Danny stood, looked down the hallway at the girls to be sure they were still asleep, and picked up Samantha's phone to dial her cell. Odd. When he received no answer, the anxiety rose. He tried Martin, though he didn't know why.
He was surprised to learn that she was there and hung up the phone slowly, in deep thought. Samantha, he thought, don't do anything stupid.
*
She was grateful for Martin's gentle touch as he dabbed at her cut. It was so small and she felt lucky for it. She certainly didn't feel like explaining it to anyone, much less Jack. But she knew she would have to, given the circumstances and what he had said.
Martin watched her with worry as she recanted what had happened and what her attacker voiced to her.
"Could it have been the serial killer?"
"Why would he be targeting me? And, if it was him, he would have killed me, not let me go. This guy was just threatening me."
Martin pressed a small pack of ice to her head, held up a finger at what she'd said, and made a phone call. He nodded a few times at the phone, then hung up shortly after he'd first initiated the call.
"Shit, " he said.
"What?"
"Kenneth Mercel was released, we didn't have enough to hold him."
"Why wouldn't they tell us?"
"I have no idea, but he might have been the one to attack you. We've got to find him. And, I'm calling Jack."
She froze as he picked up the phone. This was all she needed. In the interlude, she reflected on Martin because he was there, thought of how far they'd come and the feelings he'd danced around with her. She could need him, she thought. She really could. Winter was cold and summer hot enough and there were always plenty of days to keep them in sync for a while. She could need him, really, except that...she really couldn't.
"He's coming over."
"Martin --"
"Listen, I can't argue with him, he sounded pretty worried."
She conceded and he grabbed the blanket from his couch, wrapped it around her shoulders.
"I'm going to be in my room, watching television, pretending not to be here. So if you need me, talk to Jack, " he winked, hugged her, and left, shutting his bedroom door behind him.
*
When Jack arrived, she had fallen against the couch with the blanket spread over her legs. He was wearing a coat this time, she noticed, and shook the snowflakes from the sleeves, moved to her as fast as he could without seeming to be too noticeably upset.
"Are you all right?" he asked, his dark eyes shining with worry as he rubbed the bump on her head softly.
She nodded, patted the cushion next to her and he swallowed, seemingly grateful she was allowing him even this.
He looked pained about something, something he had been suffering through for a long time, something she had never seen before.
"Jack, " she spoke, "what's wrong?"
"My mother, " he breathed after a beat.
"But your mother --"
"She's dead, yeah, but she -- forget it. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
She waved at him, her emotions rising.
"No, Jack, no way. You can't lie to me. I see your pain. Tell me."
He shook his shoulders, looked at her hands and ran a finger down her palm.
"She killed herself, Sam. She just -- she promised she wouldn't the first time I found her, but she did. And I missed her so much and it scared me when I forgot how her lasagna smelled and how her hair looked after it was washed. It scared me when I forgot her."
Tears pricked at his eyes and she closed her hand around his hand, pulled it to her tightly.
"When I met Maria, she was so smart, but...shy and lonely and she had this sadness in her eyes that...that...God, made me think of my mother. And I fell in love with her and what I thought she could be and I didn't want her to be my mother, I tried so hard to make sure she wouldn't. And, Sam, I just miss my mom."
She wiped at his tears with her free hand.
"You know, I used to think about how it would have been for her in that car. She wouldn't have died right away, she would have been sitting in there for a few minutes, at least. She would have had time to think about things. And I used to wonder what she might have thought about. If she'd thought about my father and how young she had been, how she might have changed her life if she had the chance. He was such a mean man, my father, I don't think he loved her at all. And I used to wonder if she would have thought of me and...and how I had let her down, " he choked on his last few words.
"Jack, " she spoke, "that's not true. You didn't let her down."
She unclasped their hands, pulled her against him fully now until his cheek was resting against her stomach and she could feel his sobs through to her heart. She ran a hand through his hair, thought of how much she'd been wanting him to cut it, and now embracing the long strands she could hold onto as she soothed her way through his pain.
"Don't you see?" she asked.
"She was lonely from the day she met your father. And you, Jack, you saved her from the moment you were born, kept saving her everyday you were alive. You saved her as much as you could, for as long as you could. She just decided...she decided she couldn't ask it of you anymore. You know what she was thinking in her last moments? She was thinking about her son Jack and this great man he would be someday."
Samantha spoke the words and held him, rocked him a little. She meant the words for him, but couldn't absorb the context. In reality, Doris Malone may have loved Jack very much but she had done the most selfish thing she could do. And she had to have known he would blame himself. It made her mad, in a way, but she brushed that away and continued hugging Jack.
He moved a hand up to her heart, held it there. I think I might love you forever, he thought.
*
12:57 a.m.
She had called Matt to let him know what they'd found. Days and days of agonizing over who had done it, and the answer was staring them in the face. The prints, the blood, the semen from the previous victim, they all pointed to one man: Vincent Marro.
Jack's team had been searching for a serial killer all along.
Jeffrey, surprisingly, wasn't that fazed by the results. As though he had known all along, somehow, that his partner was capable of something heinous like that. It troubled him, certainly, that he'd been paired with such a lunatic.
They had reached the station because she'd wanted to tell Lieutenant Marro in person that his brother was a serial killer. It wouldn't be easy, but the evidence was daunting against him. And the evidence didn't lie.
"Lieutenant Marro, " she said, without sitting down, "Detective Pesna and I ran the crime scene with forensics and followed them to the lab. We were able to get positive matches for all of our evidence."
"And?" he asked, hands folded pensively on his desk.
"And, sir, your brother is the killer. Given the previous prints we traced to Kenneth Mercel, we believe him to be an accomplice."
"Why not the other way around?"
"Because, sir, he left the actual murder weapon at the crime scene this time and Vincent's prints are all over it. I found a pin of his on one of the murder victims and given the previous expertise the killer used in cleaning up the crime scenes, it's more likely that Vincent would be the killer and not Mercel, " Jeffrey contributed.
"I see, " Joseph said, breaking his hands apart.
"Our problem here would be...my brother is still missing. The fact that you've discovered the identity of the killer doesn't help the fact the the murders will still carry on unless we apprehend him."
"Yes, sir, we're aware of that. It would be a problem otherwise, but your brother, as you know, made contact with me earlier this evening, " she said, shuddering at the conversation they'd had, "and he recently contacted me again, gave me the address of his whereabouts."
"And you believe him?"
"Well, sir, if he's not there then we'll have to think of something else. It's worth it to check it out."
Joseph nodded and stood, pulled a coat on.
"I'd like to join the both of you, if you don't mind."
"Of course not, sir. I'd like to call my partner real quick before we shove off."
He nodded and she stood aside, left a message on Matt's answering machine, closed her phone, and joined the two men as they left the station and headed for the abandoned warehouse in the Lower East Side.
*
He was certain that Alexis would be okay, given that she had both Jeffrey Pesna and Lieutenant Marro with her. But as partners, you couldn't entirely trust anyone that wasn't you to watch your partner's back. And he wouldn't sleep until he knew she was all right and Vincent Marro was finally given the justice he deserved.
Danny had called him with the news of Samantha's attack and Kenneth Mercel's release. They'd apprehended him again quickly and Matt decided to go in and see how it went and also to check up on Samantha.
He hadn't been into the FBI offices in quite a while. Samantha sat at the conference table in casual clothes, haggard and worn out, but managed a smile for him. He hugged her and walked into Jack's office, shutting the door behind him.
"Jack, " he said, "How have you been?"
They shook hands as Jack replied, "Not bad, Matt, you?"
"My partner's bringing in the scum that's kept us all up for the past week, I'd say I'm doing okay. You taking the first punch at the piece of shit who hit my sister?"
Jack chuckled.
"Wish I could, but I'd like to keep my job."
Matt nodded.
"Everything okay with your wife?"
"Looks like it will be now. She's sleeping, we've still got guards just in case."
"Besides that Jack, how are things with your wife?" he asked, raising his eyebrow pointedly.
Jack sighed.
"We...we did the best we could. But it's over."
Matt nodded again. "And how does Samantha fit into this?"
"She's...she's kept me sane."
Matt smiled now. "Look, Jack, I'll be honest. I'm not a fan of affairs, but I understand the circumstances of what transpired here. Regardless, Samantha's my sister and I don't take it lightly when she calls me in tears at three in the morning. So, I gotta say, I wasn't real happy with you for a while. But, you're all right, Jack. You just -- you've got to let her go or keep her."
Jack nodded and Matt was gone.
*
By chance or dumb luck, they'd found Kenneth Mercel and brought him in with handcuffs. Jack stood in front of him now, face like a barracuda preparing to eat its prey.
"You hit her, didn't you?" he said.
Kenneth remained silent.
"Didn't you, you son of a bitch!?" he spat now.
Kenneth's cuffed hands twitched in their bonds, his eyes darted around the room. Jack, now equipped with the knowledge that Vincent Marro was the serial killer and Kenneth, most likely the accomplice, leaned down and prepared to launch his first attack.
"We know you helped kill those women, Kenneth, we've got your prints. We brought Vincent in already and he's saying you did it all."
Kenneth swallowed hard, looked to Danny Taylor who stood still, too still, in the corner.
"N-no, no I didn't."
Danny moved in now.
"We're going to fry you, Kenny, hear your skin sizzle. You killed those women and you're going down for it."
"Okay, okay. I -- I helped him. He uh, he came to me, said he'd put me away for my drug dealing unless I helped him Plus, uh, he got rid of my girlfriend for me and she was such a pain in the ass."
"So you'd rather be put away for murder than drug dealing?"
"Look, he said his brother was a Lieutenant, chummy with the Chief, and we'd get out fine."
Danny and Jack exchanged worried glances.
"Joseph's in on this too?" Danny asked.
Kenneth nodded.
Shit.
Jack waved Danny out to tell Matt what was going on and get to his partner.
"Why was he targeting my wife?"
"Your wife? Shit. That was just a little detour for his real victim."
"And who is that?"
"Samantha Spade. He likes the names that start with 'S', you know? I think he really hates her, talked about her all the time and how she'd messed up his life and he'd get her back one day."
Jack clutched the table, suddenly lightheaded. But Samantha was safe and they'd get Vincent even if Joseph was in on it too. She would be safe. She would be. Oh, God. She had to be. He realized how truly over his marriage was when the idea of something happening to Samantha scared him more than the idea of something happening to Maria.
"Where is he?"
Kenneth was silent.
"Tell me where the fuck he is!"
"That's a surprise, " Kenneth whispered, a smile forming on his face.
*
1:49 a.m.
The idea that it would all be over soon eased the guilt from her mind, but only slightly. As they exited the car, she kept her gun at the ready, suddenly wished she had been able to speak to Matt in person before she actually walked into this shindig. But, he had said he'd take her out to breakfast and that was enough for now. They could make amends and continue on like they always had.
It was so dark and she fumbled with her flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. She would have prefferred using both hands to aim the gun, but she had to settle for this or she wouldn't even be able to see what she was shooting at.
The Lieutenant had suggested they split up, though she'd been reluctant to agree. Now, she was regretting it even more. Suddenly, time seemed to separate the spectrums of her world as she heard a gun go off close to where she stood.
Alexis spun her flashlight around in all directions, couldn't see anyone. Her heart thudded in her chest.
From the entrance, Matt pulled up as fast as he could, four cops behind him. As they entered, he waved them into different directions as they heard the shot go off. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach, hoping to God he could see his partner, know she was safe.
He hadn't heard a gun in so long. And his conversation with Alexis spawned memories of the war. He was standing here in the warehouse, freezing his ass off, carrying a pistol in the jungles of Vietnam. The world seemed to tilt on its axis for a little while and he could hear footsteps now.
Don't shoot, a voice inside him said. Don't shoot unless you know who's there. First rule.
"Matt!" A voice shouted from somewhere, somewhere in the pit of shadows.
"Matt, help me!"
He heard the footsteps coming closer and closer and spun and fired. The body fell and he searched for a flashlight, cursed himself that he hadn't brought one with him. He felt for a flashlight on the person he'd shot and, finding one, flipped the switch.
Upon seeing who he had shot, the light dropped from his hands, rolled on the ground.
"Detective Spade, sir! Detective Pesna's dead and we've apprehended Lieutenant Marro. Detective, we've got him in handcuffs."
There was a Heaven and a Hell on earth. The bad people went to Hell, the good ones to Heaven and that was all we seemed to know before we died. He had killed his own partner, felt for the pulse that was no longer there on her neck, saw the blood he had caused, and wondered where he'd be. Nowhere. He couldn't tell Heaven from Hell anymore.
Men kill, Matt...
Oh, God.
Men kill...
Fucking Christ. He touched her hair, her face, looked at his hands in the beam of light. The blood. The fucking blood. They didn't tell you that when you joined. They didn't tell you about the blood. About how it would never go away. They don't tell you when you become a cop that the blood never washes out, that you see it in your sleep, when you eat, when you talk and move and breathe and you try to wash it out but you rub so hard all you get is more blood and suddenly you realize it won't ever go away.
It started snowing outside again and he had blood on his hands and all he knew was that when it started to snow in December, he would bleed with her again.
So he sat there with her and the blood that had once been in her and vomited.