Chapter Nine

Jim woke up to a kiss. His eyes fluttered open slowly, still dreaming. "I think," Christie's voice said, "you are trying. I'm sorry." Warm lips. Without a face.

He gasped, broke away, and sat up, pushing something to his right, which moved back under the pressure, grabbing a cushion to his left, the back of the couch. Disoriented, he sat there a moment, feeling the leather warming under his hand.

A hand touched his. He looked over, feeling the couch, the blanket wrapped around him, his clothes still on, his shirt half unbuttoned, shoes off, a corduroy pillow under one hand. He could hear someone else breathing.

"Your alarm went off. Time to get up." She squeezed his hand.

Jim nodded, but didn't let go of the couch.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yeah. Time to get up."

"No, about you trying."

Jim thought back. She kissed him and it brought him back to the dream, which he couldn't remember, just the kiss. "Yeah." He looked up at her, blinking. "I'm sorry, too."

"That's what you asked me last night, what I thought of you."

"I remember."

"I think you're trying. I like that. I have to leave for work, though."

She left and Jim sat there, listening to her grab her briefcase and close the door. His breathing returned to normal. Sometimes, waking up, even in bed, he'd be disoriented, dreaming, forget for a minute everything that had happened in his life, who he was, where he was, why he couldn't see. A few minutes of bliss to dream in color, then a few minutes of hell, readjusting to the loss of his sight.

But, he realized as he picked himself up off the couch, Christie hadn't asked if he was okay. That was good; he didn't want to tell her.

He headed for the shower, feeling warm, like the fight was over.

"So that guy who was in here last night," Marty said as soon as Jim came back from the locker room, "how sure are you that you knew him before? You sure you'd recognize a voice years later?"

"Yeah, Marty."

"And you're sure the name was Brian Mulhaney?"

"Yeah."

"Not something else similar?"

"What else would it have been?" Jim sat carefully in his chair, preparing himself for the end of Marty's questioning.

"And no one else has any idea you would have an inkling of who Brian Mulhaney was?"

"Not except his father. Where are we going with this?"

"Brian Mulhaney came back last night. Late, about ten."

"Sonny never called. You didn't have to stay so late." Jim tried to ignore the niggling feeling in his gut that only wanted to know what Mulhaney had been doing there. Patience, get the story from the beginning, make sure he didn't miss anything and didn't have to go over it again.

"I needed a little more overtime. And when you left, I just had this uneasy feeling. So I kicked back with a cup of coffee in one of the interview rooms, looked through some mug books. Janitor came by about nine thirty and turned off all the lights. I spaced, staring out the window, maybe dozed a little, then I heard this noise. He was going through your desk, Jim."

"My desk?"

"So I came out, asked what I could do for him, said I was working nightshift. He says he's from Internal Affairs, heard there was a detective here keeping secret files in a language no one else could read, and he had to look into it."

"Internal Affairs?"

"You still sure you got the right guy?"

"If he was from IA, why wouldn't he have said so in the first place? He told me he was looking into a homicide at his precinct and we shared a witness."

"I told him I didn't have access to those files. He said he had a warrant. I told him to show it to the lieutenant in the morning."

"You know I was lying bout those files, right? I still suck at Braille."

"And I said, why would IA need a warrant anyway? He said he'd be in touch."

"How'd he get up here?"

"He had a badge. Showed it downstairs. I went down and asked, told them not to let him back up again. They'll call if he comes back."

Jim leaned back in his chair, rubbing his mouth and thinking. "You were here with me last night, Marty. That file I pulled up on Brian Mulhaney, it listed him missing."

"That's why I had to ask. 'Cause when I ran it this morning, he came up, been a cop four years."

Jim stared at Marty.

"And I thought, it's bad enough they're reinstating blind cops. You gotta draw the line when they start reinstating dead ones."

"Maybe I was wrong and he wasn't dead. But that doesn't explain how the file got there saying he's been with us four years."

"So you're sure you pulled up the right name last night?"

"Absolutely."

"'Cause I didn't get a look at it."

"I know I did."

"Good. 'Cause I called the listed supervisor; never heard of his kid. I had the lieutenant call his old friend Robby Mulhaney to confirm his kid was dead. He did, but they're keeping it hush-hush 'cause they're investigating something deep. Mulhaney's coming down tomorrow to talk with Fisk about what we got, see how it's related. Lieutenant told me to get what we can today, 'cause tomorrow they might pull the case, if it's too interrelated. They don't want us screwing anything up."

"But how'd the file get there?"

"That, I can't answer."

"You didn't ring up IT? See when tech services has the last update on that file listed?"

"I didn't. Didn't think of that."

"I'll make the call."

Jim scrolled through the electronic address book on his computer and put in the call. "They'll get back to me. You think this guy's gonna come back?"

"It would take some balls. He's gotta know we're onto him by now."

Marty's phone rang and he picked it up.

Jim sat back and ran a hand through his hair. He took off his sunglasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, listening to Marty's half of the conversation. He'd barely walked through the door and already he had a headache. As much information as Marty'd thrown his way, all he could think about was Christie.

"That was Brian Mulhaney's supervisor, the guy I called earlier to see if he worked there? Called back, apologizing, said he didn't know how it happened, but Mulhaney had just walked through the door with a transfer notice and did I want to talk to him."

"What's this guy playing at?" Jim asked just as his phone rang. IT had been fast. They spouted off the information, then Jim hung up. "They're shutting down the system. A major breach about five this morning. Maybe just hackers, but that's when that file was changed. They're going to try to pull back-up files and compare changes, send out the matches to all the precincts, see if we can figure out what it means."

"I think it means we're all screwed, how 'bout you?" Marty asked.

"I think we should move De—"

"I did that last night before I left."

"Good. Great, thanks." Jim sighed, relieved, and rubbed his head again. "I think I'll see if Karen wants to go over when she gets here. I'd like to ask DeLana the same things we asked Artez."

"No offense, but I don't think you should go over there. They know you're in charge of this case, right? What if they're following you?"

Jim gritted his teeth.

"Tom and I can hit it later."

"Tha—"

Fisk slammed the door to his office open. "Dunbar, you know that Artez guy you booked? I just got a call from IT—he was released this morning to another precinct. You know anything about it?"

Jim closed his eyes. "Officer's name Brian Mulhaney?"

"Yeah. But if this is the same kid I called Robby Mulhaney about this morning to confirm he was dead, we have a problem."

"He's dead," Marty said. "We have a problem."

"Boss, we need to talk," Jim said gravely.

"Dunbar! Hey, Jim!" the lieutenant called out his open office door.

Jim's head snapped up. He'd been pondering the case, trying to figure out how to find out what they didn't know. He wondered how many times the boss had called him.

"Come in here a minute."

Jim wondered what was up. Lately, most of the times he'd been called into the boss's office, they'd been less than peachy visits. The thought flew through his mind that maybe Dr. Galloway had sent over an unfavorable report, something about his fight with Christie.

Jim stood up, but as he took a step away from his desk, he found someone in front of him.

"We have a Mrs. Campbell here, Jim," Lt. Fisk said quietly. Jim looked up at him. "Real name's Laine Campbell…"

"She was sent up here because one of those witnesses you interviewed the other day might be here daughter. A uniformed officer matched the description. We thought you might be able to confirm it, since you interviewed the girls."

Jim rubbed his forehead and resituated his sunglasses. Asking him to identify someone? Besides Christie and Hank, who could he ID? "Uh…"

"I want you to get a feel for her. It's up to you what we tell her." Fisk touched his arm. "Come on."

Jim awkwardly took Fisk's elbow, wondering why the lieutenant would be playing up the blindness. More problems with the case? That's all they needed. He followed his boss, feeling like he was getting disoriented. He wasn't used to being led around the squad, the pace different than usual, throwing him off just enough. He felt the sleeve of his jacket brush the door and stopped, letting go of Fisk's arm.

He touched the side of the door to reorient himself, then cocked his head. The first second in a new room was always awkward, before he knew where everyone was. "Mrs. Campbell?" Jim asked without stepping into the room or turning. He couldn't even hear anyone else breathing.

"Yes," she said quietly, much quieter than DeLana would have. That much they didn't have in common.

"Which one's your daughter?" Jim asked.

"Her name's Lana. Actually it's Laine. Named her after her grandfather. We just always call her Lana." Her voice quivered, like she'd been crying and wasn't done yet.

"Tell me, when's the last time you saw your daughter?" Jim faced her, his arms crossed.

"I haven't actually seen her in three years, detective, but she and I, we kept in touch. She would call me, but she couldn't give me a number to reach her back. She would write and send pictures of Tamika."

Jim nodded. "And your son?"

There was a moment of silence. "I have four daughters."

Jim pressed his lips together. "When's the last time you heard from your daughter?"

"About six months. She said she wouldn't be able to call for a while, so I wasn't too worried. Then I got this phone call saying Lana was in police custody."

"Who called?"

"I don't know."

"Male? Female?"

"Male."

"Young, old?"

"I don't know."

"And you believed them because…?"

"It's been a long time since I've heard from her! I'm worried. What if something happened? It's sounded like she's been having trouble lately, so I'm worried."

Jim didn't know what to think. "The girl in question, I'm not sure she's your daughter. And no, we don't have her in custody, she's not arrested, not in any trouble. But if you leave your number, we'll call when we talk to her again."

"Dunbar," Fisk said. "I'll take it from here." He stood as Jim nodded and turned. "Let me help you back to your desk."

Jim waited, breathing evenly to keep his hands from clenching. The lieutenant opened the office door and Jim took the big man's arm again. He let go as soon as Fisk shut the door and stopped walked.

"What's your impression?"

Jim shook his head. "Another anonymous tip-off? I don't like it."

"You don't think she's telling the truth?"

"I don't want that lady anywhere near DeLa—Laine. Whoever. I don't know if that's her mom or not. I'm actually thinking she might be, but—"

"Well?"

"Boss, the way this case has been going, even if she is family, I'm inclined not to believe she has DeLana's best interest in mind. Family can turn on each other as much as strangers can."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"I'm trying not to compromise the life of the only witness I have left. At this point, I'm afraid any contact with DeLana—or Laine—and her mom… I don't know what would happen. A cheerful reunion? That's doubtful. They haven't seen each other in three years—why now?" Jim stood waiting, running scenarios through his mind. This woman, she'd found them through an anonymous tip, just like the Bartlett woman. If she was authentic, maybe she was being followed. If not, the way information had been skewed and files had been breached, Jim trusted only Fisk and the other three detectives. Anyone else was extraneous, liabilities. He just hoped he could trust the officers staying with DeLana to do their jobs.

"So we're not going to tell her anything?"

"Let's get some contact info and a photo. We can ask DeLana about her first. Marty offered to go talk to her later." Jim shook his head. "But as far as Mrs. Campbell's concerned, we don't know where her daughter is." He turned back to his desk, but Fisk stopped him.

"IT called back—that file on Mulhaney was the only altered one. They found a deleted one."

"Artez?"

"Yeah."

Jim swore. "And you called Mulhaney's squad?"

"Hasn't shown back up since this morning."

"I'm not much of a people person, Miss Artez. You can stop smiling," Marty said, leaning back on the dilapidated old couch that had seen too many rear ends in its day. The whole house needed to be torched or torn down. Marty kept an eye out for rats while he concentrated on DeLana's expressions. Jim had asked for a more complete second opinion, so Marty was paying as close of attention to her as he figured Dunbar would have, back when he could see.

"So you're playing the bad cop, he's the good one?" DeLana asked, gesturing across the room at Tom.

"I don't play games like that, Miss Artez. I also don't go out of my way to try to make people like me."

DeLana was 26, but the look in her eyes was wary. She wasn't a trusting kid. You could tell just by looking at her clothes and her hair that she couldn't afford to fix them up. She kept herself groomed, but she wasn't coiffed and styled, couldn't afford make-up, couldn't even afford a needle and thread to patch her clothes.

"Well?" DeLana prompted. "Why are you here?" She waited and Marty just stared at her. "I'm waiting for an answer."

"So are we."

For the next twenty minutes Russo and DeLana eyed each other suspiciously, but neither one offered any information.

Tom practically ran into the room, holding the baby in front of him like a live grenade. He held it out to DeLana, set it on her lap when she didn't immediately take it. "Here. This one stinks." He turned to Marty. "I don't know how Dunbar got out of there in one piece. You have a kid, it's your turn. I'll finish out here." He sat on the half-dead couch and motioned at DeLana to go on. "You can take care of that first." He glanced at Marty. "Where are we?"

"Nowhere," Marty said. "She hasn't told me anything. Until she does, I'm not telling her anything. This isn't a one-way street."

"Go take care of the kids."

"No," Marty said. "I'm not a baby-sitter." He stayed seated next to Tom.

"Miss Artez, what do you want to know? We'll tell you something, then you tell us something. You help and I won't get out the thumbscrews."

"I want to know why you haven't brought my brother back yet."

"We booked him as accessory to the murder of his girlfriend," Tom said.

"He didn't—"

"We know. We just thought: one, it would keep him safe; two, he was withholding information, and maybe this would soften him up a little. Seeing as he was in police custody when the murder went down, we can't hold him as more than an accessory."

"So he's in jail?" she asked with a pained expression.

Tom turned to Marty. "You really didn't tell her anything, did you?"

"Why should I? If they would have told us anything first time around, we wouldn't be in this position."

"I don't know anything," DeLana persisted.

"Just tell us what you do know, from the beginning," Tom said. "Because your brother, he's gone. And if you don't talk, I have a feeling we'll never find him alive. Got that?"

"He's missing?"

"Who are these bad dudes, DeLana? Tell us so we can make sure we can keep you safe."

"I don't know!" She started crying, then ran down the hall and slammed the door to one of the rooms.

She'd left Clem on the couch.

"Sht," Tom said, looking at the kid.

"Watch your mouth," Marty said. "You want that to be his first word?"

"It's as good a first word as any." Tom went over, snatched up the kid, holding it at arm's length again. Down the hall he kicked the door to knock. "Laine Campbell, open up! You got a stinky kid to take care of and a lot of questions to answer!"

The door opened. She took Clem, then slammed the door again. "I'm not Laine Campbell anymore. Go away."

"You want me to beat the door down?" Marty asked, leaning against the wall behind Tom.

"There's no lock on the door, probably not necessary."

"Yeah, but it would make more of an impression than just walking in, don't you think?"

Karen's footsteps were coming down the hall. Jim could recognize some people by listening to the way they walked and moved, and he'd spent enough time with Karen to recognize her easily, besides being the only female detective in the squad.

"Geez, Dunbar," Karen said, plopping down in her chair, "it's like going to lunch with your fan club. All she ever does is talk about you."

Jim didn't look up from his computer. "What are you talking about?"

"Anne."

Jim's fingers slipped on his keyboard and he quickly backspaced. He looked up and lowered his voice. "Should I be flattered?" he asked, bristling. He still had trouble hearing Anne's name. "I thought she hated me."

"Oh, don't worry, she does."

Jim nodded. He looked away, then nodded again. "Good."

"Good?" Karen sounded surprised.

"I didn't do the best thing in the world to her. I don't expect to be on her good side."

"Yeah, you stay humble now, but you should be there sometimes."

Jim shifted uncomfortably. "Are you and I still okay?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess. It's hard to hear some of this stuff, but we're still partners. I respect you as a cop."

Jim nodded. It was probably best if he and Karen didn't strike up a friendship. Not only was she young, female, and attractive, she was also Anne's friend. And after his friendship with Terry went south… Yeah, it was best that they retain a working relationship. "Thanks." He went back to typing his report, but he finally looked back up. Not that he needed to excuse his actions, he just wanted to make sure Karen could trust him. "Karen, you know…"

"What?" she asked after a minute.

"Well… I know what I did was wrong… I just, I always tried to treat her well."

"Yeah, I know," Karen said and laughed at the surprised look that passed over Jim's usually unreadable face, "that's part of the reason she hates you so much."

"Hey," Marty said, sliding his chair over toward Jim.

Jim looked up and pulled out his earpiece.

"Can you… like, pretend you're not blind?"

Jim almost laughed at the absurdity and the surprise of the comment.

"What kind of a question is that?" Karen asked before Jim could. She sounded offended.

Jim finally laughed. "Karen, it's okay." He turned back to Marty. "It doesn't really work that way. Why do you ask?"

"I just thought, you know, everything's getting all screwed up anyway. I thought you and I could head over to that bar—Spike's or whatever—and ask around."

"And the pretending I'm not blind part?"

"People are more likely to remember you then, you know. So I thought you could just follow my footsteps, like you do around here. Sit around the bar and question people."

Jim shook his head. "Not in a bar, I couldn't. Too noisy." He smiled to himself, looking at his desk. "Thanks, though."

"Maybe Tom and I could, if I can get Tom to cancel his date for tonight."

Jim rubbed his mouth, thinking, wishing he could find a way. "What if Karen comes? I could sling my arm around her—"

"Hands to yourself, Jim," Karen muttered.

"Of course. Karen, you know me. I'd never put the moves on you."

She was silent a second. "I'm almost offended." She laughed.

He joined in. "Hands to myself, no necking, I promise."

"Smooth, Dunbar," Marty said.

"Christie." Jim stood behind her at the stove. He was close enough he could feel her turn. "I was wrong. I should have said something as soon as I remembered your birthday. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said. It sounded like she was smiling.

"I am. I don't know how you can just forgive me."

"I've forgiven you for worse, haven't I?"

Jim grimaced and closed his eyes a second. She always brought it up, meaning she'd never actually forgiven him and probably never would. He walked away, putting the island between them, facing the wall of windows. "Can we talk?"

"Sure," she said amiably.

She was stirring something on the stove, the spoon scraping the pan. Jim felt like she was stabbing him. What was going on?

Did he really want her to be mad at him?

No, he'd said. But forgiveness had never been Christie's strong suit. If they didn't get it out in the open, he knew it would fester. It wasn't like her to ignore it, that's what had been bothering him. That's what Dr. Galloway couldn't understand. Ignoring both the fight and the birthday thing? This wasn't like Christie.

"I was wrong," he said.

"I know."

"That's it? You know?" He grabbed the back of one of the bar stools.

"Jim, maybe you need to get a better therapist if that's as well as you can communicate."

"Christie, Galloway's not a marriage counselor."

"So he didn't suggest you apologize?"

"No."

"You thought of that all on your own?"

"It's been killing me, not saying something, but I knew we were going to get into a big fight, just like we did." Jim paused. "Why aren't we still fighting?"

"I've been seeing a therapist since we talked to Galloway. A friend recommended her. She really is very good. Since we don't have time to go see that lady Dr. Galloway recommended, I thought we could both have our separate therapists."

Jim had to sit down. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have gone to see the couples' therapist with you."

"I was having trouble finding a time both of us could go."

"You didn't ask. I could have made time."

Christie set a plate on the counter in front of him. "Here. I'm not very hungry, but I thought you should eat." She started to walk away.

"Christie!" Jim jumped up. He followed her to the bedroom but stopped in the doorway. "What the hell?"

"She told me I needed to come to terms with your job and accept the fact that you're busy. We're both career people, so we're perfect for each other. We can both indulge at work, but when we get home, that's just a time to relax and enjoy each other's company. Forgive each other. Because neither of us has the energy for a deep relationship. It's either family or career."

Jim thought that sounded really shallow. "I thought we were trying to fall in love again, not make excuses for what went wrong."

"Just be here for me, Jimmy. I'll be here for you."

Jim brooded over dinner. He'd thought things were better between him and Christie—that morning, it had seemed…

He shook his head. How could she have forgiven him so easily? He'd been a fool to believe it. She was just following a therapist's recommendations. There was no other way she could have forgiven him for the fight the night before so easily. That was ridiculous. He stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork, but didn't bring it to his mouth. Was it really family or a career? He had to admit he enjoyed his job, but once upon a time, he'd liked coming home to Christie. She'd gotten him through the past year, he'd leaned on her, even if he wouldn't talk to her. He'd yelled at her when things didn't go his way.

He heard a footstep behind him. "Christie." He put his hand on the back of the stool next to him, gesturing for her to come sit. She sat, but he could feel the tension, like she was afraid of what he'd say. "No more fighting, huh?"

"If we've had a bad day at work, we don't have to bring it out on each other."

He grimaced. That hadn't exactly been a bad day at work. He just had trouble adapting sometimes, accepting—maybe she couldn't forgive him until he learned to forgive himself. But how was Jim Dunbar supposed to accept the fact that he was going to screw up, that it was inevitable? "I am really sorry—"

"No more fighting means no more apologizing," she said and slid off the stool.

"Christie!" He dropped the fork on the plate, listened to it bounce off. He slid his hand on the counter, picked it up, put it in place so he wouldn't have to worry about it later. He turned and slid off his own stool. "I'm going out tonight."

"With the guys?"

"Sort of undercover." Jim felt the corners of his mouth turning up. "Marty and Karen and I are going to ask around at a bar." He waited for her to shower him with misgivings, remind him how badly things had gone the last time he'd gone undercover, ask if it was safe.

"Good luck," she said.

"It's kinda a sleazy place. You wanna help me pick out something to wear?" He cocked his head to the side, waiting.

"Sure…"

She was almost smiling again. Jim wasn't sure what was going on, but there was a note in Christie's voice that he hadn't trusted. He didn't believe her about the no more fighting, no more apologizing. Her voice had trembled. She'd always been very good at keeping her emotions off her face, but now that he didn't rely on that to know how she was feeling, he was picking up nuances he wouldn't have noticed before. That little waver when she said 'no more apologizing.' He wondered what it meant. Until then, he was going to pay his penance, make her smile, try to actually understand her for once.

"You want to go out for your birthday? Maybe Friday?" He sat on the end of the bed and listened to her sort through the dresser drawers. She threw something at him that hit him in the chest. He reached as it fell into his lap, running his hands over the cotton of a t-shirt.

Christie smiled. "Like a date?"

"Yeah."

"Plans in advance, making reservations?"

"Buying flowers." He pulled the t-shirt on.

"It's black. It'll go with your jacket." She opened the closet door. "Maybe we can go out dancing afterward?"

Jim shrugged. He made a face, knowing from the sounds she was making that her back was to him. "I guess. As long as they don't play "Call Me Irresponsible" I'll be okay."

Christie laughed.