Chapter Fourteen

"I got a copy of that message from Mrs. Whittleton," Fisk said. "Karen?"

"Yeah, I'll listen," she said.

"Marty and I talked to her," Tom said. "We'll take a listen, too."

Marty didn't say anything.

"Phone services has been looking deeper into that pager number, but they haven't come up with anything so we're just gonna call it, see what happens," Fisk told them.

Karen got a tape player and they all gathered around her desk. Jim stood right behind her as she hit play.

"Hi-ii!" a girl's voice sing-songed. "Mom, Paris is great, having a wonderful time, wish you were here—ha ha! I'm learning French—oui, oui, où est Sylvie, s'il vous plaît. Gotta go have a baguette. By-ye!"

"That's it?" Karen asked.

"The girl calls half-way across the world and that's all she says?" Tom asked.

"Is it her?" Jim asked.

"I think so," Karen said. "It's gotta be hard to impersonate someone while talking that fast about nothing."

"Karen," Tom reprimanded her tastelessness.

"Since we know she was already dead when her mom got this call, she must have recorded a bunch of messages and someone's been calling when they know the mom's gone," Jim speculated.

"Phone services has the number listed as being from upstate," Fisk said. "No incoming calls from Europe to the Whittleton residence in the past six months."

"So why'd she make a bunch of tapes for someone else?" Karen asked.

"Do we know what the other messages said?" Jim asked.

Fisk said, "Mrs. Whittleton said this one was just par for the course. The past few weeks, she's been out of the house for every call—"

"Meaning maybe someone knows when she's leaving," Tom said. "They don't want her to actually be able to talk to the girl, just to think she's okay."

"So why'd she record a bunch of messages that just say "hi, I'm gonna have a baguette"?" Karen asked.

"The less consequential the call, the less likely the mom's gonna get worried, right?" Jim said.

"She was just checking in. You don't need to say anything too deep in that case," Tom said.

"I just want to know why Samantha would willingly—" Jim started.

"—help whoever killed her?" Karen finished.

"Is it related?" Tom asked. "You think she made the tapes willingly?"

"It has to be related," Jim said. "And it certainly sounded willing."

"Maybe they were coded," Tom suggested. "If she knew she was in big trouble, maybe all the messages put together mean, "Mom, I'm in trouble, this is where I am."

"Tom," Karen said, sounding like she was wrinkling her nose at the theory. "This is Samantha."

"Yeah…"

"Maybe she didn't know what the tapes were for," Karen put in. "Maybe it was just a big joke, or she just didn't want to talk to her mom."

"Then why say she was leaving the country? And why make tapes? Why not just call herself when she knew her mom wouldn't be there?" Jim asked.

"There was no pattern of times to the calls," Fisk said. "It seems random, so we can't just stake out a phone booth—not that it looks like they even used the same phone booth twice."

"And why wouldn't she have told her mom she had a baby?" Karen asked. "It didn't sound like they were on bad terms."

"If you come up with anything, we'll get the mom back in here," Fisk said, then walked off.

Jim started making notes on his computer, trying to work everything out. Time telescoped and the next thing he knew, he heard footsteps walking up. He pulled out his earpiece.

"I just paged that number you all got at the bar," Fisk said from just the other side of Marty's desk. "The plan is, we want just enough of the stuff for one person and we'll meet them at Bertrice's Diner for the exchange. Who wants to take the call?"

"My vote's for Jim," Tom said.

"Yeah, he got the card," Karen said.

"And since he can't be in on the undercover drop," Tom added.

Jim kept his face neutral. It probably was best he didn't go with, but that didn't mean he didn't feel a pang at getting left behind. He was a cop and, responsibly, he knew to stay out of the way. But the other half of his cop brain wanted to run in there and finish this case once and for all.

"Whatever," Marty said.

Jim listened as Fisk moved over toward his desk.

"You want the call?"

"Sure."

There was a pause. "Jim."

"Yeah?"

"The phone."

Jim felt Fisk's hand waving in front of his face in the sudden silence. It took him a second to realize Fisk would have a cell phone that wouldn't be traceable back to the station. Marty snickered as Jim held up his hand. Jim clasped the small phone, glad it was a flip phone so he wouldn't have to ask Fisk which button he would need to press. "Next time you could just set it down on the desk," Jim said quietly.

"Right."

Jim set the phone in front of him while Fisk moved back toward the windows. "We'll have Marty and Tom take care of the actual deal."

Jim nodded. He was relieved when the phone rang a second later. Fisk lunged forward and grabbed it just before Jim's hand landed on it.

"They're calling from a pay phone," he said.

Jim heard him set the phone back as it rang again. He resituated it so it was facing the right way, then flipped it open. "Yeah?"

The squad room grew silent.

"You called?" a male asked. Jim estimated him to be about fifty, a big guy from the sound of his voice.

"Yeah."

"You want some?"

"Yeah."

"What for?"

Jim remembered what the guy in the bar had asked so he said, "It's for a good cause."

"How much?"

"Enough for one."

"Where?"

"Bertrice's Diner."

"Fine. You be alone?"

"Yeah."

"What do you look like?"

Jim looked over at Marty quickly. "What do I look like?" he asked. Marty would be the most likely one to pose as the buyer, the closest in height and weight and probably in looks, though Jim didn't know what he looked like.

The man on the phone started explaining using very small words, saying that if he didn't have a description, how were they going to find each other. Marty had laughed at the same time and said something about if you don't know what you look like—

Jim waved him off and pointed at Marty, mouthing "you."

"Me? I'm five-ten, dark hair…"

Jim passed on that information to the guy on the phone.

"Are you a big guy?"

"Not big…" Jim said.

"Can't you be more specific?" the man asked.

Jim thought quickly. "How about a little poetic justice, to make it really easy—I'll be wearing a red flower on my coat, how's that?"

"What kind?"

Jim forced a laugh. "Do you prefer roses or carnations?" he asked the man.

"Carnations."

"Then a bright red carnation it is."

"We'll meet at 5:30. What are you going to use it for?"

"You don't need to know that. You supply, I pay you what it's worth—"

"It's free, so to speak. I would never charge money. 5:30." He hung up.

Jim flipped the phone shut. "5:30," he told the other detectives. "It's free. Marty, you need a red carnation and no, I don't know what you look like." He handed the phone over his shoulder to where Fisk was standing.

Marty was quiet. He'd been quiet all day. Jim did his work and tried not to think about what could be bothering the other detective, but it seemed strange that neither Tom nor Karen had seemed to notice anything unusual. Maybe he'd ask Karen later to keep an eye on Marty. If he said anything himself, it would probably go over badly.

"Does Marty seem quiet to you?" Jim asked Karen as they were walking back to the car after checking out a lead that had gone nowhere.

Jim felt her shrug. "No."

He mused over that, staring toward the window on the ride back to the precinct. He rubbed his hand over his mouth.

Come on, Karen's not that unobservant, he said to himself. Maybe something happened at home and Marty just wanted to keep it to himself. Marty wasn't a personal-type guy—he kept to himself. Just like Jim tried to do.

But when Hank led him into the squad room, Jim heard Tom and Marty laughing in the locker room. The sound chilled him and he wasn't sure why. It wasn't like evil laughter…

"Hey, Jim," Tom said when he walked back into the squad room.

"Hey," Jim said, looking up from his computer.

He heard Marty sit down at his desk and he heard silence.

"Hey, Marty," Jim said and busied himself at his own desk.

"Oh," Marty said. "Uh, hey." Jim heard Marty's chair slide back. "Just leaving." He pushed in the chair and walked away.

"Did you and Marty get into a fight again?" Tom asked after a few minutes.

"Not while I was there." Jim imagined Tom nodding or shrugging in the silence. "He okay with you?"

"Yeah, no problems," Tom said.

Jim tried to shrug casually, but he could feel his face squinching distastefully. "Then it's just me."

Tom came over and pulled out Karen's chair. Jim turned. That was uncharacteristic. "S'up with you two?"

"Believe me, Tom, I have no idea."

"'Cause, you know, it's really awkward trying to work with the two of you. I thought you'd worked everything out."

"So'd I." Jim bit his lip. He put his elbows up on his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. Finally he shook his head. "Nothing. I can't think of anything."

"You didn't park in his spot again, did you?"

Jim grinned. "Maybe that's it."

Tom stood up. "Got some leg work to do."

Jim nodded. "Don't worry. We'll work it out again. I'll figure it out."

"Promises, promises," Tom said as he walked away.

It didn't make sense. Marty and him had been doing so well. Jim turned his chair back around and stared into space, rubbing his hand over his mouth. In fact, they'd been doing better than well. Marty hadn't been questioning his ability to do his job, even going so far as to invite him on their excursion to the bar.

Karen walked up, sneezing.

"Bless you," Jim said absently.

"You wanna go see DeLana?" she asked.

"But we—"

"That Mulhaney guy's gone. I'll make sure we're not being followed."

Jim sat up straighter. "Why, bless your heart." He put on his sunglasses and stood up, suddenly excited, forgetting all about Marty. "I've been wanting to do this for days." Hank jumped up and Jim headed out of the squad room.

"Wait for me!" Karen said.

Jim turned back and laughed.

"I didn't think you'd be that gung-ho," she muttered as she joined him, pulling her coat on.

They headed for a small house outside the city. They'd been told it was rundown, but still had enough amenities for DeLana and the kids for a few days. Jim settled into the car, thinking Karen was kind of quiet, but then again, he didn't break the silence, either.

Marty stopped at the corner by Fisk's office and glanced into the room. Jim and Karen weren't there, so he proceeded. He had work to do, though he'd been avoiding his desk most of the day.

He was sticking to his promise—he wasn't going to let Jim get away with anything. The way the cocky bastard had taken over the phone call… but Marty was relieved at least he wouldn't be in on the drop. At least then he'd have nothing to be smug about.

Marty hadn't said anything when Jim walked in that morning. He'd watched the other detective walk in with Hank, pull out his laptop, sit down and get right to work. He'd stared at him a minute, trying to figure him out. Before he met Anne, he'd been thinking the same thing Jim had told him at the bar: that they were all coming together as a squad. Yeah, sometimes Jim needed a little help, but he was a team player and they were working together pretty well. That's why Marty'd invited him out to the bar that night. It was a harmless little sting operation, something Jim could partake in.

Marty had found he was glaring at Jim. They'd almost been friends or something.

It was humbling, seeing a detective ask for help. Marty was self-sufficient, and he knew Jim always had been. He'd seen the look on Jim's face when he asked what Marty looked like, how even that little bit killed him. And Marty had almost felt compassion.

But he knew Jim wouldn't change. A guy like that, someone who'd willingly cheat on his wife. He didn't deserve her forgiveness. And even though right now he'd accept help from the other detectives in the squad and he'd stay back, Marty knew it was only a matter of time before he was back in his old habits. Like when he'd drawn his gun on the street—Marty'd heard the gossip from some other cops about that one, how Jim had gotten reamed for following his instincts. It was only a matter of time, but Marty was going to be prepared.

"What'd Dunbar do to you now?" Tom asked.

Marty looked up from where he'd been hunched over his computer, staring at nothing. "Nothing," he said. "I'm just keeping an eye on him."

"I thought you two were over all that," Tom said.

"I told you—"

"And I don't buy it."

"Let's just say I learned something about our good friend Jim and I'm—I don't trust him."

"What'd he do?" Tom leaned forward. "He on the take or something?"

Marty just shook his head.

"Look, Marty, get over it. We were working better together. Don't screw that up, okay?"

"I'm just making sure we keep working well together."

Tom sort of snorted.

Marty turned back to his computer and ignored him. He was looking out for all of them; they'd see that soon enough. It was only a matter of time.

"Where've you been, detective? I thought you forgot about us."

"I could never forget you, DeLana, believe me."

She laughed at him. "Because you think I'm a pain in the ass?"

Jim grinned. "Even if I thought that, I'd never tell you."

"Hmph," she snorted. "See, that's where you're different from Detective Russo. He doesn't pretend he's a nice guy."

Jim frowned. "I wouldn't pretend something like that."

"Sure you would. You're all nice to everyone. You might think you like everyone, but I don't think you do."

"No?" Jim shrugged. "Which do you prefer?"

"I'd prefer it if people just were nice."

Jim nodded. "And you know what I want? I'd like to be able to help you. I like to help people."

"Because it makes you feel good or because you like to make other people feel good?"

"Is it bad to do both?" Jim asked. He did like to feel useful, to be busy.

She was quiet for a minute. Jim waited. "I shrugged," she finally said.

"Oh." Jim looked away.

"Sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Not yours, either."

Jim turned back and smiled. "A lot of people think it is."

"You really want to help?"

"I would. Are you going to let me?"

"I don't see what you can help me with."

Jim was quiet, waiting. DeLana didn't continue and he sighed. "It's okay, I've got all day."

"Fine. So do I."

"There a chair around here somewhere?"

"Across the room. There's a coffee table in front of the couch, though."

Jim took Hank's harness and nudged him that direction. When he was seated he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a jar of grape jelly. He'd gotten Karen to stop on the way out. "Here. I thought you might be running low." He felt for the coffee table she'd told him about and set it down.

Jim asked her about the kids, trying to get her to open up. She told him a few funny, inconsequential stories. He asked about her friends and family and she shut down. He asked about her mom and she refused to talk. He asked about her job and she gushed about how much fun she'd had, ordering these big execs around and making their plans for them. She'd been able to dictate their lives, even tell them what to have for dinner, and they'd listen, not like her kids.

"Your girlfriend's asleep," Tamika said.

"Tamika, don't hover," DeLana said.

Tamika came closer and sat on the floor.

"She's not my girlfriend, she's my partner," Jim said.

"Isn't that the same thing?"

Jim shook his head. "Colleagues. We work together. Co-workers. Business associates."

"Isn't that the same thing? You spend all your time together."

"And then I go home to my wife," he said. He stood up and stretched. "Where is she? We'd probably better be heading back."

"Come back and visit sometime, detective," DeLana said.

Tamika stood up. "I'll take you." She took Jim's hand.

"Thanks," he said and put his hand on the little girl's shoulder.

"DeWanda smeared lipstick on her face," she whispered when they reached the hallway. The sound bounced off the walls, belying the emptiness of the house. Jim reached out and touched a wall, sliding his hand along it, counting doorways. "Don't tell her."

Jim laughed. "Don't tell her she has lipstick on her face, or don't tell her your little sister did it?"

"Yeah, don't tell her who did it."

Tamika stopped and Jim knocked on the half-closed door. He heard someone move a little.

"Did'n do't," a little voice yelled and brushed past Jim into the hall.

He laughed again. "Morning, sleepy head," he said, listening for signs of life from Karen.

"She's curled up on the bed," Tamika said. "We all got our own rooms here, you know? It's cool."

"Good, I'm glad," Jim said. "Hey, Tamika, have you ever met your grandma?"

She pulled away from his hand. "No. She's mean."

"How do you know?"

"Momma told me she had to leave and we couldn't talk to her anymore." It sounded like Tamika was almost pouting, angry, but near tears.

"Okay," Jim said, dropping it. "Thanks." He moved forward slowly, a hand outstretched. His shin hit the low bed first and he felt around a little, hearing Karen breathing now. He found her body and shook it lightly, careful of where he touched. "Karen," he said. "You want to spend the night here?"

"Yeah!" Tamika said. "You should have a sleepover! We'll curl her hair and you can make popcorn. We don't get popcorn 'cept when Uncle Rico makes it, 'cause I guess only guys make popcorn."

Jim sat on the corner of the bed, relieved she didn't ask where her Uncle Rico was.

Karen stretched.

He pulled off his sunglasses and looked down at her.

"Jim?" she asked, sounding confused. She sat up and looked around.

"Tired?"

"No," she said.

"Karen, you have a little lipstick on your face," he said.

"Yeah, right, Jim. Tom told me about your little comments. I'm your partner; I'm not going to fall for it."

Jim shrugged and stood up, holding his hand out to help her off the bed. Her hand was hot, but he just figured it was from sleeping in her coat in the stuffy bedroom.

"What the—" she started, then broke away. Jim guessed she'd raised a hand to her face to check, even if she didn't believe him. "What is this?"

"Lipstick," he said.

"What'd you do?" she accused from across the room. "It's bright pink and it's not coming off!"

"I didn't, Karen, I swear. I'm not much of an artist."

"So who—"

"No one. A little birdie told me."

"Bathroom's down the hall," Tamika said, giggling.

Jim grinned when she brushed past, then laughed.

"This isn't funny!" Karen yelled back.

Jim glanced over at Karen as they sat at their desks. "Karen? Are your teeth chattering?"

"Ha ha, very funny," she snapped back.

"No, seriously," he pushed.

"It's cold in here. Aren't you cold?"

"Not particularly…"

"Yeah, well you're a guy, right? Guys are never cold."

"Put your coat on."

"It is," she mumbled. She blew on a cup of coffee, sending the smell wafting over toward Jim.

Jim leaned back, looking toward her. "Are you okay?" She'd been sniffling lately, but she'd just complained of allergies. "Karen, if you're dying, go home."

"I'm not dying. I have a little cold, maybe, but I think it's just hay fever."

Jim slid his chair over to her and reached out, lightly touching her shoulder to get his bearings. He felt a little awkward, even after that night at the bar. If she wasn't sick, she'd be sure to clobber him.

Jim reached carefully, making sure not to cross any boundaries. His hand touched her hair, just a few strands, then moved up to rest on her forehead.

"Come on, Jim, this is really embarrassing."

Jim pulled back. "You're burning up."

"I'm freezing to death."

"Go home, make some soup—"

"I'm fine!"

"Karen," Marty butted in, walking up from the elevator. Jim pushed back to his desk. "You're not going to do us any good if you catch pneumonia."

"Don't patronize me, Marty," Karen snapped. "The way the case is going, we all need to be here. A day or two—"

"And it'll still be here," Marty said. "I don't think we're all that close."

"I'm fine."

Marty walked past Jim's desk toward Karen.

"Marty!" Karen gasped. "Don't—"

"It's okay, I got a kid, I'm allowed to do this." He paused. Jim figured Marty was taking Karen's temperature. "You do realize you have a fever, right?"

"A small one, maybe."

Marty moved back to his desk. "Go home, we'll take care of things and you'll be back in no time."

"But Jim—"

Marty snorted.

Jim sat up straighter. He didn't want Karen using him as an excuse not to take a day off sick.

"If Jim can't take care of himself, he shouldn't be here," Marty snapped.

Jim turned away. He couldn't help but feel that comment had been directed at him and not Karen. He quickly turned back to his report.

"Go home and pray you're not contagious," Marty said. He walked off, out of the squad.

Karen's chair creaked as she turned. "I get the feeling, if he comes down with so much as a sniffle, he'll throw me off the roof," she said quietly.

"Nah," Jim said, trying to make her feel better, "he's just being Marty."

"No," Karen countered, "that definitely wasn't normal Marty. You think he's okay?"

Jim shrugged. "None of our business, I'm sure. Go home, Karen."

"Uh, Jim…" she started, then hesitated, looking away. He heard her playing with something on her desk.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing. You'll be okay?"

"No problem. Get well, then come back."

"Keep me updated, okay? I don't want to miss anything."

"Hey, Doc," Jim said.

There was no answer. Jim cocked his head first to one side, then the other. Galloway wouldn't play some childish game of hide and seek. The office suddenly felt empty.

Jim checked his watch to make sure he was on time, then stood there in the doorway, one hand against the wall to help keep his bearings. Before, he would have walked around, checked out the art work, checked on the diploma and given Galloway a hard time about wherever he'd gone to school, looked at the books in the room. Once when he was a rookie he'd been left in a lawyer's office for an interview, the lawyer hadn't been there, so he'd gone through the guy's trash and searched the cushions of the couch, playing detective. He'd done that at Christie's parents' house once—she'd caught him and he'd been sure she'd call their engagement off.

Now he wondered what dirt he could dig up on Galloway. Paper was useless to him without his scanner and software, so the only things he'd be liable to find stuffed in the cushions of the big chairs would be loose change. Nothing much that would tell him anything about the big guy. Here he was, surrounded by Galloway's personal things and he knew next to nothing about the guy.

No, they weren't really his personal things, Jim reminded himself. An easy fallacy for a rookie to fall pretty to. This was Galloway's office. It would be filled with things the doctor wanted people to see to get an impression of him. Jim wondered what sort of guy Galloway wanted to be perceived as. He also wondered, without those visual stimuli, if he saw Galloway the same way sighted people did, or if it was possible for him to pick up nuances the doctor tried to hide.

Yeah, Jim scoffed, like Galloway's neurotic or something. That would be the day—the neurotic leading the neurotic.

Jim left his post at the door and moved to his usual seat. It was uncomfortable, being there alone, like he was trespassing. But he sat down to wait. He never used to be this patient, he mused.

He still wasn't. He smiled when he realized he was antsily changing position every few seconds. Wasting time. Being a homicide detective, he hated wasting time. He could save lives if they figured the case out quickly enough. So many people didn't have time to wait.

"Jim! Sorry I'm late."

"Don't worry about it. I started without you."

"You did? What did you learn?"

"Nothing much."

"What were you analyzing?"

"You."

"And how are things on your end?"

"Things have been going pretty good at home. I thought we had it all under control, but…"

"But?"

"I don't know how to explain it, there's just something not right." He went on and told Galloway about the fight and how Christie had come back to forgive him in that strange way, telling him about the therapist and how odd that all sounded.

"Jim, I'm not about to critique another therapist's recommendations," Galloway said. "I don't know what your wife told her. I've only talked to your wife the one time."

Jim leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Doc, I just don't get it. It sounds like mumbo jumbo. Crazy, you know. That wasn't Christie. This lady's given her permission to not talk."

"Maybe that's what she needed. Or maybe Christie's misinterpreted what the doctor said. Jim, therapy is very subjective. Maybe this is the only way she can see to keep your marriage together."

Jim let his head fall to one side, looking toward Galloway with an eyebrow half-cocked. "By not talking to me?" he asked skeptically.

"You told me you haven't seen her lately, you've been fighting more often. If things kept going the way they were, do you think you two could stay together?"

"I don't know."

"You asked her once not to leave. Maybe she's trying not to."

"So I trapped her? This is Christie we're talking about. She's a very strong person—"

"Then why hasn't she ever left you?"

Jim couldn't fathom. Christie—not strong? Christie—weak? Was it possible he'd misjudged her all those years?

"Doc? Is it possible for people to need to be divorced?"

"If they'll be healthier, yes. Marriage isn't a cure-all."

Jim nodded. If they were trying too hard to save something that really shouldn't be saved, maybe they'd destroy themselves in the process.

Then again, things really had seemed better between them, even if it was only at the suggestion of some therapist.

"How are things at work?"

Jim shook his head. "I've done something to piss of Marty."

"Again?"

Jim almost laughed at the surprise in the doctor's voice. "Doc, am I really such a jerk?" He knew why Christie got mad with him: the affair, and him so often thinking about work that he would forget about her. But Marty? He had no idea what he'd done to Marty.

A moment of silence, then, "You have a strong personality, but I don't think you're a jerk."

"I just wish I knew what I did." He rubbed his hand over his mouth, looking up, running through everything he and Marty had talked about recently.

"You could ask."

Jim closed his eyes a second. He wasn't ready for another fight. He was still drained from the one with Christie, even though the weekend had gone well. It had been relaxing, yet every time he thought of the fight, he tensed back up. How could Christie have just gotten over it? He wondered if she had cried herself to sleep after their fight, before he'd come to bed. He knew there had to be something else she wanted to say. And then they'd gone and had a nice weekend, comfortable, quiet, spending time together. Just like before.

Tom stayed out front in the car. He'd dropped Marty off a couple blocks away, then parked across the street from the diner. Marty barely glanced at the car as he walked up to the diner, not wanting to call attention to it.

Marty stalked in, the damn carnation smooshed into a button hole on his black leather coat. He frowned as he looked around and saw only one table open, back against the wall by the one where they'd found Reg Schmidt pretending to be Brian Mulhaney. He threaded his way through, bumping into someone on their way out, momentarily distracted. He looked back up at the table and saw a small box sitting there, gift wrapped with a bow. He spun back, but the guy he'd run into was nowhere to be seen, and his carnation was gone.

Marty paused and looked around, trying to focus on what had happened. Had the guy been waiting, seen him headed for the only table, dumped it and left? That seemed the most likely explanation. He grabbed the box and saw a little gift card. "Five-ten, dark hair, red carnation," it read. He swore to himself, then headed out of the diner. He looked up and down the street, but it was too crowded, so all he could do was walk off to the spot where he was to meet Tom.

A single pill that looked suspiciously like aspirin lay nestled in a bed of cotton. Not a single print could be lifted from the box.