Chapter Twenty-Five

"Jimmy Dunbar, where are you going?" Christie demanded.

Jim stopped halfway to the coat rack and turned toward the kitchen. "You're up?"

"Yes, I'm up! I got up while you were in the shower."

"Oh." Jim blinked. "I thought you were still asleep…" He hurried to her side and gave her a peck on the cheek. "I didn't hear you get up." He turned to go.

"Jimmy!"

"What?"

"What about breakfast?"

He shrugged. "I figured I'd pick something up on the way there."

"I happen to have breakfast almost made. Sit."

Jim crossed to the counter. He sniffed the air, trying to figure out what she was making. "All I smell is coffee. Which I made." He pulled out the bar chair and hauled himself up. "I'm sorry I didn't notice."

"That's why I told you."

"What is it?"

"Waffles."

He heard her stirring something, a plastic spoon scraping one of the mixing bowls. He waited patiently and a minute later heard the batter sizzling and smelled the waffle cooking.

"Did you sleep okay?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"It's not even six yet…"

"We went to bed early… And I'm wound up. I want to finish this case."

"Don't you think you're being a little overzealous? I doubt anyone else is going to be there this early."

"I need to make some notes before I talk to this kid again."

Christie set a plate in front of him. He heard a fork drop into place next to the plate. "Syrup's on your right," Christie informed him while starting her own waffle.

"What do you have planned for today?" Jim asked when he was half done.

"Nothing. I'll probably just stay home." She flipped the waffle onto her plate. "And hope nothing happens to you."

"Christie!" Jim pushed the rest of his breakfast away.

She caught the plate quickly and pushed it back. "There's a glass of orange juice at 11 o'clock."

Jim shook his head, relieved she'd caught him before he knocked it over. "A well-balanced meal? Trying to make sure my head's on straight so I don't do something stupid?"

"I'm sorry." She sniffled.

"What now?"

"I didn't sleep much last night. That's all." She sat next to him and tapped the back of his hand with his fork until he took it. "I didn't mean it."

"Nothing's going to happen." He ran a hand over his face. "This isn't even the part of the case where things happen."

"I know."

He set his fork back down and reached over, searching for her hand. She reached back to him. "Come on, babe. Do you want to give me a ride today?"

She squeezed his hand.

Jim wouldn't let Christie walk him up. He was afraid if he let her in the building that she'd never be able to leave. That was a change, Christie being clingy, but he guessed the case had shaken her up more than she wanted to let on. And making her relive memories of the shooting at the bank wasn't helping.

The squad room felt empty. Jim didn't hear anyone moving around, so he just headed to his desk and switched on his computer. He draped his overcoat over the back of his chair and sank down. He had to admit, after that herbal bath, the back rub, and a little sleep, his body felt a lot better. He'd have to remember to thank Christie for that later. It would probably make her feel better, to know she'd been of some help.

Footsteps came from the locker room about ten minutes later. Jim looked up. "Karen?" he asked.

"You are here," she said. "I thought I heard someone come in."

"Yeah."

"Marty brought breakfast," she informed him.

"There's pastries in the locker room," Marty said.

"Christie made breakfast," he said.

"Why?"

Jim blinked up at the other detective. "I don't know, Marty." He held up his cell phone. "You wanna call and ask?"

Marty sat down with a negative grunt. "Just asking."

Karen pulled her chair out in the silence.

"Tom here yet?" Jim finally asked.

"Not yet," Karen said.

"I think he had a date last night," Marty said. "You know, with his girlfriend, not with that chick you introduced him to at the bar."

Jim turned the volume up on the file his computer was spewing back at him. It wasn't his fault if he was a bad influence.

"James Dunbar?"

The voice had an authoritative ring to it and Jim sat up straighter. He pulled his hands back from his keyboard. "That's me."

"Lou Banion, Internal Affairs."

Jim snatched the earpiece out of his ear and pushed his chair back a little. "What can I do for you?"

"Let's talk in the lieutenant's office."

Jim nearly gaped at him, but stood up anyway. "All right," he said as pleasantly as possible. He took his normal route behind Karen's desk, glad he'd taken the time to move all the furniture back into place. He could feel the silence as the other detectives stopped working and stared, probably at Banion. He could hear Banion moving toward the office from the other direction and stopped before he reached Fisk's door. The footsteps also stopped. "After you." He gestured, then waited for the man to comply.

Banion walked in without needing to open the door. Once inside, Jim kicked out the doorstop and closed the door behind them. He stood at attention, waiting.

"It's been brought to our attention—a complaint by another officer—that Detective Dunbar has files which no one else has access to," Banion said after greeting the lieutenant.

Jim couldn't keep the incredulous look off his face as he stared in Banion's direction.

"What are you talking about?" Fisk asked.

"The complaint was filed by Brian Mulhaney?" Jim asked.

"Yes."

"Are you aware the real Brian Mulhaney has been dead over a year?"

There was silence. Jim imagined Banion exchanging a look with Fisk in order to confirm the information.

"This case we're working on, we had someone pretending he was a cop, he even had Mulhaney's badge—"

"That's a serious accusation," Banion interrupted. "The name Mulhaney's very respected around here."

"I know that, sir. Boss—" Jim turned to Fisk. "I lied, the night that guy was here. He asked for my files on the case, and seeing as no one else was around…" He turned back to Banion. "I had my suspicions he wasn't who he said he was. So I told him he'd have to wait until morning, that they were all in Braille. Then I looked him up in the system and, I was right—he wasn't Brian Mulhaney."

"Your files aren't in Braille?"

Jim shook his head. "I use the same files everyone else does."

"How?"

"I scan them into my computer and they're read back to me."

"I'll need to look at that."

Jim just stared.

"Is that really necessary?" Fisk asked. "The kid who filed the complaint, we have proof he wasn't a cop."

"I realize that, but this is a serious accusation—"

"Coming from someone impersonating an officer," Fisk corrected. "Dunbar is a good detective—"

"This isn't about his ability to do his job. I have a job to do, too, and if he's not hiding anything—"

"I'm not," Jim said. He put a hand on the doorknob. "My computer's at my desk."

"I'd rather do it in here. Away from prying eyes. If everything checks out, do the other detectives in this squad even need to know there was a question of your integrity?"

Jim sighed. "No, sir." He opened the door.

"What's going on?" Karen whispered when he got to his desk.

"Nothing." Jim turned off the computer and unplugged the scanner and the network cord. He set the earpiece aside and unplugged the power cord from the scanner, then piled the scanner on top of the laptop, wound up all the necessary cords, and carefully hefted them.

"You need help?" Karen asked.

"I got it." He carefully walked back to the office. The door opened for him and he stepped in. "Where should I put these?"

"I cleared a spot on my desk," Fisk said.

Jim walked around the desk carefully. He'd never been on that side of the room before. Fisk lifted the scanner and the cords and set them down. Jim set the laptop next to the scanner and plugged it back in. "Where can I plug in this?" he asked, indicating the power cord and the network line.

"I got 'em," Fisk said and bent under the desk.

Jim powered up the laptop.

"Scan this," Banion said.

Jim heard him set a paper on top of the scanner. "Which side?"

"You tell me."

Jim shrugged. Guessing Banion had set it print side up, as most sighted people would, he flipped it and waited for the scanner to warm up. He hit a few keys to open the right program, then turned the volume up. The software started to regurgitate a few words, then gobbledygook. Jim stopped it. "It doesn't read handwritten things." He deleted the file.

"Then how do you get that information?"

"The few handwritten items, the other detectives are kind enough to share information. We work together."

"And they can use your computer?"

"Any sighted or unsighted person can use my computer. This just happens to be the only computer I can use."

"Why?"

"Because it's the only one that has the software to read things out loud." Jim squared his shoulders and opened the file on the current case. He scrolled through as the computer read through subfiles until he got to the part about Mulhaney and let it start playing in its stilted voice. He stood back. "You're welcome to any file in there. They're all on the network and can be accessed from any computer."

"…method of suicide is presumed poison. The time of death…" the computer read.

Banion moved over next to him and Fisk moved back a little. "I need to check it out. How do I get to the files?"

Jim gave him a quick tour of the computer, listing keystrokes as he used them to navigate.

Banion finally left, the computer reading through applications on the screen.

"That's… kind of annoying," Fisk said.

Jim turned the volume back down and shut it off. "But it's helpful." He followed the power cord under the desk until he found the surge protector underneath.

"What else did you tell that kid?" Fisk asked as Jim packed up.

"Nothing. I told him to come back in the morning."

"Are you sure? I don't want Internal Affairs up here everyday looking into our business. I don't like it anymore than you do."

Jim wound up the cords and stacked the scanner on top of the laptop. "The kid was good. Too bad he wasn't on our side."

"Tell us about Uncle Josiah," Karen said.

Jim was settled patiently into a chair Karen had pointed him to in an interview room in the Tombs. He folded his hands on top of the table.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Michael asked.

"What are you gonna tell us that's so shocking? We're cops, not nuns."

Jim snickered. "Speak for yourself."

"You two done?" Michael asked impatiently.

"You have somewhere to be?" Jim asked, still smiling. "She's right. We're not nuns. And we have all day. Go ahead."

"He uses his power just to have sex with women—that way it's not rape. All the brainwashing—"

Jim rolled his eyes at the sensationalist aspect Michael had affected.

"It's just for sex?" Karen asked skeptically. "You expect us to believe that's his only motivation."

"People kill for less."

"So if it's all about sex, why does he kill people? And why does he have male followers and friends like you? And why the drug business? You were doing better yesterday."

Michael sighed. "It's a good story I have planned out. Are you sure you don't want to hear it?"

"Don't waste our time," Karen said.

"Once upon a time there was this kid named Josiah. He looked like a nice guy, so he had trouble doing what he wanted to—which was crime. No one ever believed he was capable. So the big crimes, where he'd need help, a whole organization, he was always just the kid. He never got to actively participate. He thought of starting his own gang, but who's going to listen to a kid?

"Then he found he had this magnetism. He started studying hypnosis and created the next best thing—a cult. All those people who wouldn't let him play, he either brainwashed them into becoming his little servants, or he turned them over to the cops. He would play snitch because no one believed he'd be involved.

"He stole stuff. He got any girl he wanted. He could break in anywhere because he could disable any security system.

"Still no one believed he could do it. So he got all these poor people to follow him. He would wipe out bank accounts and create new people to worship him. He'd withhold medication until they supplicated.

"And he's been at it ever since, making miserable people and making those miserable people think he's a messiah."

"You have any proof?" Jim asked.

Michael tapped the top of the table a couple times. "You have all the proof you need in that filing cabinet from the warehouse. Contact every one of those people and they'll testify. They were the ones who got out of his grasp. They know the truth."

"You can have a thousand witnesses saying someone's bad, but unless we have a crime to charge him with, that won't do any good."

"You have the death of Samantha, don't you?" Michael asked like a know-it-all. "And I do believe you had someone commit murder just down the street by pushing someone else off a building. That was his doing."

"We're looking for proof that he killed Samantha, but with the guy on the roof, with the perpetrator dead, we can't even charge Josiah as an accomplice."

"Shit," Michael said quietly.

"He's good at covering his tracks."

"I'll think of something…"

"The poison was untraceable."

"What about the bullets?"

"They were matched to the gun your friend had in the warehouse."

"See?"

Jim leaned forward. "But the gun's registered to you. Josiah never even touched it. You admitted yourself that you're the one who shot her."

"Fck."

"You can tell all the fairy tales you want, but you're the one going down for the murders." Jim pushed his chair back and stood.

"That's it?"

"If you think of anything useful, let us know." He opened the door.

Karen followed him out. "Big help," she said.

"Yup." He took her arm and let her lead him down the hall.

"I'm glad we were in the Tombs and not upstairs. Russo never would have let me live that one down, saying we're not nuns…"

"Who says I'm going to?"

"Jim! It's been a long week! And this kid… It's flustering talking to him. You can't see it in his eyes, but sometimes… I forget what I'm about to say to him."

Jim was quiet a second. "He is Josiah's little protégé, isn't he?"

She shrugged.

"He learned a lot from the guy."

"I don't doubt it," Karen said.

"Let's see if we can pin anything on Josiah before Monday," Jim said.

Karen caught Jim in the locker room before lunch. "Jim!" Karen reprimanded him. "Lay off Marty."

Jim and Marty had just exchanged a few terse words in the squad room, but Jim hadn't realized Karen was within earshot. "Why should I? He's the one—"

"I don't care who started it, but you're my partner. I want you to be the grown-up here, okay?"

He wanted to snap at her, that she should lecture him about being a grown-up. As much as he'd tried to ignore it and just do his job, he had to know. He hadn't asked before because he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. He put both hands up against the end of a row of lockers and leaned down, his head bowed. He listened as she moved away. He struggled to keep his voice even. "Why'd you have to tell Marty about Anne?"

There was silence.

"Karen?"

"I didn't," she said from near her locker.

Jim moved closer to her, gesturing for her to continue, but again there was silence. Maybe she wasn't looking at him. He moved right next to her and lowered his voice. "Then how'd he find out?"

"Anne told him."

Jim wrinkled his nose. "Why would Anne tell Marty?"

"He ran into us one night." Karen paused. "Is that his problem?"

"Yeah. Has she been telling everyone?" He could feel a rage and a hurt he hadn't felt in a long time, like his stomach was being pinched shut.

"No. No, really, she hasn't." Her tone was meant to be soothing, but he sure didn't feel at all calmer.

"Just Marty?" Jim asked skeptically. If it was true, Anne sure knew how to pick them. She'd always known what was best for him, so she could easily figure out how to make him miserable.

"Far as I know."

"Just Marty what?" Marty asked from the door to the locker room.

Jim turned, ready to explain, but Karen jumped in first. "Let's go out to lunch," she said. "All three of us. We need to talk."

Marty was silent. Jim kept his mouth shut, just listened to Karen walk away. He followed her slowly, waiting for Marty to join them so he could follow them both. He grabbed his coat and Hank's harness. Marty and Karen were already waiting.

"Where you going?" Tom asked from his desk.

"Lunch," Marty said, sounding confused.

"Can I come?"

"Not this time," Karen said, then started to walk away.

"Sorry," Marty said, and his footsteps followed her.

"Hey! What's this all about?"

Jim headed for the door.

"Jim?" Tom's plaintive voice asked, the little kid who was left behind.

Jim turned and shrugged. "Sorry, Tom. Maybe next time."

"I don't like surprises!" Tom yelled after him.

"Marty, you need to hear this, and Jim, you're not supposed to know this, but… It just wouldn't be right for me and Marty both to know and you not."

Jim clasped his hands on top of the table in front of the club sandwich he'd ordered. As far as he knew, none of them had touched their food yet and wouldn't until Karen got off her chest whatever it was she thought they needed to know.

"You're as bad as Tom, dragging things out," Marty said.

"I just don't want this to get back to Anne. She's my friend and…"

"And you're betraying her confidence?"

"Geez, Marty, when you put it that way," Karen said.

"Karen," Jim said. "What is it? You two can drive me crazy later."

"Anne knew you were married."

Jim just stared at her.

"What?" Marty exclaimed. Jim could hear a note of outrage in his voice. Probably felt he'd been strung along just like Jim had.

"She doesn't remember I know, she's always going on and on about how you lied and all… Drives me nuts."

"She knew I was married?" Jim asked finally.

"You two met at some party and I guess you were pretty drunk and you were flirting with her. Bobby Schwartz's 59th, I think. I got there late and Anne came running up, told me all about you flirting with her even though your wife was there… She was pretty drunk, too. She told me she wanted to see how long before you told her you were married."

"It was a game? This was all a game to her?"

"Not all. I think she really liked you…"

"She was playing me? Was she trying to ruin my marriage?" Jim turned away. Hank had sat up at the outraged tone in Jim's voice, but Jim motioned for him to lie back down. "So she just kept pretending we had all these things in common?" Jim asked quietly.

"I dunno. She was pretty drunk that night…"

"But she remembered I was married."

"I think so."

Jim stood up and took Hank's harness.

"Where're you going?" Karen asked.

"I need to think."

Part of Marty's problem really was that Jim was a nice guy. Maybe not a good guy, but he was a good detective and Marty sometimes found it hard to hate him. Which was a problem because, of all the people Marty had met, Jim was up there on the list of people who needed to be hated. He didn't need any more friends. He didn't need anyone else to just excuse his actions. He'd cheated on his wife. He was a jerk sometimes.

Marty wasn't about to cut him some slack just based on what Karen had told them. Really, he shouldn't have known about the affair in the first place.

What kept nagging at him was the bit where Jim's own wife didn't think he should be a cop. That wasn't right. Jim was a detective, and a damn good one.

There was a knock on the open door of the locker room. Marty looked up to see Jim standing there, listening hard to the silence of the room. His eyes were focused somewhere out the window and one hand was on the doorjamb.

"Marty?" Jim finally asked.

"Yeah."

Jim looked over, his lips pressed together. "Karen told me you were in here." He tried to smile. "I was beginning to think she was wrong."

"What do you want, Jim?" Marty asked, not unkindly, just curious. He stood up, but didn't move away from the window.

"I'm sorry you know any of this." Jim shrugged. "I… know it wasn't right, okay?"

"Whatever. I shouldn't know any of this."

"So we'll just work together."

"Yeah. And it has nothing to do with what Karen told me. I've been trying to forget ever since I met Anne."

"I wish I could forget I ever met Anne," Jim said quietly, looking down at the floor.

"Yeah. Right."

Jim's eyes raised. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You can stop trying to make me think you've reformed. It doesn't matter."

"It does matter." Jim ran his hand through his hair, messing it up. Marty saw him wince and rub a spot at the back of his head. "Marty, haven't you ever regretted doing something that messed up your life?"

"Is that the only reason you regret it?" Marty crossed his arms and watched Jim.

"It was wrong," Jim said. "I was wrong."

Marty laughed.

Jim cocked his head to the side, but Marty couldn't tell what he was thinking behind those sunglasses.

"The great Jim Dunbar admits he's wrong? What's the catch?"

"Marty…"

Jim turned away, leaning against the door frame. He took a few deep breaths.

"Look," Marty finally said, "we worked together before, we can work together again." Jim didn't answer, like he knew that wasn't quite the end of it. "Keep your hands to yourself and watch Karen's back, that's all I ask."

Jim nodded.

"We brought back your sandwich, just in case you got hungry." Marty crossed to the fridge and turned back to see Jim's gaze following his movements. He opened the door. "Uh… Top shelf on the right. It's in a Styrofoam box."

Jim turned toward Karen and listened to her typing at her desk. He had things on his mind. Christie, the case, Anne, Marty, DeLana, five dead people, poison, cult members, suicides, Owls. What would make a person give up their individuality? How bad must their lives be for them to relinquish free thought? It wasn't a constitutional amendment, no one was forced to think for themselves, but—

Jim guessed he thought enough for several people on his own. Without the ability to think, he'd be lost, floundering, truly helpless.

"Jim," Karen snapped, "stop staring at me."

"Karen, I want you to help me with something." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Are we alone?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think you could set up a meeting with me and Anne?"

"Jim—"

"Hear me out. Things didn't end so great between us, and no amount of apologizing is going to help, I know that, but—"

"You can't go tell her—"

"I won't even mention that she knew I was married. It sort of evens us up in a way, right? I didn't admit it, but she already knew?"

"Then what—"

"I need to apologize, I guess. And I'd rather she didn't go telling everyone what I did."

"You're going to buy her silence?" Karen asked incredulously, then laughed.

"No! I know it can't be a secret, but I'd rather she not go blabbing to everyone. Look what happened with Marty—"

"So that's what this is about. You don't want to apologize. You just want her to shut up."

"I just want to talk to her."

"You never just talk."

"Karen, what happened between Anne and me, that should really stay between Anne and me, don't you think? Could you just ask if she'll talk to me?"

Karen sighed. "If it'll make her stop obsessing about you every time I see her…" She picked up the phone.

"Thanks," Jim said.

Jim laid his elbows on his desk and rested his chin on his clasped hands. Around him he could hear the other detectives searching files on their computers. Karen made a couple phone calls. Tom tapped a pen on his desk. Jim tuned them all out. There didn't seem to be much else they could learn and going through the files again wasn't going to do any good. Now they just needed to regurgitate the information, sift out the truth, then go from there.

Michael was the big variable. The most unreliable type of witness, one who changed stories and facts every time they talked to him.

The thing Karen had told him after their interview that morning, about how she'd forget what she was going to say when she looked over at Michael, that kept running through his mind.

"Let's say Marty's right for once," Jim said. The room fell silent. "Let's just say Uncle Josiah's not the bad guy here," Jim said.

"Excuse me?" Karen said. "I thought you thought he was an incarnation of Satan or something."

"I never said he's not a bad guy, I just said, what if he didn't kill Samantha and her cousin?"

"Okay…"

"Someone else did."

"Yeah, if he didn't, obviously someone else did."

"Someone who's a protégé of the creepy uncle."

"Okay…"

"Then they would try to do things just like him."

"To frame him?"

"Maybe, yeah."

"But they wouldn't be as good at it."

"Right."

"So? They seem pretty good at it to me."

Jim shook his head. "That's not the point. The point is, maybe they don't have as many ways to deal with people."

"So they repeat?"

Jim nodded.

"That's why Samantha and Glenn were both shot and poisoned?"

"So say Glenn was hypnotized not to talk unless he was staring at fire."

"Then maybe Samantha was, too," Karen said. "But that doesn't do us any good. They're both dead."

"Yeah, but it sounds like Glenn was good friends with Michael. And we have two living guys in custody right now. What if Samantha, being Josiah's little friend, was hypnotized first?"

"And Michael copied it with everyone he knew?" Karen asked.

"I'm thinking, maybe. He's not the most original thinker, as you pointed out."

"You think it'll work?"

"It's worth a try."

"You really think Michael might be trying Uncle Josiah's tricks on other people?"

"I don't know what his reasoning would be, maybe just to see if he could, but yeah, I think he'd enjoy trying to hypnotize people and see if he could get them to do what he wanted."

"Yeah… He would enjoy it. But why'd he kill people?"

"Maybe he did that for Josiah, but he's branching out on his own."

"I'll go get a candle," Karen said.

"What's that?" the second guy asked. The man who called himself Santa Claus and who Michael had called Antoine.

"It's a candle," Marty said.

"What's your name?" Tom asked.

"Fred Flintstone."

Jim heard a match being lit.

"What's your name?" Marty asked.

"Antoine Bellini."

"Good… You know someone named Uncle Josiah?"

"Yeah. What about him?"

"He a good friend?"

"He's a sick bastard."

"How?"

"You know what he does? He makes people think he's so great, like he's a philanthropist, but all he's doing is slowly killing them."

"How?"

"He takes their lives. He reassigns them. He keeps them alive until he has what he wants from them."

"He wanted you to be at the warehouse?"

"What?"

"The warehouse, remember? Where you shot at me and attacked another cop," Tom said.

"No. I haven't talked to that bastard in months. I got away, you know? I'm one of the lucky ones."

"Then what were you doing at the warehouse?"

"My friend Michael asked me to go with him. He said he had a little business to take care of."

"Such as?"

"I didn't ask."

"How do you know Michael?" Marty asked.

"He was one of Uncle Josiah's "friends," too. He's the one who helped me get away." Antoine's tone was affectionate.

"What do you two do together?"

"Just hang out."

"Did he asked you to shoot me?" Tom asked.

Antoine laughed, like it was truly funny. "The fight was two against one. I didn't know you were cops. I was just trying to help him; he's my friend. It was a warning shot, man. I'm not that bad of a shot."

"And you have no idea what you were doing at the warehouse?" Marty asked.

"No…"

"Do you know what that place used to be?"

"Uncle Josiah ran shop out of there for a while. He moves around a lot, empty buildings before they get sold or torn down."

"Shop?"

"He invents stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"He called it medicine."

"Why's he make it?" Tom asked.

"He says it's to help people, but let's just say, I'm not so sure about that."

"What do you think it's for?" Marty asked.

Antoine shrugged. "I'd guess it's for making people subject to him. But I didn't know him that long."

"No?"

"I was lucky."

"Tell us about Michael."

Antoine laughed. "He's a good kid. A fucking orphan. He takes care of his friends to make sure nothing happens to them."

"He used to work for Uncle Josiah?"

"No. He was just another prisoner."

"Any special skills?" Tom asked.

"He says he could disarm a cat burglar without them even noticing. He could be a pickpocket, but he's too damn nice. He suffers a lot from guilt."

"Did you know a girl named Samantha?" Marty asked.

"Michael's girlfriend?" Antoine asked with a smile. "She was hot."

"What happened to her?" Tom asked.

"I think she died. She was diabetic, but didn't take good care of herself. She was a chocolate addict."

"Do you know anything about a poison Uncle Josiah invented? Perhaps one that looked like chocolate?" Marty asked.

"No, but it wouldn't surprise me. He was twisted. Sick."

"Did you know a kid named Glenn Bartlett?"

"Yeah! Glenn. He was cool. He used to come over drinking with us."

"What happened to him?"

"He stopped showing up. I dunno."

"What would you say if I told you Michael killed both Samantha and Glenn?" Tom asked.

"What?" Antoine scoffed. "You're joking. He wouldn't. He loved Sammy."

"This kid I believe," Marty said.

Tom laughed. "Were you even there?"

"I'm serious. He may not have a clue, but he's not lying."

"He might as well have been stoned for all he knows. And as a witness? I don't think our candle theory would hold up in a court of law. "Your Honor, hold up while I get the candelabra. My witness is junk without it. Anyone got a match?""

"Tom," Marty said in a low voice, "fight me all you want, but it sounds to me like Michael's a messiah wannabe."

Karen set a candle in the middle of the table, already lit. It smelled like blueberry pie, and Jim could still detect a faint whiff of the match that had wafted in from the squad room.

"What's that?" Michael asked. He started laughing hard, almost hysterically.

"Just checking," Jim said.

"You're funny, really. This is the most fun I've ever had in jail."

"You wanna talk about the candle?"

"It's blue. Smells nice, too, but you'd know that."

"No. Why'd you do it?"

Michael kept laughing. "I've spent my whole life trying to do something I'll regret. That's all I want."

"Have you succeeded?" Karen asked, blowing out the candle.

"Not yet. But I'm certainly trying. You looked lovely by candlelight, by the way. Anyone have another match?"

"How was your day?" Christie asked. She walked up from the kitchen.

"Can you ask me tomorrow? When I'm not being investigated by Internal Affairs?" Jim was half-serious, half-joking, but mostly numb. The day just seemed long, not having learned much of use. They'd be back at it tomorrow. He bent down to take off Hank's harness.

"What?" she asked incredulously, then she was there beside him, running her fingers through his hair.

"I'll be glad when this case is over. It's really starting to get to me." Jim sat on the floor next to the dog, playing his hands over the harness with his wife standing behind him trying to offer comfort. He was suddenly exhausted. If Reg Schmidt had managed to get any other dirt on him, he could very well not have a job right now, even if the kid wasn't a cop. Jim couldn't help but think, if it had been about Marty or Tom, the accusation would have been pushed aside. But for him, they had to follow up. He'd never be allowed to slide. Even now, if they found out he'd lost his gun for that one day, even so long after the fact, he'd still take a rip, or worse.

"Are you okay?" Christie asked, concerned.

"Yeah. I'm just tired."

"What were they investigating?"

"Nothing." He hauled himself back to his feet and gave her a short kiss.

"Jim—"

"It's over." He took off his coat.

"You want some wine?"

"I want a beer." He headed for the kitchen.

"I'll get it," she offered.

Jim changed his course and plucked his Braille workbook from the shelf. "It was all because of this," he said quietly when he heard her walk up behind him.

"Because you can't read Braille?"

Jim smiled. He sat on the floor by the coffee table. He took the beer from her and spread out. "Because, since I'm blind, I'm obviously fluent in Braille." He sighed. "It's hard to explain to them that I'm not; it doesn't work that way." He turned back to explain. "They thought I would have separate files no one else could read."

"You want me to tell them I've been harping on you for a year about learning to read it?"

Jim leaned back against her legs as she sat on the couch and let his head lean back, eyes closed.

"You don't have to practice if you're too tired," she said. She brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"The weird thing is, what happened today, it made me want to practice."

"So you can keep secret files in Braille?"

"So at least I'd have the option. It wasn't even possible for me to do what they were accusing me of."

"If you're taking a rap for the crime, you should at least be capable, huh?"

"It's a "rip," darling," Jim said with a laugh.

"Whatever it is."

"Or the rap…"

"Okay."

"You're cute," he said, tossing her a smile. Jim flipped through the workbook.

"At least I'm good for something," she said, almost sounding disgruntled, or maybe just frustrated.

"Exactly." He leaned back toward her again. "One more kiss, then work."