Chapter Twenty-Four

Jim tapped his fingers against the side of the vending machine.

"What now?" Karen asked.

"We get to go through it all again and hope he gives us something new," Jim said.

Karen sighed. "Should we ask him about Artez?"

Jim grimaced. "Maybe not yet. I'd rather not let him know that we found him and that Artez fingered him as Pipsqueak."

"But if we let him know that we know he killed Samantha—"

Jim waved her off. "He'll twist it around somehow. I don't want to give him any ammunition on what we do or do not know."

Karen fished out some change and Jim listened to her drop the coins in the machine.

"Anything good in there?"

"I'm not even hungry. I guess I'm just eating out of habit."

Jim looked down at the machine as it dropped her selection. "I need something." He tapped the glass. "What's in here? Cookies? Candy? Chips?"

"A little of everything."

Jim pulled out his wallet and held out a dollar. "Here. I just want a candy bar or something. If nothing else, it'll keep me occupied."

Karen didn't take the money. "There's Braille on there. Haven't you ever used the machine?"

"No. I'd have to guess what's in there, wouldn't I?" He waved the money at her, not feeling like attempting to distinguish the letter and number combinations in front of Karen. He was tired and needed practice.

"Okay…"

He could practically feel her rolling her eyes.

"One tuna melt coming right up."

Jim heard something fall after she pushed a button and he reached down for the tray. The change dropped and he grabbed that, too. "Thanks."

"What're we doing?" Fisk asked.

"Thinking," Jim said as the lieutenant put some money in the machine.

"Let's let him guide us, see where he takes us."

Jim rubbed a hand over his forehead. Despite the entertainment value, he was getting sick of the kid. Three conversations in one day was a bit much.

"Go ahead and ask," Michael said calmly.

"Ask what?" Karen said.

"Not you."

"What do you want me to ask?" Jim asked.

"They always do; I can see it on your face." Michael's voice wavered.

"What?" Jim leaned back in his chair as calm as ever. He pushed the fatigue away and concentrated.

"Say it. Say, "What the hell's your problem? You let him kill your parents and now you're his closest friend? What is your problem?"" Michael's voice had risen in anger. He took a few deep breaths, then asked more quietly, "When are you going to say it?"

"I wasn't planning on it." Jim kept his voice even, despite his surprise. He hadn't expected the kid to start cracking up like that. It was almost unsettling to hear him getting upset.

"Why not?"

"I deal with people everyday who come from messed up homes, who commit crimes, who want to commit crimes but don't have the guts. I deal with all sorts of people who had both parents murdered and turned around to kill—"

"They weren't murdered," Michael defended.

Jim shrugged. "So this isn't about revenge on Uncle Josiah?"

"No!"

He nodded. "In the law, any death that's not natural or by your own hand, that's still murder."

"It wasn't murder!"

Jim held up a hand. "I won't call it either way."

"Call it as you see it. That's your job," Michael said coldly.

"I'm not looking into the deaths of your parents. Okay? That's not even an issue right now."

"I wanted them dead. That makes me an accessory, right?"

Jim leaned forward, his elbows on the table, looking over at Michael. "Tell me, why haven't you been able to get over their deaths?"

He heard Karen shift in her chair. Michael's side of the table was quiet.

Jim almost laughed as his words replayed in his head. He was beginning to sound like Galloway.

"I hadn't even thought about them in three years. I couldn't care less."

"Tell us about them."

"No."

"Okay. Tell us about junior high. You said you went to a private school? Catholic? Those Catholics are pretty tough, aren't they?"

"I learned from a nun," Michael said, brightening up a little. "She could take anything from anyone without them noticing."

"Did you ever get caught practicing her trade?"

"All the time."

Jim nodded. "How'd your mom feel about that?"

Michael shut down again.

"Tell us how they died," Karen said.

"Easily. Uncle Josiah slipped something in their coffee."

"At the same time? Wasn't anyone suspicious?"

"The coroner said Mom must have died first, and when Dad found her, his heart stopped."

"Any fingerprints?"

"There wasn't even an investigation. As far as anyone knew, I was still in Michigan. All I had to do was say I called to check up on them and when there wasn't an answer, I called the neighbor to check on them. All the while, I was back in New York with Uncle Josiah. I didn't even go to their funerals."

"They deserved to die?" Jim asked.

"Does anyone deserve anything good or bad? No. They just needed to die. I needed them to die."

"Why?"

"Emancipation?"

"Were you happier?"

"Of course. And don't ask me if they were happier because there's no way I could possibly know that. I've never been visited by their ghosts. I haven't been spited by God for not honoring my mother and father."

"Was that your first death? The first people you helped kill?"

"Yeah."

"Were they the first people you'd known who died?" Karen asked.

"No. I told you, death runs in my family. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, dogs. My first dog died when I was four. We'd had him about three months. How do you explain that to a kid? You wanna know what they told me? They didn't say he died, or that he went to Heaven, they said he couldn't be with us anymore. How the hell do you understand that? He won't be here, he can't be here. Yeah, well, Grandma couldn't be there for Thanksgiving that year. What's that mean? The dog's busy? Or maybe Grandma died?" He shifted in his chair. "I never did see Grandma again, either. Hell of a way to find out she died, making the connection with your dog."

"After your parents died, then what?" Karen asked after a moment.

"I stayed with Uncle Josiah and he taught me things. He said I reminded him of himself when he was younger and he wanted to make sure I could take care of myself."

"He knew we were investigating Samantha's death?"

"Yeah. No. Yeah. He knew what you were after, but he had to be careful. He knows a lot of people don't like what he does for a living. But it's a necessary evil. Samantha understood that. I understood that. It's just the way life is, can you see that?"

Jim leaned forward. "What were you supposed to do at the warehouse? Just two of you? Against us?"

"I already told you."

"Josiah sent you."

"Yeah."

"The odds were against you, though."

"So? And now you're holding me for that."

"Initially, yeah, it was just assaulting a cop."

Michael gave a little snort. "I played right into your hands. I don't believe a word of it, that that's why you're holding me. I know you're looking into Uncle Josiah. That's who you want." The smugness was out of his voice, though, and he just sounded scared.

"Is he a good guy? Even if he is a "necessary evil"?"

Michael pounded his fist on the tabletop. "He'll kill me if you let me go! That's why I told you I killed Glenn. If you don't arrest him for Samantha's death, you can't let me go. Okay? He'll kill us all!"

Jim thought that sounded a lot like Artez's initial description of Pipsqueak.

Michael started crying.

"Did you kill Glenn Bartlett?"

"He was my best friend," Michael sobbed.

Jim followed Karen out of the interview room, letting a couple uniformed officers in to escort Michael back to the Tombs when he'd regained his composure.

"He's a big help, isn't he?" Marty asked when Jim and Karen came back into the squad.

"If Uncle Josiah's such a saint, what's he doing making people think he's going to kill everyone?" Tom asked. "What sort of a saint is that?"

Jim shrugged. "Ask Marty; he seems to think he's our resident saint this week." He walked off toward his desk, leaving silence behind him.

Jim grunted as he lifted one of the heavy desks to slide it back into place.

"You want a hand?" Marty asked, standing at the mouth of the hall. He watched Jim carefully check on the angle of the desk, walk back to the window and head down the aisle with his outstretched hand running down the length of the desk.

"You can save the applause for later," Jim said. "But if you really want to help move the desks, yeah, I'd be grateful." He stretched his arm and worked a kink out of his shoulder.

Marty dropped a file on his desk. "Is that one done?"

"Yeah. And believe it or not, he didn't touch the desks around mine." Jim went back to the window, squared himself off with a light touch, then headed down the aisle. "This one needs to go in about four inches."

"Four inches?" Marty said skeptically.

"Yeah, Marty. Four inches."

Marty was about to apologize when Tom walked up. "What are we doing?" he asked calmly with the voice of a mediator. Marty turned away.

"I'm just moving the desks back," Jim said with a shake of the head. He put a hand on the end of the desk. "This one needs to go about four inches left, if one of you could grab the other end."

"Sure," Tom said.

"I got it," Marty said, lifting his end. He matched Jim's movements, keeping the desk level, moving it so it stayed parallel to the desks on the other side. They set it down.

"Is it straight?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Tom said. He walked around the other side and pushed the other desk up against it to close the gap.

Jim was concentrating on putting the chair in place, and the waste basket.

"No offense, Jim," Tom said, "but four inches? Wouldn't it be easier to just leave it?"

Jim's gaze focused on Tom, as much a mask as it usually was. Finally he shook his head. "The closer it is to the way it was before, the better."

"Okay."

"I'm not going to let this kid redecorate the squad."

"Fine by me."

"You guys don't have to help. It's not like it affects you."

"Nah, it's okay," Tom said. "I used to move furniture on weekends back in high school. It's bring back memories."

"Good ones?"

"Oh yeah, man. Back then, I couldn't imagine anything finer than a high school girl. But every year, I say the same thing. Nothing better than a girl this age. They ripen."

Karen snorted, walking up. "We're not fruit."

"Let's get out of here," Fisk said, shutting the door to his office. "We'll reconvene tomorrow—that is, unless anyone has any big plans they can't miss this weekend." Fisk stopped talking, but no one said anything. "No? Good." The lieutenant walked off.

Jim heard two other sets of footsteps head toward the locker room.

"I'm really looking forward to what this kid's gonna lay on us tomorrow," Marty said sarcastically.

"You should be, Marty," Jim told him. "Every little bit helps."

"No… even when he's shitting us like he has been for the past two days? Maybe you bought the crying act tonight—"

"Let's go down there right now and call him on it, how's that sound?"

"Sounds good to me. Another night in jail, I don't even want to know what he's going to come up with in all that free time. Some other wild goose chase and long-winded story?"

"You don't have to come in tomorrow. I'd hate for you to miss your Little Miss Pain-in-the-Ass dance recital—"

"Yeah? And what do you do most Saturday afternoons? Walk down the street with a tin cup?"

"I don't have to; Hank does parlor tricks."

"Good for him. But the trick I'd like to see is you pulling Uncle Josiah out of your hat—"

"We'll see him Monday."

"Right. And you'll never pin anything on him, 'cause if you ask me, this kid's as crooked as they come. It's all an act."

"You didn't meet Uncle Josiah—"

"Wish I had. I'd have—"

"I doubt it, Marty. You had your chance to come and you passed it, so don't go trying to tell me how you'd have gotten him in-house and made him crack."

Jim stopped when he heard footsteps approaching. He pulled out his chair and sat quickly. He heard Marty do the same.

Karen shuffled papers at her desk for a minute. She opened drawers and rifled around.

Jim tried to concentrate on a file on his computer, but mostly he was breathing in, out, trying to relax. He was just tired. That's the only reason they were sniping again. Marty and him, there was nothing really wrong and the less they said, the less they'd regret later.

A few minutes later he was feeling better. As soon as Karen left, he'd apologize. She didn't need to know that he and Marty were fighting.

"You're not going home yet, Jim?" Karen asked.

"Nah, not yet. Christie's in one of her moods."

"You make her sound like she's unstable."

Jim shook his head and leaned back in his desk chair. "Never marry someone who can't handle the fact that you're a cop."

Karen said goodnight and left.

"I don't blame her," Marty shot over.

Jim stared in his direction. He was about to tell him to mind his own business when Marty spoke again.

"You treat her like crap, obviously. Not only that, but you're on this crusade to prove you're a tough cop."

"I'm not—"

"How many cops go home beaten up every night? And how many get shot in a bank robbery playing hero? How many times have you decided to play hero, Jim? You're blind—you think that was easy for her to accept?"

"How long have you been my therapist?" Jim snapped.

"All you've been doing since you've been here is put yourself in dangerous situations, trying to prove you're still the same cop you were before. Do you have a death wish? You're going to keep at it until you either prove you're a better cop now or until you end up dead? And you just expect your wife to sit back and watch?"

"You know nothing about me, Marty." Jim stood up, pushing his chair back.

"Sure I do, Jimmy."

Jim knit his eyebrows together as he looked up at Marty.

"Does everyone you used to know call you that?" Marty asked.

"The people I was close to did."

"You're not going to ask us to call you Jimmy?"

Jim sighed. "You can call me anything you want, Marty." He pulled on his suit jacket, ready to get out of there.

"How about "asshole"?"

"Marty!" Jim looked over at him, not blinking. "You can call me anything you want," he said slowly, dragging out the pauses between words. "I don't care." He heard Marty grunt. "Look, I'm sorry about giving you shit about the case. I know we don't see eye to eye on it. I'm tired and I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry, okay?"

"Whatever."

"What's eating you?"

"The thing that pisses me off most is you're almost a nice guy. Sometimes I find myself almost liking you."

"And that pisses you off?"

"It's all an act. You just use people to your advantage. Your wife, you don't deserve her."

"I know that. And I'm making the most of the second chance I got with her."

"If you ever end up shot and killed, it won't surprise me."

Jim raised his eyebrows.

"It might surprise some people, but I'm not going to let you fake it with me, Dunbar. You have to earn my respect."

Jim listened as Marty walked away.

"Jimmy?" Christie called. Her voice was far away, behind a closed door.

"Yeah?" he called back.

"Could you come here?"

Jim headed for the bedroom. The door was open, meaning she had to be in the bathroom. He knocked on the adjoining door.

"Come in," she called.

He stepped into the room, then blinked quickly. Steam radiated through the air. He shut the door and loosened his tie.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

He pulled off his jacket. "It's hot in here."

She splashed water in the bathtub. "I know. Make yourself comfortable."

"It was pretty good. We have a ways to go, though. It's not as simple as we'd hoped."

"You got home pretty early."

"I need sleep. We've been working since a little after four this morning. And we'll be there all day tomorrow."

"How's your body?"

"Not bad," he lied.

"Join me? I got some herbal bath stuff that's supposed to help with sore muscles."

"You did?"

"My way of apologizing. I know this is what you do. It's who you are. I was just scared."

"Christie…"

"Join me."

Jim slowly pulled off his shirt.

"And that doesn't hurt?" she asked.

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Come on." She took his hand and helped him into the tub in front of her. "I got a rub. It's supposed to help with sore muscles, too. You want a back rub?"

"My shoulder kinda hurts."

"I'll be gentle."

Jim heard his wife open a bottle. "Does it smell like flowers or something?"

Christie laughed. "Don't worry. I know by now that cops don't smell like flowers."

He felt her wave a hand under his nose and sniffed. He caught a whiff of something light, but not overly-fragrant and nodded that she could continue. The lotion felt cold in the steamy room. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. "Are you okay?" he finally asked.

"I think so. I shouldn't have said what I did."

"But if that's the way you feel—" He started to turn around to face her, but she pushed him back. He sat still, wondering if it helped her, only being able to see the back of his head.

"Tell me what happened yesterday," she said.

Jim filled her in, then caught her up on that morning, the censored version like he always fell back on with her.

"You like this kid," Christie said.

Jim frowned. "I don't dislike him."

"You're not usually so… intrigued by a perp."

"Usually they're so cold. They did what they did, and they're sorry they got caught, but Michael's life really has been… interesting. I wish I could help him."

"But if it turns out he killed someone?"

"There's nothing I can do. If we can pin anything on Uncle Josiah, there's a chance his influence could help Michael get an easier sentence. When you're under the influence of someone like that…" Jim shrugged. He pushed himself back in the tub and moved Christie in front of him so he could lean back. "I don't think we're ever going to figure out the whole truth."

"You're optimistic," Christie said, leaning back against him.

"You know me: always look on the bright side."

Christie giggled lightly.

"I think I'll skip dinner tonight," Jim mumbled, his eyes closed. He let his hand tangle in her wet hair, feeling himself drifting off, visions of Christie playing through his head. He tightened his hold on her momentarily when he caught a glimpse of her in her office. "There's more to your life than just your job, you know," her voice echoed in his memory. "I'll keep in mind what you told me this afternoon."

"Good."

"See? I listen sometimes," he joked quietly.

Christie pulled away and Jim opened his eyes. "Then you should have listened to your mother when she told you not to sleep in the bathtub." She took his hand and tugged. "Come on. Go to bed." She stood up. "I probably won't see you in the morning, will I?"

"I have no idea." He stood up slowly.

She giggled.

"What?"

"I guess I didn't think of everything; we'll have to share a towel."

Jim gently reached out and grabbed her chin, tipping her head up to make sure she was looking at him. He winked at her. "Sounds good to me."

"Are you trying to seduce me, detective?" she asked coyly.

"What the hell," he said with a shrug. "It's not every day I have a beautiful woman in my room…"

"Yes, it is."

Jim smiled at her. "Oh, that's right." He took her hand, then paused, listening to the water swirl down the drain. He heard Michael telling him wistfully about how Samantha was the prettiest girl he ever met.

"What?" Christie asked, sounding almost annoyed.

He shook his head apologetically. "I was just wondering how Michael could pretend he'd never known Samantha. He… was the father of her children. I thought it sounded like he loved her. But he was apparently there when she died…"

"Jimmy…"

"I know, I know. I'll stop thinking about them." She handed him the towel.

As he sank onto the bed a few minutes later, she said, "He didn't seem at all upset that she died?"

"He didn't." Jim stared at the ceiling. "Not even after he admitted they'd known each other for years." He took Christie's hand under the comforter. "That's something I can't understand." He turned toward her, knowing she'd already turned off the lights and was lying there in the dark, probably nothing more than a silhouette. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you…"

Christie edged over and kissed him, laying her head on his pillow. He could feel her breath on his cheek, she was so close. "Here's hoping we never find out."

If he lost Christie… He couldn't imagine. And what she'd said about how hard it had been when she almost lost him, even though they'd barely been speaking at the time… She must have re-evaluated what was important. That's why she'd stuck with him through everything, no matter how difficult he'd been and how frustrated he'd become, how much he'd yelled at her.

She'd suddenly been there for him, every waking moment, and he'd just taken it for granted. All he'd ever bothered to re-evaluate had been his job. But she was right; there was more to his life. Galloway had tried to tell him the same thing, but it meant more, coming from his wife. Hadn't he learned yet, to never take anything for granted?