Chapter 3
Jim sat at the kitchen table, the coffee in front of him already cold, his elbows on the table, hands clasped. He made them into a temple and concentrated through the blindness. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe he could will himself to see. That had been the initial plan when he was in the hospital. It had never worked, but sometimes he still had to test the theory. He felt so locked in, he just wanted to break out. He wanted a change of scene.
"You keep doing that, you're going to drive yourself crazy."
Jim let his hands drop so fast he nearly upset his coffee mug. He clenched one fist on either side of the cup. "Morning," he said. He hadn't heard Christie get up.
"Morning." Her smell wafted over and he turned his head. Something expensive and obviously manufactured—no natural smells for his wife. She kissed his cheek.
It was the same every morning. Jim was afraid to break the spell; they were co-existing so peacefully without fighting. Maybe it really wasn't fair to her to ruin her birthday by bringing up the fact that he'd forgotten it. He could wallow in his own guilt and never say anything, and things could go on just like they were.
"Where were you last night?"
Jim furrowed his brow, following her footsteps as she moved around the kitchen. He leaned back. "I could ask you the same thing."
"I came home after work to let you know we'd been invited out to dinner. So I went without you."
Jim nodded. She could have called his cell phone, if she'd really wanted him to come. "I stopped by Morrissey's… I wanted to know if any of the old guys were still going there."
"Are they?"
Jim shrugged. "I dunno." There was silence. She was waiting for him to explain, but he couldn't. In the light of day, even if he couldn't see it, thoughts of the old group were even more distracting. He didn't want to admit to Christie that, if they were still around, the only person who would still talk to him was the bartender. He bit his lip; he didn't want to admit that to himself. "How was dinner?" He got up to dump out his coffee, half listening, half thinking. He definitely wasn't the same man if he could walk into a bar without people jumping up to come talk to him.
Guffawing wasn't a sound you usually heard around a bunch of homicide detectives, but that's the first thing Jim heard when he got off the elevator. The sound quieted to muffled snickers as he got closer. Marty and Tom, and even a few snorts from Fisk. Someone coughed and someone else laughed harder. Jim ignored them and headed for his desk. They could laugh at him all they wanted. He didn't even want to know what it was about—he probably wouldn't like the answer.
He dropped off his laptop then headed for the locker room. Behind him everyone started talking at once.
"Hey, Jim," Marty said later, leaning over in his chair, "my wife and I are going out of town this weekend—"
"Good for you," Jim interrupted. He didn't want to know where this was going. Things had quieted down when he got back from his locker, but maybe that had just been to lull him into a false sense of security.
"We were wondering if you could baby-sit. Play a few games, make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich…"
Tom snorted.
Hank sneezed, but Jim swore even that sounded like a dry laugh. He tried to smile himself. "So you wheedled the story out of Karen, huh?"
"Wheedling wasn't necessary. She came running in early this morning going, "Guys, guys, I just have to tell you about everything before Dunbar gets here.""
"Sounds just like her," Jim said.
"Come on, Marty," Karen said. She sounded embarrassed.
"Karen," Jim said, spinning his chair toward her, "I've been curious, what were you doing the whole time I was getting mauled by toddlers?"
"Laughing," Karen said with a grin. "And watching the sidewalk," she said more seriously. "I dunno, but I had a weird feeling."
"You see anything? Like anyone who might have taken Samantha? Waiting for her?"
"I'm not sure. We were eight floors up, but there were some people just hanging around down there. I wanted to make sure there was no trouble."
"And leaving Dunbar to deal with some slimy kids on his own was incentive, right?" Tom said.
Karen laughed.
"Guys," Jim complained.
"Oh, Jim, you should have seen it." Karen snorted.
"That's unladylike, Karen," Jim teased.
Karen snorted again. "I can't help it. It was like we were walking into an ambush."
"You ever been in an ambush, Karen?" Jim asked.
"No…"
"I have."
"Oh. Sorry." She sounded uncomfortable.
Jim grinned. "Just kidding."
"You can't listen to him about anything that happened during the Gulf," Tom said.
"Got it," Karen said. But she'd sobered up and Jim could hear her typing at her computer again. It was quiet for a minute before Karen laughed and the mirth returned to the squad.
Jim smiled finally and gave in. "Okay, tell me the story." He hadn't wanted to hear her version; he'd been there himself. It worried him to think of just how ignorant he might be, finding out how little he could actually observe, how much he was missing. He didn't want to know.
"Jim, the little girl that took your sunglasses—first she stuck her hand in the jar of jelly, like she knew what she was doing. She took off your glasses and while she smeared your face, she dropped a big glop on your head."
Jim wrinkled his nose and found one hand traveling to the top of his head to make sure all the jelly was gone. "Yeah, Karen, I was there."
"She was throwing jelly at Hank, too. He kept eating it."
Jim groaned. "Hank," he admonished. "So much for being well-behaved."
Hank licked his lips. He didn't often get treats—he was on a strict diet to keep him fit for duty. But oh, he sure liked that Cindy kid. And that jelly. Hank found he was drooling like a dog.
"And she put your glasses in the jelly jar."
"Good to know." He reached up and straightened his sunglasses. It had taken a good soaking before they'd been safe to wear again. He'd felt naked the day before, coming back to work without his sunglasses.
"I guess it wasn't as funny when you lived it?" Karen asked.
"Karen, I've been beaten by perps. I've been shot. I've been threatened and pushed around. And nothing compares to being accosted by four sticky children while your partner daydreams out the window."
"Sorry."
Jim grinned. "You're supposed to be watching my back."
"I did! Trust me, they didn't get any on your back."
Jim rolled his eyes. "Stop smirking."
"I'm not," Karen protested.
"You are, too," Marty said.
"He doesn't need to know that," Karen whispered.
Jim grinned. He already knew.
"Hey, Marty," Jim asked suddenly.
"Just a second," Marty mumbled.
Jim waited patiently. He vaguely wondered what the other detectives were doing. It was part of his nature as a cop to be observant. Marty and Karen were both quiet, but the squad room was loud enough with other people talking that it masked the quiet tell-tale noises of pens scribbling on paper and mouse buttons clicking. Tom had been on the phone for an hour trying to dig up information about someone named Pipsqueak. Jim could tell by the sound of his voice and the questions he was asking that he was getting exasperated. He was tapping a pen on the desk, getting louder and more staccato with every phone call.
Hank was snoring. He slept a lot during the day and had extra energy at night, more energy to play havoc on the apartment and drive Christie crazy.
Hank was dreaming. He was with a dog he'd met back during school for guide dog training. Her name was Sonja. Woof.
"Hank." Jim touched the sleeping dog.
Hank felt a hand on his side, heard his master's voice and struggled out of sleep. He sat up, ready for battle.
"You have to sleep more quietly, bud," Jim said and scratched Hank between the ears.
Hank bit back angry thoughts. This was Jim, the dog food guy. He didn't deserve to lose a few fingers. But it had been such a nice dream.
He whined, trapped by indecision. Killer instinct or good dog?
"It's okay," Jim said. He scratched Hank's head.
Yeah, you'd think that, Hank thought, lying back down. But if you'd ever met a girl like Sonja instead of the one you did…
Tom was wheedling, cajoling, swearing intermittently. The phone call wasn't going well. It sounded like Karen threw something at him because he pulled the phone away after a clattering sound and explained how this was the best way to get information.
"Yeah?" Marty asked, spinning his chair around.
Jim blinked and pulled himself out of observation mode. "You're a pretty good judge of character…"
"Don't flatter me so much, Jim."
"What'd you think about those two families?"
Marty made a noncommittal noise. "They weren't much help, if you ask me."
Jim nodded. "Karen said the same thing."
"But you got some info out of them."
"I got lucky. Did they tell you anything at all? Or talk about anything out of the ordinary?"
Marty was quiet for a minute.
"Careful, Marty," Karen warned, "he's in brain-picking mode."
"What'd you think of Rico Artez?" Jim asked.
"I thought he was a pain in the ass."
"Do you think he knows anything?"
"About our DOA? I don't think he knew the guy and I don't think he knew who killed him, either. Just scared. I bet he knew the guy was there, but that's about it. Not enough for you to be taking care of his family."
"What about the sister and the girlfriend?"
"They didn't say much."
"Jim," Karen warned, "stop giving us that 'you're no help' look."
Jim turned away and frowned. "Sorry."
"Look, Jim," Marty leaned forward, "sometimes you just have to accept that there are no clues."
"I'm not giving up, Marty," Jim said without turning to face him.
"I'm not asking you to. I'm just saying you might need to stop digging here and start looking somewhere else."
Jim nodded. Those were always the tough calls. When to give up, when to look elsewhere, and where to look when they did. If Artez and his sister didn't pan out, then what? If they never found out who the DOA was, they'd never have any other clues.
"Karen, maybe we should check into Uncle Josiah."
"What, you think he might know something?"
"Nah, let's check just for fun," Jim said with a grin. "If nothing else, maybe he can help. Maybe he can take the kids in while Artez finds a job. It would give them someplace to sleep."
"Hey," Fisk said from his doorway. "Coroner just called. Unconfirmed substance in our DOA's blood."
"Unconfirmed?" Karen asked, beating Jim to the question.
"Yeah. They found a trace of something early on, but wanted to be sure. They can't lock it down."
"So it's not alcohol or a common street drug?" Marty asked.
"Doesn't look like it. Could be a combination of things, but they can't isolate enough of it to be sure."
"So if it's not something normally found in the body, they think it was ingested?" Jim asked.
"Yeah."
"Purposefully or accidentally? Or maybe someone slipped him something?"
"Can't tell."
"But they've ruled out the gunshot wound as cause of death?"
"Pretty much. It could have exacerbated the condition of the drug. But they said the wound looked more like it was just for show."
It was Karen's idea to go back to the crime scene. Jim had been surprised because she usually didn't ask for a re-canvas.
"You're rubbing off on me," Karen said as she slammed her car door. "I just think we may have missed something."
"I hope so," Jim said. He settled into the passenger seat. If they hadn't missed anything, they were getting to that point where they'd just have to close the case for insufficient evidence. Those cases always hurt. He at least wanted to identify the DOA so it wouldn't just end up a John Doe with no family, hopefully the family could be notified and move on with their lives.
"I don't know," Karen said as they pulled up to the old mansion. "You and I looked it over so thoroughly before…"
"Now there's no one around. Maybe we'll be able to see something without tripping over anyone." Jim let Hank out of the back seat and followed Karen.
"I'm just glad I'm not the blind one, having to rely on someone else to describe everything. Having to be the one with all the ideas."
Jim shrugged. He missed being able to pour over a crime scene, but he didn't want to think about it. He just had to find ways to compensate. "Let's start upstairs and work our way down."
"I can't believe anyone's lived here at all," Karen grumbled after searching the upstairs rooms. "Jim, I'm even looking at the baseboards, trying to find a trapdoor or something. Maybe the fireplace swings out and there's a secret passageway."
Jim smiled and ran through everything she'd described. He could practically see the rooms, she'd been so thorough. Bits of wallpaper still stuck in the corners of the closet. Places the carpet was more worn than others. The way the windowsills had warped so the windows didn't fit right.
"Four completely empty rooms, if you can believe it."
"If it wasn't you looking around, I wouldn't believe it. But I trust you." Jim had searched one closet while Karen did the rest of the rooms. He'd even let Hank sniff around and play police dog, but Hank hadn't found anything out of the ordinary.
The stairs were clear, too. Nothing. Ballistics had taken the bullet out of the stair it had been lodged in.
"This is the cleanest house I've ever seen waiting to be torn down."
Jim chewed on his lip. "A house that doesn't need to be condemned, and a body that really shouldn't have died."
"Let's search the basement." Karen led the way out back where the only entrance to the old cellar was set into the ground. Jim lifted the old door for her and slowly descended the dank cold stairs.
"I can't find a light switch," Karen said after a minute. "Probably they never got any electricity down here. Just the old boiler, not even a furnace. Dirt floors. Cobwebs." She shuddered. "I can hardly see anything."
"Smells like they've had a lot of water damage."
"I'm standing in a mud puddle. That tell you anything?"
Jim smiled and took her arm. "That it? Nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"Then let's go." Jim made sure she made it out of the mud puddle without slipping, then he turned and led the way upstairs. His shoulders slumped as he reached the fresh cold fall air. He couldn't feel the sun, probably cloudy and overcast, a perfect day to die, perfect for a funeral, for pouring over a crime scene. He just needed a ray of hope.
"You okay? Sorry we didn't find anything. I thought we might."
"We can't solve them all. I just wish we knew something. Anything. That's what bugs me. This place is too clean. You said it was freshly painted. Why would someone paint a place they were going to tear down?" Jim paced back and forth in the small back courtyard.
Hank watched, ready to jump in at any time. Karen stood next to him, also watching Jim.
"Jimmy…" Karen said slowly. "We'll find something."
Jim smiled grimly. "You don't need to try to cheer me up, Karen."
Karen sighed audibly.
Hank nudged her hand. He liked Karen. She was a good human, always ready to help. And she kept an eye on Jim whenever Jim left him in the car. Hank was grateful to her for that. He nudged her hand again.
"You have a cold nose, Hank," she said, but she reached down to pet him.
Jim stopped pacing. "It's cold."
"Yeah." Karen shivered. "Thanks for reminding me."
"Even Hank's cold."
"Hank, are you cold?" Karen leaned down to his level and he licked her face. "He says he's freezing and can we go get some coffee."
Jim turned back to the house. "The house wasn't cold." He paused, staring through the fog. "But you wouldn't really notice because a radiator doesn't make a lot of noise."
"So?"
"So what's the boiler doing on?"
Karen moved next to Jim and put a hand on his arm. "And," she said, "why's the electricity still on?"
"Who's paying the bills?"
"Nothing," Tom said, hanging up the phone.
"I called Sonny," Jim offered.
"Ooh, calling in the big guns," Marty said.
"You find anything, Marty?" Jim asked, leaning back in his chair to face the other detective.
"I think the guy's playing with you."
"Thanks for the opinion," Karen said.
"Pipsqueak doesn't seem like much of a street name," Tom said.
"Yeah, I know…" Jim trailed off, trying to think, but nothing new came to mind. Even if there was a good chance they were getting played, Jim wasn't ready to give up yet. "Some church is paying the bills on the old house. They probably forgot to get the utilities turned off. What'd we find out about Artez, DeLana, and their creepy uncle?" Jim asked Karen.
"They don't exist," she replied. "IRS doesn't even have anything on them."
"Great," Marty said.
"And still no word on the autopsy or the identity of the DOA," Tom supplied. "It's like none of these people existed, and when they die, all they'll leave is a corpse."
"You're a ray of sunshine today, Tom," Karen said.
"Anytime. Hey, Karen, if I break up with Nikki, you think that friend of yours would go out with me?"
Jim held his breath. He could almost feel the look he was sure Karen had shot in his direction.
"Nah. She doesn't date cops."
Jim let Karen guide him. They'd gotten a call about another DOA and had hurried out, hoping for an easy case they could clear in a day or two, something to give them a reprieve from this mess with Artez and the Owl kid, as Jim had started calling him because of his t-shirt. They walked into an old shop that seemed muffled and stifling to Jim. He kept close to Karen. The room was small and filled with other cops.
"Caucasian, female, blonde," an officer said, meeting them in the room. "About 23 or 24."
Karen stopped walking and Jim stayed at her side, waiting for her description of the new DOA. Karen was shaking her head and reached up to pat Jim's hand on her arm.
"Well, Jim, it looks like you'll never get to talk to her now," Karen said.
"Who?" He set his jaw. He had a hunch, that awful sick feeling he got during cases where everything went wrong.
"Samantha."
Jim let go of Karen's arm and stepped back. Yeah, everything was bound to go wrong in this case. If only the officers had stopped Samantha from leaving the day before. Or if he and Karen had been able to find her. Why'd she ever leave in the first place? Artez had said he knew she wasn't coming back, was surprised she'd actually left, like he knew she wouldn't live. But if she'd known she was going to die, why would she have gone anyway? And who would have wanted to kill her? Artez had to know. He'd said several times that Samantha and his sister were in trouble. He'd have to talk now.
"She doesn't have any ID," an officer said. "Did you know her?"
"From another case," Karen said and filled the officer in on what they did know about the elusive Samantha.
"You okay, Jim?" Karen asked when she was done.
He turned toward her. "Yeah." Actually, he wanted to hit someone. If Artez had told them before whatever it was he knew, they could have saved her. She didn't have to die. "How'd she die?" he asked, trying to stay calm and impartial.
"Shot in the shoulder," the officer said.
"In the shoulder?" Jim asked incredulously. "They hit a massive artery or something?"
"I don't know. I'm not a doctor. She was shot."
"Once?"
"Yeah."
Jim turned away from the officer and straightened his sunglasses. "Karen?"
"Doesn't look fatal," she confirmed.
Jim took a couple steps away from the body. They'd found Samantha on the floor of an old grocery that was being converted into some shop or other. No sign of forced entry. No witnesses. One of the contractors had found her.
"Face down."
"How's she look?"
"Not bad. Considering." Karen looked her over more closely. "Looks like she was a chocolate fanatic—it's all under her fingernails."
"What's she wearing?"
"A green t-shirt. Brown pants."
"Shoes?"
"Yeah. Cross trainers like she was wearing the last two times."
Jim felt Karen push against his shoulder.
"They're bringing the stretcher."
Jim moved until Karen stopped pushing. He could feel a half-finished wall behind his back—beams and insulation.
Karen swore under her breath. "Green t-shirt, orange letters. It says, "meow," not capitalized."
Jim turned to face where they were moving the body, as if he could see and confirm what Karen had just said.
"Won't hold up in a court of law, but we have a connection."
Jim reached for his phone. "We better have them move Artez and the others." Move them, and then go over and beat the piss out of Artez. Jim wasn't going to let anyone else die just so Artez could pretend he didn't know anything.
Jim paced impatiently behind Karen while she talked to the coroner on the phone.
"Jim," Karen said, annoyed.
He stopped. "What?"
"I'm on hold. And if you don't stop pacing right behind me, I'm liable to scoot my chair back and run over your foot."
"Violent today, Karen?" Marty asked.
Jim couldn't sit down. He felt confined. He moved away from Karen and stood facing the window to give her some space. He could go pace in the locker room. Or he could take Hank out and wander the streets aimlessly, but nothing much was going to get rid of this excess energy. It was frustrating, being frustrated. He still hadn't talked to Christie, the case wasn't getting anywhere, and he felt like he needed a new hobby. Hanging out at a bar without anyone to talk to wasn't working. It used to be, the past several months, that by the end of the day he'd be exhausted and he'd just want to go home. But as he got more comfortable with the job and the people and even with being blind, he found he had energy to spare. He really was starting to feel like his old self again—impatient and needing to multitask.
Karen was uh-huhing into the phone again. Jim spun around, ready for any information to twist around in his mind. He almost started pacing again, but caught the back of his chair and held on.
Karen set the phone down quietly, more quietly than usual. She didn't say anything right away. Jim sat down and spun his chair to face her. "Okay, tell us."
"She was pregnant. It was a boy."
Jim stared incredulously at the blankness that would have been Karen. "Did she look pregnant?" he finally asked.
"I guess. I just thought it was left over from the other baby. Some women have trouble losing that weight, you know."
"Can we tell who the father was?"
"I asked them to run that test. We'll get a blood sample from Artez when we bring him in, but I have a feeling it's not his kid."
"Sounds like you're working on a soap opera," Marty said.
"And getting more complicated all the time," Karen replied.
DeLana and the kids were left to stay safe at the new apartment, but Artez was pulled to identify the body. Jim was so anxious for answers he wanted to intercept Rico Artez before he could get to the morgue.
"Jim, you have to be patient. We'll give him a few minutes, then we'll go down and talk to him, okay?" Karen said calmly.
Jim was standing behind his desk chair, unable even to sit down. He shook his head. "Let's bring him up here. I want to talk to him in private."
"You'll stay calm, right? You're not going to do anything rash?"
"Karen, don't you know me by now?"
"That's why I'm asking."
"Karen, if he'd told us something before, there'd be one less dead body in New York, did you ever think of that? If he'd just come clean, one less person had to die."
"Maybe he thinks if he'd come clean, his sister and the kids would have been killed, too. Did you ever think of that?"
"I just want some answers. That's all. And we're keeping him here until we get them."
"Okay," Karen agreed. "Just keep your head. I'll bring him up and we'll meet you in room 2, okay?"
Jim tried to wait patiently, but he was staring at the window of the interview room when Karen finally showed up. He listened to the door open and his fists clenched.
"Detective," Rico Artez greeted him with a sniff.
Jim's eyes narrowed. Crying again, but he wasn't going to get any sympathy this time. He had to reign in the desire to order the other man to pull himself together. He had to be calm; the man's girlfriend had just been found dead.
"Who's it going, Rico?" he said without turning.
"You know," Rico said.
"You feel responsible for her death?"
"I didn't kill her!"
"I didn't say you did." Jim finally turned around. "I just said you should feel responsible. I can't help but wonder, if you'd been honest with us from the start, would she still be alive?"
The room was quiet and Jim moved forward and pulled out a chair. "Have a seat and tell me. What do you think about that?"
There was silence for a minute, then Jim heard Artez and Karen both sit. Jim leaned back to wait. He knew this wasn't going to be easy. Getting information could take all day.
"They know I'm here," Artez whispered. He sounded scared.
Jim pressed his lips together. "Tell us, who knows you're here?"
"The ones who killed Samantha."
Jim nodded. They were finally getting somewhere.
"I don't know who they are or how to find them. Samantha did. But if you take me back to DeLana, they'll know. They'll follow me and they'll kill her. I won't ever be able to see her again. Don't take me back," he pleaded.
"Give us some straight answers and we'll take care of it."
"I told you! I don't know! Samantha knew, that's why they killed her."
"Rico," Karen said, leaning across the table to take his hand, "why'd she leave yesterday? Where'd she go?"
"She didn't know where she was going or why she was leaving. All she knew was she had to go. She said she'd seen a sign, like a biblical prophesy or something. They were calling her back."
Jim sighed. "Can you start at the beginning?"
"If I do, they'll kill DeLana, too. I can't."
"So what are we supposed to do with you?" Karen asked. "Obviously you know something. You just won't tell us. We can just sit here all day and wait, you know." There was silence. A minute passed, two minutes. Rico Artez was shifting in his chair. He'd started sniffling again.
Jim waited. He hoped Karen had one of those looks that could make a person speak. Jim had prided himself on the way he could look at someone and they would just break down, but now he had to let Karen take care of the non-verbal communication. He hoped she looked scary, yet sympathetic, no-nonsense, but someone a person could open up to. It was asking an awful lot, but Jim knew Karen could handle it. He really did trust her.
"Accessory to murder," Karen finally said. "We'll book you."
Jim blinked, surprised at first. "Sounds good to me." He stood.
"Don't I get a say in this?"
"We don't even need a statement from you. You withheld information. If you don't talk, you're arrested," Karen said.
"I guess I don't have a choice," Artez said quietly.
Jim swore under his breath. But at least Artez would be safe, and maybe a night in jail would help soften him up.
Jim realized he must have had that spaced out look the other detectives liked to tease him about because Karen put a hand on his shoulder as she passed behind him on the way to her desk.
"Jim, you can't prevent every murder," she said quietly.
He listened to her sit, but didn't turn toward her as he shrugged. "Wish I could."
"If you could have prevented any crime in New York, which one would you pick?"
Jim thought about it for only a moment before tossing her a smile. "I'd save John Lennon."
It was odd, he realized a minute later. He hadn't picked the bank robbery. He could have saved himself. He could have saved Terry. He could have saved all those cops.
Yet he really wanted to give peace a chance.
He'd had a dream the night before that was still making him shudder. It was the same as always, but opposite. He hadn't been the hero, he hadn't been the one to shoot the gunman at the bank. He'd been crouched where Terry usually was, already blind. As helpless and as handicapped as Terry had been. He couldn't see and he didn't have a gun. He couldn't help, even if he'd wanted to.
That scared him for Karen's sake. He was her partner now. Against a gun, he was helpless. Up close, he could pummel a guy, but from far away all he could do would be to stumble in the general direction and pray he made it in time. Or stay out of the way.
They went to another sports bar, but all the TVs had been muted and the juke box turned up. The place sounded packed and Jim remembered how uncomfortable he'd been the only other time he'd been out alone with Tom and Marty. It just wasn't the same, watching a game on TV that he couldn't see. The TV announcers weren't as in-depth as the ones on the radio and it had hit Jim that he'd lost another thing that had been such a big part of his life. He hadn't stayed very long that time.
And now there were people everywhere. The bass was blasting and Jim couldn't imagine how anyone could hold a conversation. He held tightly to Hank's harness as they walked through the bar, looking for an open table. It seemed like a lot of tables had been moved from the front of the bar to make room for dancing. Jim's muscles were tense by the time he'd pushed his way through the crowd. Already he wanted to leave, but he didn't want to have to get to the door.
They found a table at the side of a small back room, far enough away from the juke box that they didn't have to shout. Jim found the back of a chair and pulled it out. Tom sat on his left and Marty leaned over the table, talking loudly. "I'll get the first round. What d'you want?"
"Just a beer," Jim said.
"Come on, Jim, live a little."
"Really, I'd love a beer."
Marty disappeared.
The place was hot. Jim shrugged out of his trench coat, then his suit jacket. He waited a moment, still sweating, then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and loosened his tie.
"Didn't know we were coming to a sauna," Tom said.
Jim nodded. "How's your girlfriend?"
"Good. Real good. I surprised her with a single rose over lunch and we've never been better. Did you know that one long-stemmed rose is more effective than a full dozen?"
Jim grinned. "It depends on the situation."
"I guess, but I'm going to keep this in mind."
"Never works twice." A bottle plunked on the table and Jim reached for it. "Thanks." He took a long swig, closing his eyes for a second like he could shut out the chaos of the room. He took a deep breath as he set his beer back down and realized it really wasn't so loud back here. He and Tom hadn't had to yell, he'd easily heard Marty set down the beer and pull out the chair across the table. He could even hear Hank lying half under the table scratching at his collar and making the dog tags jingle.
"So, Jim…" Marty started.
Jim opened his eyes and looked across the table.
"You and Karen find anything new?"
Jim shook his head. "It's really bugging me, too. I just don't know what we're missing."
"I told you Artez was a pain in the ass."
Jim grinned. "See? I wasn't just flattering you about being a good judge of character."
"You gotta be careful, Jim. Marty lets the smallest things go to his head," Tom said.
"I'm always careful, Tom."
"Sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind," Marty advised. "Let things get out of control."
Jim grinned. "I'm a control freak, Marty, what can I say?"
The other detectives laughed and Jim joined in. Jim's life was so regimented, so controlled, just so he could get around the city and live as normally as possible. It probably drove the other people in the squad crazy, keeping to Jim's standard.
"If crimes were controllable, we'd be out of a job," Marty said. "But I can't say I mind having you working out all the nitty gritty details for us."
Jim took a drink, pondering the case.
"Don't go all comatose on us," Tom said.
Jim tried to smile. "It just bugs me. I met this girl yesterday. You guys all talked to her and now she's dead. Why? It's gotta be related, right? Who would want to kill her?"
"Everyone needs an enemy, Dunbar," Marty said. "Keeps you humble, always wondering what you did wrong and trying your best to make a friend out of that enemy."
Tom laughed. "Sounds like he's offering to be your enemy, Jim."
"I'm flattered, Marty, really, I am."
"Jim-my," a female voice sing-songed while a finger ran down the back of his neck.
Jim shivered and froze, his smile falling as quickly as it had come. He stared straight ahead, not blinking, waiting with a foreign hand playing through the back of his hair. The girl leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.
"It's been a while," she said.
Jim's heart skipped ahead, pounding. Marty and Tom had to be staring; they knew he was married. Christie—he couldn't let anything jeopardize what they had. But who was this girl? Which bar had they gone to? Franco's or something like that. The name hadn't sounded familiar, but bars around here changed ownership so often there was no telling if maybe this was one of his old haunts revamped. And this girl—why didn't she take her hand away?
He turned his head up toward her with his eyebrows knitting together. He tried to fix her with the no-nonsense look he used to give perps, but the confusion was making him feel stupid.
Her hand withdrew. "You don't remember me," she accused.
Jim just shook his head. She definitely didn't fit into his ordered world.
"You never called."
Geez! She'd been waiting over a year for him to call? Going on two years now, it had to be, 'cause he'd stopped flirting with other girls when he met Anne. Before her, though, he had to admit he'd been a bit of a dog.
He lowered his gaze down toward the floor and Hank. Hank was much more well-behaved than Jim had been.
Anne had been his only real affair. He'd spent evenings with various girls flirting in bars, but that had been it. He'd never pursued actual relationships with anyone else.
"Simone," she said. She pulled out the chair to his right and sat down.
"Simone, I'm married."
"I know that," she said in a teasing voice.
"I'm married," he said again, more emphatically.
"Didn't stop you before."
She leaned over and he found her lips tugging at his, but he pulled back and turned his head away.
"You still don't remember me? Or your wife found out you had a flirtatious side and you got in trouble?"
"Simone—" he said firmly.
She interrupted. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"
Jim could almost hear her eyelashes batting together.
"I'm married, too," Marty said.
"I'm not," Tom put in.
Jim sighed. "Tom, this is Simone. Simone, Tom."
"You wanna dance?" Tom asked.
"Sure." She giggled.
Jim's head snapped over. He remembered the giggle, though he couldn't pick out a face for her. He really had been bad, if he couldn't even remember all the girls he'd flirted with. And promised to call. He didn't usually make promises he had no intention of keeping.
He felt Tom and Simone grab hands over his head as they stood.
"See you later, Jimmy," she said and kissed his cheek again.
Jim reached out and snagged Tom's jacket before he could get away.
"Tom, don't forget you have a girlfriend."
"No problem. Sounds like you might be a hypocrite, though." Tom patted his shoulder and headed for the dance floor.
"Well?" Marty said after they were gone.
Jim put his head in his hands. He didn't want Marty to know everything he'd done. That wasn't the best way to gain respect.
"I'm surprised you could forget a girl like that. Blonde, midriff, belly button ring, real ornate, too. Tight pants, pastel."
Jim shook his head.
"But you never called her?"
"No, Marty, I never called. I flirted, but I never called her." Wasn't entirely honest, but he couldn't pretend to be totally innocent. "Christie and I were fighting…"
"So you made a mistake. Whoever said Dunbar was perfect, right?"
"Right." He sighed.
"We could get Tom in big trouble, though.
Jim couldn't even smile back. "I think we need to keep an eye on Tom so he doesn't get into big trouble."
"Meaning me."
"Yeah, Marty, you happen to be the one facing the dance floor, right?"