Chapter Twelve
"So who would you arrest?" Marty was asking when Jim walked through the doorway.
"Elton John," Tom said. "That brother needs help."
"Fashion police?" Jim asked.
"Hey, Jim," Tom greeted him. "Nah, we're just killing time."
"That's a chargeable offense."
"The boss ran down to talk to the ME. Told us we couldn't do anything else 'til he got back."
"Great. So he learned something?"
"Wouldn't tell us," Marty said.
"So, if you could arrest one person for any reason, who would it be?" Tom asked.
"Vanna White," Karen said, coming in behind Jim. "Do you know how much she gets paid to touch those little screens?"
"Criminal," Tom said.
"Barbara Walters," Jim said. "She knows too much."
"She's kinda creepy, too," Tom said.
"You think that about a lot of people, don't you, Tom?" Jim asked.
"That Crocodile Hunter guy? All those reptiles—he needs help. I had him put in solitary twenty minutes ago."
"The boss has been gone that long?" Jim asked.
The phone rang shrilly in the quiet department and Jim realized hardly anyone was around. The four of them and a couple others, that was all. Marty grabbed the phone. "Detective Russo… Yeah, boss… We're coming." He hung up. "Jumper down the street. The lieutenant's on his way down there now. He was nice enough to invite us along. Apparently most of the precinct is already there."
Jim turned with Hank to go.
"Uh… Jim?" Karen said.
He turned back.
"I think I'll sit this one out, if you don't mind? Looks like they got it covered, if half the precinct's already there."
Jim's face softened. "Yeah, no problem."
"Jim? Coming?" Marty asked.
"Yeah. You know, Hank doesn't need to see this, if it happens." Jim made Hank sit. "Keep an eye on each other, okay?" He pulled out his cane and headed after Marty and Tom.
"Your dog doesn't need to see this?" Marty asked skeptically in the elevator. "Worried he'll be scarred for life?"
"I'm more worried Karen's already scarred for life." Jim clenched his jaw, remembering the gunshot, Karen's scream, the waiting, those interminable seconds before he was sure Karen hadn't been shot, the stench of blood and cordite, the sound of the body convulsing. Jim shuddered.
"You know, you don't have to come, right?" Tom said.
Jim nodded. "Nothing I haven't seen before."
"You okay without the dog?"
Jim nodded again. The elevator doors opened and he stepped off after the other two detectives. Marty had only seen him use the cane once, the day Hank had been missing. But Tom really hadn't seen it. Jim guessed it was different, seeing him with the cane versus seeing him and Hank. It was different for him, too, getting around. But maybe less so—he was blind either way. Maybe for the other detectives, seeing him with a cane—Jim hoped he was wrong—made him seem more blind. "No problem," he said. "Down the street which way?" He walked with Tom and Marty down the sidewalk. As they neared the building Jim could feel the energy change even before he could hear the multitudes of people milling around, waiting for the jumper to plunge among them.
"There's two people up there," Fisk had said only a moment before. Tom and Marty had gotten clearance to go up in the building and had disappeared. "Where's the dog?" Fisk had just asked.
Then a collective hush, an intake of breath, a gasp—Jim knew immediately—or thought he knew.
Fisk was on the radio. "Pushed? Are you sure?"
Jim stood with the lieutenant and listened to the crackle and fuzz of the radio. Tom and a couple other officers had made it to the roof, guns drawn. Tom told them Marty'd stayed behind to talk to a witness, hysterically sobbing.
The psychologist who'd been called in was yelling at the officers to stay back.
"What the hell?" someone else on the roof asked.
"You pushed him?"
"Why?"
"Get down, we'll talk."
Then a dreamy voice, presumably the jumper, not an angry cop voice, said, "Being loved makes you feel like you can fly."
"Then why'd you push him off the building?" Tom yelled. "Why didn't you try to fly yourself?"
"Selway!" Fisk barked into the radio.
"I can't argue with that," the dreamy voice said appreciatively.
Another hush fell.
Jim turned away, his face averted, his hands clenched. He felt sick.
"Well, we got the perp in custody," Tom said. "Don't do us any good at this point."
Jim sank into his chair. He felt sick and dirty, just wanted to get away.
"Jim? You okay?"
Jim tried to smile over at Karen. "Karen, if I told you that's something I never wanted to see again, you'd think I was crazy."
"I would," Tom said. "You got my vote."
"It doesn't go away just 'cause I can't see it." Jim shook his head. "Tom, if you hadn't—"
"He would have jumped anyway. He'd just killed a man—he wasn't going to just come down."
It sounded so familiar. His reasoning at the bank. He had to shoot; the guy wasn't going into custody if he didn't.
"It was like he was waiting for someone to say that," Tom said slowly. "To argue with his reasoning."
Marty turned to Jim while Tom sank down in his chair. "So why'd you come?" Marty asked.
"It's my job," Jim said. But he really hadn't needed to be there. He didn't need it firsthand, not that time.
"So what'd you guys see?" he finally asked.
"Jim, it's over. The guy's dead," Tom said.
"And you're satisfied with that?"
"It's tough to pin a motive on a dead guy," Marty said. "According to the witness, we had us a would-be superhero. One that snapped. He ran through the building, yelling how he would save everyone. Grabbed a guy, took him up on the roof. And you saw the rest." Marty paused. "Er…" He sat down. "Never mind."
Jim swore to himself.
"Sorry, bad choice of words. You gotta stop being so touchy—"
"It's not that." Jim waved it off.
"There's no one to save this time, Jim," Tom said. "Let it go."
"Do we know anything? Who he was or where he came from? How he got past building security?"
Fisk walked up. "I promised we'd look into it. Other witnesses said it really didn't seem random."
"We'll go start a canvas," Tom said.
"Karen, you and Jim keep working on that other one."
When Fisk, Selway, and Russo had gone, Karen turned to Jim, who was absently rubbing his mouth. "Was it that bad?" she asked.
Jim sat up straighter and rubbed a hand over his face to compose himself. "Nah, not really." He reached out for his laptop.
A few minutes later the phone rang. "I got it," Jim said. "Detective Dunbar… Marty, yeah—Oh…" He swore and Karen slid over. The phone rang again and Karen lunged for it.
They both hung up at almost the same moment and turned to each other.
"That was Tom," Karen said.
"Marty."
"They were just cleaning up the body—Tom said the t-shirt the guy was wearing, it said, "Pipsqueak.""
Jim stared at her a second to process the information. "Marty ran into another witness, said the guy was running around, saying he'd save the world, "just like Uncle Josiah.""
"Well, damn," Karen said.
Jim followed Karen into the diner and stood next to her at the counter while she thumbed through a menu. He still didn't feel much like eating, but Karen had forced him to come with, keep his strength up so they could catch this guy, whoever he was.
"A dog?" a server asked across the counter.
"He's a guide dog," Jim said.
She didn't say anything else, so he guessed she dropped it. They ordered.
"About the other night…" Jim started awkwardly.
"I know," Karen said with a smile. "It didn't mean anything. And I was proud of you—you kept your hands in legal zones."
Jim gave her a little smile. "I didn't mean about that. I just meant… if something would have happened…"
"Jimmy! I can take care of myself."
"Yeah. But you gotta take care of me, too."
She scoffed. "I'm not your baby-sitter."
"And Russo was there," he said without looking at her.
She groaned. "Jimmy, maybe they give you a hard time about taking care of yourself, but I get it all the time, too."
"And you don't need it from me?"
"No, I don't, thanks."
Jim nodded.
"Go sit. I'll grab the plates when they're ready." She paused, probably looking around for an empty spot. "There's a booth by the window, next to the door. Straight back, just to the left."
Jim turned and ordered Hank to the table. They sat and he listened to the dog panting, then leaned down and scratched his ears. "Sorry, but you know you can't have any food here," he said quietly.
Karen sighed as she sat down facing the door. She pushed Jim's plate over to him.
"You doing okay?" he asked.
"Better than you," she shot back.
Jim smiled and carefully touched his club sandwich without picking it up. The toasted bread, coarse under his fingers, didn't even feel appetizing. He and Karen didn't have lunch together very often, he realized and looked back up at her. "Do you think we spend too much time together?" he asked.
"What?" She laughed.
"I was just wondering, being partners and all. We never have lunch together, you know?"
"I have a life, Dunbar."
He nodded. "How's Anne?"
"Same."
He took a bite of a small pickle slice.
"Still not hungry?" she asked.
"If we get one more DOA connected to this case, I'm gonna go crazy. And I keep waiting for someone to find Artez's body. Keep waiting for them to find DeLana."
"We'll figure it out."
"When?"
She was quiet a second. "I don't know."
Jim fingered a french fry. "You think DeLana actually knows anything useful?"
"I don't know that, either. I would have sworn up and down Samantha didn't."
"But if she didn't, why's she dead?"
"Exactly."
Jim pushed his plate away and leaned back. He pulled off his sunglasses and stared at the ceiling.
"Jim—"
"If you tell me one more time we'll figure it out… I mean, Robby's been looking into this over a year now."
She sighed. He heard his plate move toward him. "Eat."
"You half Italian, too?"
She laughed.
Jim smiled but didn't look back at her.
"I keep going back to, what was so great about Samantha?" Karen said. "They didn't want her family knowing where she was. She seems to be the one who got DeLana and Artez all mixed up in this. She had a son, whatever horrible thing that means."
"So Samantha's the catalyst?"
"She died, her cousin died…"
"Rico disappeared."
Karen sighed. "I'm gonna get some more coffee, you want some?"
Jim shook his head. He listened as she slid out of the booth. She turned back. "I just keep thinking—hey!" She pitched forward, her hand striking the table.
Jim felt something slosh out of her cup onto his shoulder, felt her turn as she dropped the cup on the table.
"Pay your bill and leave. Now," she said, her voice cold and low.
"Aww," a man said, then shut up.
"Do it again and I'll arrest you."
Jim listened to someone hastily leaving.
Karen turned back and brushed at the shoulder of his trench coat. Jim was already blotting with his napkin. She reached across the table and he heard her pulling napkins out of a dispenser, the rough paper rasping. "Sorry about that," she said.
Jim laughed. "It's okay, I'm scotch guarded." He grabbed her hands and pulled the napkins out. "Go get your coffee."
Karen grumbled something, but grabbed the cup and walked off.
Jim wadded up the napkins as she slid back into the booth.
"I told you I can take care of myself," she said.
"So you did," he said. "Did I doubt?"
"I dunno. Did you?"
"Maybe for a second. But that's it. Did I jump up to help you?"
Someone walked up to the table. "You okay, honey?" the server from before asked. She turned on Jim. "Why didn't you help her?" she accused.
"I'm fine, really," Karen said.
Jim laughed as soon as she was gone, finding it funny she'd asked about the guide dog, but still expected him to stand up for Karen. "Chivalry's dead, I guess. What'd he do?"
"Just grabbed me as he went past. Nothing much."
Jim looked down at the floor. "Not much of a guard dog, is he?"
"He looks hungry," Karen said, her voice softening.
Jim shook his head. "He's on a special diet, no human food."
"Really?"
"Yeah. All guide dogs have strict diets to keep them healthy."
"Poor Hank. I'd never be able to stick to it. I'd take one look in his big brown eyes and give him anything he wanted."
"Good thing I can't see, huh?"
"I told you, no!" a male voice said quietly, but full of anger.
Jim tensed. He was always listening for voices, afraid he'd miss someone he knew or miss hearing someone come up and start talking to him until the conversation was half over.
"What?" Karen asked.
"I told you, no!"Jim listened, but the man didn't say anything else. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the precinct. "Marty, it's Jim. Can you describe to Karen that guy?"
"Which guy?"
Jim didn't want to call attention to them if it was who he thought. He was quiet a second, thinking of an unobtrusive thing to call him.
"You mean, the guy I thought might try to follow you to DeLana's?"
"Yeah, that one."
"Our favorite cop friend?"
"Hold on." He reached across the table carefully, not sure what would be in the center between him and Karen. He was learning to hate decorative centerpieces and candles.
"Yeah?" she said into the phone, then listened. "Okay… Jim, what's—"
"Behind you, sort of to the right? My left, just a little," he said really quietly.
There was another pause. He knew Karen would be discreet when she looked, so he just stared nonchalantly out the window.
"Yeah. Looks like it."
Jim held his hand out for the phone. "You busy?" he asked Marty.
"I'm always too busy to ID a suspect, Jim. You think it's him?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"Where are you?"
"Bertrice's Diner."
"Five minutes, tops."
Jim flipped the phone closed.
"What?" Karen asked. "Marty didn't—"
"Let's make small talk."
"Okay…" She laughed. "You want me to watch?" she asked carefully.
"Yeah."
"Boy, this is some weather, huh?"
"How 'bout them Knicks?"
"What are you going to be for Halloween?"
Jim laughed, finally breaking the tension he'd been feeling. He could trust Karen to keep an eye on the guy. He hoped it really was Mulhaney. But if it was, that meant Marty'd been right; they were being followed. "I haven't thought about it." Jim pushed thoughts of the case to the back of his mind and tried to relax. He didn't want to give anything away to Mulhaney by looking too anxious. And he didn't want to think of the repercussions of being followed.
"You're not going to any parties? Not going trick or treating?"
Jim shrugged. "Really hadn't thought about it."
"You really are a workaholic, aren't you?"
"I happen to like my job."
"You need to let loose more often. It was nice seeing a different side of you the other night."
Jim shook his head, embarrassment creeping back up. He finally smiled. "You can bet I won't be drinking that much at the holiday party this year. Can you imagine me going up to Fisk and telling him what I told Marty?"
Karen laughed, but said, "What did you tell Marty?"
"He didn't tell you?"
"No."
"I'm surprised." It put a new perspective on Marty. He always liked to know what was going on with everyone else, but it was nice to know he could keep things to himself. "So, Christmas? You guys have a big party here?"
"Yeah."
Jim smiled. He'd always liked the holiday parties before at his old precinct. Now, it was nice to feel that excited lurch in the pit of his stomach, looking forward to Christmas again.
"We need to figure out what you should wear for Halloween."
"Why the obsession over Halloween?"
"I'm sort of going to a party with this guy."
Jim blinked and leaned closer. "Who? What's he like?"
"Jim," she reprimanded.
"You brought it up."
"It's a, uh, blind date."
Jim laughed. "My favorite kind."
"I hate blind dates. And to a costume party? Do you know how embarrassing that's going to be?"
"So if it doesn't work out, you go hang out with your friends. Really, I always did like blind dates. No commitment."
"You were commitment phobic?"
"Isn't every guy?" he joked. Then he shook his head. "Not phobic—I just didn't want to settle down."
"How'd Christie get you to do it?"
He shrugged. "No idea. Fate, I guess. I took one look at her and…" He shook his head.
"You and Christie should come to the party."
"So that's why you wanted to dress me up?"
"Yeah…"
"Thanks, but I'm not much for the wild free-for-all anymore."
"Okay." She paused. "Getting old?"
"Karen…"
"Can't convince you?"
"A year ago, I would have come."
The bells over the door jangled and Jim suddenly felt a body sliding into the booth next to him. He slid toward the window to make room for Marty. Someone slid in next to Karen.
"Hi, Tom, didn't know you were coming," Jim said.
"I wouldn't miss a party," Tom said.
"You want to go to a Halloween party?"
"What?"
Jim shook his head. "Behind Karen, to my left."
"I see him," Marty said.
"Is it him?"
"Yup."
"I have good ears," Jim joked.
Marty clapped his shoulder and slid out of the booth. "We'll try not to make a scene. You guys got back-up?"
Jim nodded. He slid to the edge of the bench, ready to jump, grabbed Hank's leash, just in case they needed to run. He listened to Tom and Marty quietly talk to Mulhaney, but couldn't hear exactly what they were saying.
"He laughed and pulled his badge," Karen whispered.
"Yeah, I got one, too," Marty said.
Jim smiled to himself at the tone in Marty's voice.
"They're moving," Karen said a minute later. He stood. She moved out of the booth and pressed against his arm. Jim grabbed Hank's harness and moved with her when the bells over the door jangled.
Jim called Rob Mulhaney as soon as they got back to the squad, then he crammed into the observation room with Fisk and Karen.
"Robby on his way?"
Jim nodded and crossed his arms, waiting for the interview to begin.
"What's this about?"
"We just want to have a conversation," Marty said.
"Let me see your badge again," Tom said.
"We can at least book him for impersonating an officer," Fisk said.
"You ever meet Brian?" Jim asked him.
"A couple times, years ago," Fisk replied. "And this is definitely not him."
"What's your name?" Marty asked.
"Brian Mulhaney."
"Yeah. Right."
"You want to call my supervisor?"
"No."
"You want my social security number?"
"No."
"Check my record!"
"No. We know you're not a cop."
"How would I have gotten a badge? How would I have gotten my job? I've been working four years—"
"Or just a couple days," Tom said.
"Believe me," Marty said, "when we figure out exactly what you've done, you're going to be in a lot more trouble."
"Are you charging me with something? You said you just wanted to talk."
"That'll teach you never to trust a cop," Marty said. "Are you going to make me ask you again?"
There was silence.
"What are the charges?" Mulhaney finally asked.
"Murder. Identity theft. Impersonating a police officer."
"Murder?"
"You better believe it," Tom said.
"I don't. Who do you think I killed?"
"Brian Mulhaney, for starters."
"Suicide?" The man laughed. "This is ridiculous." His tone of voice changed, lost the amused quality. "What are you doing?"
"Fingerprints," Tom said. "You don't mind, do you?"
There was a knock on the door. Jim moved to open it, being closest.
"Jimmy," Rob Mulhaney said solemnly.
"Come on in." Jim shut the door after him.
"You ever see this kid before?" Fisk asked.
"…No."
"We got the badge and we're going to run the prints."
"He says he's Brian?"
"Yeah," Jim said quietly. Rob's hand clenched his shoulder. Jim turned and put a hand on his other arm. "You okay?" The grip tightened.
"If he…" Rob started, then trailed off.
Karen and Jim took over interviewing "Brian" so Marty and Tom could have a break. He hadn't given anything up in over two hours. They'd sent the prints out to be matched without much hope.
Jim shut the door. "Ah, Detective Dunbar!" Brian said happily. "You remember me, right?"
Jim laughed and shook his head. "Oh, yeah, I remember you. I also remember meeting Brian Mulhaney back in training, so you can drop the charade."
"Is that what this is about? Because I didn't remember you?" Brian asked, sounding hurt. "Been a while, huh?"
"Too bad I know your family personally, or it might have worked." Jim pulled out a chair, but didn't sit. He tried to test the silence, hoping Brian was sweating it out.
"You got my dad in here?" Brian asked quietly. "'Cause you should know, we had a huge falling out a couple years ago and he disowned me. He wouldn't acknowledge—"
"Not even for an investigation? He'd refuse to ID you?"
"Yeah!"
"You want me to ask him?"
"Detective…" Brian took a deep breath. "It was a huge deal, and Dad's an unforgiving sort of guy. You should know that."
"And you never should have picked the name of a real ex-cop to impersonate. There's not a single cop that ever met Brian Mulhaney who recognizes you as him. Why is that?"
"People change. I got a little heavier, that's all."
"And the voice?"
"Yeah, you're a voice guy, right? Maybe you forgot."
"You're not going to pretend you have a cold or something?" Jim finally sat down.
"Why would I pretend?"
There was a knock on the door. Jim listened as Karen answered it. He heard a paper being passed and cocked his head to the side without turning toward her.
"Reg Schmidt?" Karen asked. "Well, Reggie, how do you plead?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Your fingerprints."
"That's ridiculous; I don't have a record."
Jim leaned forward. "Actually, "Brian," you do. Drunken and disorderly? Remember? First year of college after a frat party. You were always kinda proud of that one. Daddy's a cop, and you had a record."
"Oh, that."
Karen set the file down by Jim's hand. "MIP," she said. "But you didn't have any alcohol in your blood, so the case got dropped."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"How do you forget your first mug shot? I'd've thought no one would be able to forget that day."
There was a moment of silence. Jim wondered what else was on the paper Karen had gotten. Probably nothing much, if the case had been dropped.
"So you're Brian's age, nearly the same build, a little stockier, same color hair."
"Yeah… I'd look like myself, wouldn't I?"
"You want us to do a DNA test?"
More silence.
"Give your statement," Jim said.
"Where the hell are you guys coming up with all this?" the kid asked.
"You want us to call you a lawyer?"
"No."
"Well?"
"Come on, we're all cops here. There's no need for a lawyer. Just tell me what's going on." But his voice was starting to sound uncomfortable.
Jim followed Karen slowly back to the observation room. He'd made sure to grab the paper telling them the ID off the prints. He leaned against the mirror and rubbed a hand over his face, taking off his glasses and sighing. "Anything else on here?" he asked, holding up the paper.
"Nothing useful," Karen said and took the paper. He heard her set it down somewhere.
"Hey, Rob?"
"Yeah, Jimmy."
"You want a shot at this guy?" There was silence and Jim could feel tension mounting in the room. "Sorry, shouldn't have asked," he said.
"I'd love a shot at this guy… but not today." Rob was struggling to keep his voice even.
Jim nodded, understanding. "Well, he's not going anywhere."
"I ran him while you guys were in there," Fisk said.
Jim perked up. "And?"
"Not a lot."
"But? Come on, boss, you're as bad as Tom."
"I'm going to bring in Brian's high school yearbook," Rob said. "See what he says about that. All Brian's friends, all the stuff he did back then."
"And I ordered Reggie Schmidt's," Fisk added. "This kid's never held a job, so we're going back a little further. We're gonna try to find out who he hung out with. We'll get someone to ID him."
"No college?"
"None."
"So… Brian," Marty said snidely, back in the interview room. "Guess what we got?"
"What does he got?" Karen asked.
"What?" Jim asked.
"Paper," she told him.
"Search warrant," Fisk said.
"You don't recognize this? I'd've thought, you being a cop and all, you'd know what this looked like."
"I don't have my contacts in," the kid said. "And obviously, you don't need 20/20 vision uncorrected to be a cop, so don't go trying to tell me that."
Jim felt Karen elbow him and he smiled at her.
"This is a search warrant for your apartment. So tell us, Brian, where do you live?"
Silence. Jim touched Karen's arm. He heard her turn toward him.
"Oh, sorry. He's definitely sweating," Karen said. "Staring at the table. Kinda pale."
More silence. Jim let go of Karen's arm.
"I'd love to search this guy's apartment," Marty said later. Reg Schmidt had never admitted anything, but also couldn't give them a permanent address. No amount of searching had provided the detectives with one, either.
Jim rubbed his mouth. "Yeah, me, too." He raised his head when he heard footsteps approaching.
"The DOA from the roof, he had this in his pocket," Fisk said.
Jim heard Fisk toss down a plastic evidence bag with something in it. He waited.
"Aspirin?" Marty asked.
"That's what ME thought at first. There's one pill in there, but it's not aspirin."
"What is it?" Jim asked.
"It's the untraceable poison that dissolves instantly in the human body and kills them, stopping the heart and coagulating the blood just enough that, even if they're shot—"
"They won't bleed much," Tom said.
"Exactly."
"Geez," Karen said.
Marty let out a whistle.
"So where'd the DOA get it?" Jim asked.
"You want to ask him?" Marty asked.
Jim smiled.
"Did you talk to my daughter?"
Jim stopped in the hallway and turned back toward the voice.
"Are you really even blind, detective? You're not being led around today."
"I am blind."
"So the other day, that was what? An excuse to talk about me behind my back?"
Jim walked toward her voice down the hall, stopping a couple feet short. "Mrs. Campbell…"
"Have you talked to my daughter?" she reiterated.
"No," he said.
"No?"
"The girl we were talking to—"
"She said I wasn't her mother?"
"She said her name wasn't Laine Campbell. But if we do come across your daughter, we have your number." Jim turned to leave.
"Detective! I know that's my daughter."
"How?" He didn't turn back.
"Someone told me."
"And you believe them?"
"I believe them more than I believe you."
Jim cocked his head to the side. He crooked a finger over his shoulder. "Come on," he said and headed for an interview room. "Karen?" he asked as he passed their desks.
"Not here. She already went home," Tom said. "You want me to join you?"
"Yeah." He pushed open the door to the interview room and held it for Mrs. Campbell. "This is Detective Selway," he said when Tom reached them. He shut the door. "Have a seat." A chair scraped back. "Tell us, who told you we know where your daughter is?"
"I got a phone call…"
Jim nodded and moved into the room, away from the windows, where he'd heard Tom go.
"And you knew who was on the phone?"
"No."
"And you believe them because…?"
"They told me some things."
Jim pulled out a chair and dropped into it. "Like what?"
"Things only my Laina would know about."
Jim cocked his head to the side. "Mrs. Campbell, do you value your daughter's life?"
"Of course I do!"
"So why do you keep insisting we tell you where she is? If this girl is your daughter, her life is in danger, and the more you press the issue, the more dangerous it gets."
"What do you mean, she's in danger?"
Jim sighed.
"Everyone she was with, they're either dead or missing," Tom said. "You want that to happen to your daughter?"
"Why? Why is she in danger?"
"We don't know yet," Jim said. "Do you?"
"No."
"So you can't tell us anything about who called you and what they told you and why you're trying to find your daughter?" Tom asked.
"This guy called. He said Laina had been arrested. I said, what for, he said he didn't know exactly but I should come down here and you'd let me talk to her."
"Why would this guy call you up? Just out of the blue like that?" Tom asked.
"He said he was a friend of hers and thought I should know. Things hadn't been that great between me and Laina for a while. If he was a friend of hers, he'd know that."
"You've had no contact with her lately?" Jim asked.
"She would call sometimes, and send pictures of her daughter."
"She has three daughters now," Jim said and listened to her breathe as she took in the new information. He turned to Tom and said, "Do we have a picture of Rico Artez?"
"His mug shot from when we booked him."
"Do we still have a hard copy of that, though? After they wiped his file?"
"Who is…?" Mrs. Campbell asked.
"Rico Artez," Jim said. "He was a friend of this girl. They said they were brother and sister. I'm wondering if maybe they were old friends, maybe you'd know something?"
Tom described Rico to her.
"No," she said. "I don't know."
Jim nodded. "This girl we know, she has three kids, and a brother, and you still think it's your daughter?"
Mrs. Campbell sniffed, opened a purse of some sort, rifled around. Jim heard the light sound of tissues rasping out of a pack, heard her wiping at her face. "They told me all about Tamika, what she's been doing lately. She hasn't been to school. She's such a smart girl, she needs to go to school! And I know Laina's had problems lately, but I thought maybe now it's been long enough, she'll let me help.
"They told me all the different places Laina and Tamika have been staying the past couple years, Laina's old job—"
"Where'd she work?" Tom interrupted.
"She was secretary at some law firm or a brokerage or something like that. She had a couple different jobs. But she was good at her job, got to work for some high-profile guys, booking their lunches and meeting all sorts of people. Someone had just offered her a better job when… She said she quit, had to be there for Tamika. She said she couldn't say anything too detailed."
"And then she moved out of her apartment?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"She said it was going to be cheaper to stay with friends. They could split rent."
"How was she going to pay rent if she didn't have a job?"
"I asked, believe me I asked. She didn't say. Like I said, we didn't talk much, especially after she moved out of her place. That was a few years ago."
"And now?" Jim prompted.
"She's my daughter, detective. They said she was arrested, I was worried. I thought, even if she did something bad, someone would have to take care of Tamika. I could be there for her, like I wasn't there before."
"We don't know who called you," Jim said. "But please, as far as you're concerned, we don't even know where your daughter is. It's not her."
"But—"
"We don't know what she knows, or what happened, but… We're doing everything we can to keep her safe."
She sniffled.
"And we're asking you, if anyone asks, to tell them that. And if they contact you again," Jim paused and pulled out one of his business cards, "call us immediately with any information."
"And you'll call me?"
"We will." Jim stood up and held his hand out to her. "We'll be in touch." He held the door open for her, then let it swing shut. He turned to Tom with a sigh. "Well," he said.
"DeLana really wouldn't tell us anything about her family," Tom said.
"At least she's gone for now. The fewer people asking questions, the better."
"You think we can trust her to keep quiet? If someone asks where her daughter is and tells her some horror story, you think she's going to come running back?"
Jim shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine." He opened the door and stepped out.
Jim froze when a hand touched his chest on the way out of the interview room. He stepped back and heard Tom sidestep him.
"Boss?" Tom asked.
Jim had never heard Fisk so quiet. Often, when no one was around, he could tell who was there, but not this time.
"We got us another DOA," Fisk said quietly. "Reg Schmidt, down in the Tombs."
Tom swore. Jim closed his eyes and prayed it wasn't happening, then shook his head.
"They're doing an autopsy now," Fisk said. "But what d'you want to bet they didn't search him well enough before they put him down there?"
"Probably they just thought it was a tiny, harmless aspirin?" Tom said.
Jim turned and walked abruptly to his desk, nearly stamping his feet in frustration. He threw back his desk chair and fell into it.
"Nothing we can do tonight, Jim," Fisk said. "Go on home."
"Jimmy, are you okay?"
He looked up, having just walked in the door a moment before. He dropped his keys on the table, hadn't even called out yet. So why'd Christie sound so concerned?
"You've been standing there for five minutes," she said.
"Have I?" He scrunched his face a little. "Sorry."
He heard her dress swish over and remembered their date suddenly.
"I better change."
Her hand caught his arm and she pulled him into an embrace.
"What's this for?" He felt awkward, still in his coat with his bag across his shoulder, but he put his arms around her.
She tilted his head down with a hand on his cheek as she pulled back a few inches. "Let's go out tomorrow."
He raised a hand to her face, confused. "You have other plans?"
"No. You look miserable…"
He shook his head. "Long day. I'm sure as soon as we get out the door—"
"You'll be thinking about it all night. I want us both to have fun."
He sighed. "I promised."
"So we'll make a long day of it tomorrow. No big deal."
"Christie—"
"Remember our deal? We're not going to fight. We're just going to be here for each other."
Jim broke away and shrugged out of his coat. "I wasn't about to yell at you." He sighed. He'd forgotten to pick up flowers.
"I know."
Family or career. That conversation haunted Jim's memory. He wanted to ask Galloway if that was a legitimate way to have a relationship, but he'd have to wait for his next appointment.
"Do you have anything planned tomorrow?" she asked.
"No."
"So let's relax tonight. You look like you need to unwind."
He nodded without realizing he was doing it.
"And tomorrow, since neither one of us had anything to do… unless you were planning to head down to the squad?"
He shook his head. "I should take a day off and let it fester."
"That bad, huh?"
Jim smiled a little. "I'm going to change. You sure you don't mind putting off our date?"
"It was my idea, wasn't it? And it's my birthday." She trailed a hand across his chest as she crossed to the kitchen. "I'll call the restaurant, see if we can reschedule."
Jim shut the door to their bedroom and sat on the bed. Hank touched his knee with his nose. Jim looked down. "Hey, didn't know you followed me," he said. Hank sat at his feet. Jim leaned back on the bed, arms outstretched, and groaned.
He was relieved Christie was letting him stay home. He felt sore and tense and frustrated. He really wouldn't have been able to have any fun. He'd almost been looking forward to the date, almost. A quiet dinner, then maybe a walk in the park. He hadn't planned much, figured they could just play it by ear.
Now he had all weekend, two days off the case. It didn't feel right, taking time when he knew something else could go wrong at any moment.
He wondered how Rob was doing. He'd been quiet when he left, but Jim knew, Rob having more at stake in the case, having someone impersonating his dead son, Jim knew if he was frustrated, that was nothing compared to what Rob must be feeling. Probably lying at home right then with his wife trying to comfort him, or maybe he was throwing things around the house. Jim smiled, thinking of a wife trying to offer comfort. He sat up, stripped off his work shirt and quickly changed into more casual clothes.
"Welcome back," Christie said when he opened the door.
Hank followed him.
"You hungry?" she asked.
Jim shook his head. He crossed to the couch. "Join me?" he asked hopefully. Hank settled at his feet.
"Aren't you going to feed the dog?" she asked as she leaned over the couch behind him.
Slowly he nodded. "Yeah. Right. Sorry." He went back to the kitchen.
"I'm going to throw something in the oven," she said. "You'll want to eat later." She opened the refrigerator.
Jim thought about skipping lunch and it still didn't make him hungry. Everything was just so messed up, how could he think of food? "You want help?" he asked.
"Sure." He listened as she dropped a few things on the counter by the stove and pulled out a pan. "You want to put together a salad?"
Jim washed the dog food off his hands and nodded, then realized he didn't know if Christie was facing him or not. "Yeah," he said. He pulled lettuce and vegetables out of the fridge, glad for something to do as he spread out by the sink, washing, cutting, tossing. He dropped a few cherry tomatoes into the bowl, wondering what DeLana was eating right then, if she and the kids felt safe. He knew he couldn't go check on her, but maybe he could give Tamika a call, see what she knew about her grandmother, see if Tamika could talk to her mom about helping them. It had to be getting old, being in police custody, even if it was for safety, even if it was better than what they'd had previously.
"Jim?" Christie asked.
He turned his head, one hand on either side of the large bowl. "Yeah?"
"You're spacing out again."
"Sorry." He started cleaning up, pulled out the bottle of homemade salad dressing Christie liked to make.
"I thought you weren't hungry," she said.
"I'm not."
"Then just put the salad in the fridge. We'll eat it right before dinner's ready."
Jim put everything back in the fridge. He hadn't been thinking, just been on auto-pilot. He listened as Christie slid something into the oven and set the timer. He slid up onto one of the stools at the counter, his chin resting on his fists as he imagined what she was doing based on what he could hear. Her at the sink facing him, washing up, wiping down the counter, her head down, but probably glancing up at him occasionally, then turning to wipe down the area by the stove, checking the oven to make sure everything was okay, putting things back in the refrigerator, turning her back to pull a wine glass out of the cupboard—make that two wine glasses—then pulling out a bottle. He heard her set it on the counter in front of him, then she opened a drawer and set something next to it, something small. He reached out and grabbed the bottle and the corkscrew, glad she didn't have to give running commentary anymore. She used to, every little thing: here's the wine, it's this kind, here's the opener, it's right by the bottle, will you open it? But now the silence was comfortable enough and he could follow her movements, know what was going on around him. He opened the wine and slid the corkscrew back across the counter, listening as she put it away. The two glasses she'd set behind the bottle, so he grabbed them and poured, holding one out over the sink until she took it.
"Mm," she said, taking a sip.
He pictured her smiling over at him and smiled back. He left his own wine untouched, just played his fingers over the bottom of the glass. "How was work?" he finally asked.
"Not bad. We have an article we're working on, this lady who designed dresses out of her basement."
He grimaced. "Out of shower curtains again?" That had been one of the first articles Christie had ever told him about, back when they were still dating. She didn't have as much seniority as she did now, so she often got stuck with articles, small blurbs, really, that had very little to do with the fashion industry at large. It had been a piece about eccentric clothing or something, a retrospective of all the weird and bizarre things people had tried to wear over the years.
"No," she said, lightly complaining. "That was one time, not everything is like that."
He smiled. "I know."
"That's just your favorite."
He shrugged.
"Then I'll always give you a hard time about that case where the guy was stealing teddy bears and giving them to children at the shelters. And the one where you followed that guy and got stuck in the fun-house because they locked the main door and you couldn't find the emergency exit. And how about the time you fell in that play pit, the one with the balls, and all the kids were laughing at you."
Jim laughed. "Anymore good memories you want to dredge up?"
"Give me a minute, I'm sure I'll remember more."
"You were going to tell me about the new article you're working on."
"Yeah…" She sounded like she was smiling as she moved over and sat on the stool next to him. He caught one of her legs between his and wouldn't let go. He took a sip of wine. "Basically, she's been designing dresses using an old sewing machine. She's ninety years old now, but the look just caught on with a bunch of college students. Her granddaughter and her friends, then their friends. Now her granddaughter is trying to market the dresses to bigger designers." She reached out, caressing his hand as it sat on the counter. He looked down at it. "What about your day?"
He shook his head.
"Jimmy… You used to like to work the cases out, telling me little things—"
"I left out a lot of the nitty-gritty details, you know."
"That's okay. Why don't you tell me? You can censor it, if you want."
Jim took a long drink and grabbed her hand as it made another pass over the back of his. He told her how Rob had been there today to confirm that his dead son wasn't the guy in the interview room, how the guy had later been found dead. "Do you remember Rob?"
She was quiet a second. "Oh, uh, no, I don't think so," she said.
The way she said it, it sounded like she may have been shaking her head during the silence. Jim looked over at her, wishing he could read body language now, even the little things, like the shaking of a head. He kept hold of her hand and concentrated on that as he told her other small details about DeLana and the lady who might be her mom, about Artez the maybe brother disappearing, about Samantha being pregnant. He felt her muscles tense when he mentioned the details about the baby.
"Why is having a boy so bad?"
"We don't know." Jim shook his head and squeezed her hand.
"But it's a baby!"
"This whole case, everything's messed up." He bent his head so she wouldn't be able to see his face as well. He hadn't been planning to tell her about the guy from the roof that day, but he found himself doing it anyway. She tensed again, her hand growing hot.
He listed everything that had gone wrong, all the people who were no longer able to offer information on the case. "I'm just worried something's going to happen. We have one girl left, and four children. What if something happens to her? What'll happen to the kids?"
"But you won't let anything happen to her, she's safe."
He turned away. "I thought that about her brother, too. We had him in the station. And he's gone."
She didn't offer him any hope, not even like Karen had done, saying of course they'd figure it out. For some reason he found that comforting, just holding her hand and feeling her pulse beat.