The Other Path

Chapter 66

Shaken by her police encounter but determined, Maris Schrader calls for attention from the small circle of support in chairs and wheelchairs. "For those of you who don't know, Ted Berensen is dead. Someone bashed his head in, and he fell off a roof."

Applause and a couple of whistles fill the room.

"Not exactly friendly," Ryan observes as he and Esposito watch the hospital's security feed.

"You got that right, Bro," Esposito agrees. "And it looks like there might be two possible suspects. Those two guys across from Schrader are both tall enough to deliver the blow that stunned Berensen."

"But that doesn't mean they could," Ryan realizes. "They might be like Maris."

"Yeah, we'll see about that," Esposito declares.

"Listen, I understand how you all feel," Maris continues. "But Berensen was a chance. And now that chance is gone. We'll have to find another path to getting Neuthomax out as a generic. In the meantime, we'll be joining other groups from across the Metropolitan Area to caravan to Canada, where we can get it cheaper. The Queens and Long Island circles will have wheelchair-accessible vans if you need them. And we'll be crossing over through Vermont. So the trip shouldn't be too bad."

"F***ing Killy and Company," the man opposite Maris spits out. "If they weren't so f***ing greedy, we wouldn't have to go anywhere. And the government my brother fought and bled for is just as bad. We're being screwed over by the country that is supposed to take care of us."

"I know, Dennis," Maris agrees. "And we're going to keep working to change that. But in the meantime, I have contact numbers for those of you who'll need to be in one of the vans. And let me know if you need a ride in a regular car. We have volunteers with upscale vehicles to make you as comfortable as possible. Now, does anyone have something they need to share?"

Ryan listens, shaking his head as the words pour out. "Damn! If I thought someone was forcing me or my family to go through something like that, I could take a swing at him myself."

Esposito claps his partner on the shoulder. "I hear you, Bro. And I didn't spend my time in Special Ops to see the assholes in Congress support the kind of drug company sh*t these people are fighting."

"That guy, Dennis, said he has a brother who's a vet. You think the brother might feel the same way you do? Maybe be mad enough to do something about it?" Ryan wonders. "We should find out."

"Yeah," Esposito agrees reluctantly. "We should."


Kate stares at the blinking cursor on an otherwise empty document. An outline for a mock interrogation shouldn't be this hard. She's seen Rick churn out whole grilling scenes in an hour or less. But then, she's never been the wordsmith he is – not even close.

Through a lot of sweat and late nights, she earned A's on her papers. She wouldn't have accepted anything else from herself. But teachers and professors never chose her work to read aloud. She never had "Well written" penned across the top, as she'd seen on some of Rick's keepsakes. She got the occasional "well researched" or "good work." But that was hardly the same thing. And in her Nebula Nine fan club, she wasn't the one to come up with the clever lines. She could only disgorge the best quotes, such as they were, from the original shows.

When Rick first started shadowing her, Kate was almost jealous of how easily he could captivate the other cops, even Montgomery, with his stories about a murder. It didn't matter that they were often complete nonsense. Rick enthralled his audience nonetheless. She had been charmed by his words on the page for years, if nothing else, because her mother was. But she'd been unaware of the true power in the cadence of perfect words at a critical time.

However, Kate began to realize that rhythm, cadence, and timing are just as crucial to extracting the truth from a suspect as they are to spinning a gripping tale. So, as Rick stood with a pen poised over his ever-present pocket pad to note her strategies, she tried to absorb his writer's magic.

Unfortunately, that didn't work for scripting her methods. Transferring what is in her mind to the tormentingly bare screen makes her want to bang her head against her desk. And for some reason, the baby is demanding one of the giant chocolate chip cookies from the break room vending machine. Maybe inspiration lies in the fillers and preservatives. And hopefully, no one will be making coffee while those preservatives keep her snack from revealing its age.


Rick's determined to rest for no more than five minutes on his bench in the pocket park before continuing his walk. Either that, or he'll start off again as soon as Alexis finishes her cell phone conversation a few feet down the path. She insists it's nothing serious, but the smile on her face suggests she's entranced by whoever has been calling every few hours. Rick's been able to pick up the name Eric, but not much more. Still, Alexis hasn't been caught up in a young man since Max and not intensely so since Ashley. As protective as he feels of his little girl, Rick wants her to be happy. And right now, happiness is pulling the corners of her lips toward the sky.

The touch of a cold nose on his hand distracts Rick from surveillance of his daughter. He glances down to see a dog who looks part Irish setter and part who knows what, looking up at him with an "if you don't pet me, I'll die" expression. Rick can never resist that kind of poochie plea. He obliges while scanning the area for an owner. By law, the dog should be leashed by a human with a poop bag handy. But Rick can't spot any likely candidates, so he continues enjoying the comfort of warm fur against his fingers.

When Eric hangs up to rush off to class, Alexis tucks her phone back into her pocket and returns to her father. "Where'd the dog come from?"

"I have no idea," Rick admits. "You want to continue our stroll and see if the owner turns up?"

Sure," the redhead agrees, "but I don't see anyone."

"Which makes two of us." Even at Rick's slow pace, the canine remains at his heels.

"He likes you," Alexis notes.

"Babies and dogs adore me," Rick claims. "Too bad neither population can shell out for my books. But I still don't see a potential master or mistress anywhere, do you?"

"No, but he's got a collar." Alexis crouches down to read the tag. "This says Cronut. But there's no other ID."

"Obviously, whoever named him has excellent taste in pastry. Someone at the bakery two blocks over might recognize him."

"Can you make it that far?" Alexis inquires.

"The lure of delightful confections will propel me on my way. Besides, when have you known me to be able to resist a mystery?"

"When it's what's in the container in the back of your refrigerator."

"Besides that. And I'm sure Cronut here would love to be reunited with his family. He likes a lot of attention."

"Something you would understand perfectly," Alexis teases. "All right, let's go to the bakery."

Cronut gives an approving yip.

Alexis nudges her father. "You guys are two of a kind."