The Rookie Club: Dead Center Part 22

Mackenzie made a sound. She raised the hand that wasn't in a cast and pointed to herself. "Me," she said.

"No way," Hailey said.

"You're going to be out of commission for a while, Wallace," Jamie told her.

"After."

Jamie focused on Mackenzie, but Hailey saw her raise a brow.

"I could use the help," Hailey said.

Jamie met her gaze, nodded. Hailey knew they were both thinking Mackenzie might be safer if she weren't on patrol for a while.

Jamie nodded. "She could help."

"I'll talk to Captain James about getting you a temporary stint in Homicide." Hailey turned to Jamie. "That okay?"

"Perfect," Jamie said.

"But nothing goes outside us. Not until we know who we're homing in on," Hailey said, directing the comment to Mackenzie.

"Or until we can nail Marchek on the rapes and force him to tell us who he saw," Jamie agreed.

Hailey thought about what Mackenzie had been through. Jesus Christ.

But Jamie was right about something else, too-they were going to nail this b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She just prayed they could do it before someone else ended up in this place.

Or worse-down in the bas.e.m.e.nt where they stored the cold bodies.

Chapter 25.

Jamie didn't leave the house Sunday afternoon. She made calls to every member of the Rookie Club who had been at the dinner the other night and every woman on the scene the morning after Devlin was murdered. She gave each a modified version of the truth, which included Mackenzie's attack and Barney's and warned them each to be especially careful. She left messages for the ones who weren't home. The few she spoke to hadn't taken her warning as seriously as she would have liked. How could they?

If a cop worried about every threat, she would never leave the house. A cop's job was to put herself in constant danger. The fact that Jamie thought the risk was higher today than usual didn't mean she was right.

She also convinced Captain Jules to sign off on another eighteen hours of surveillance on Marchek to cover through tomorrow. A meeting was called for first thing in the morning to discuss how to proceed, both with the case against him and with Devlin's murder investigation. In the meantime, Jamie just prayed the tail on Marchek was enough to prevent another rape. G.o.d, she wanted this case to be over.

And seeing Mackenzie this morning had only made things worse. d.a.m.n it if she didn't look like s.h.i.+t. At least the doctor thought they'd release her in the morning. They wanted to keep her another night because of the head injury.

All of Jamie's victims were recovering. According to one of the local trauma psychologists, Emily Osbourne had come in for counseling. The subject matter was protected by patient confidentiality, but Jamie was always relieved to hear that victims were seeking help. Emily's father left Jamie a message at least once a day. Her mother had called the rape crisis center for resources on therapy. Jamie had also followed up on all the call-in tips the department had gotten. She had nothing to show for the effort.

She thought about Marchek as she watched Barney circle the floor until he found a comfortable spot to lie down. He appeared to be favoring his right leg, but the vet was confident he'd recover. Barney had been the lucky one.

At half past four, Tony entered the living room juggling her car keys. "I thought I'd pick up some fixings for chicken parmesan."

She sat up. "I'll come."

"Don't," he said. "I can do it. I know where the store is."

Jamie closed her eyes. She didn't want to go, yet she felt responsible for him. What would he do if she didn't come? Get drunk again? Total her car with him in it?

"You need some smokes?" he asked.

She shook her head. Stopped. "Okay, just a couple Marlboro Lights-hard packs. And get something sweet-some of that Phish Food or something."

He frowned. "Fish Food?"

"You know, Ben and Jerry's. Ice cream."

Tony shrugged. "Never heard of it, but I'll find it."

The door clicked closed and she sat up, suddenly anxious. She ran to the door, pulled it open. "Tony."

He looked back, a half smile on his face. It was the expression of a kid about to be let out on his own.

Don't call him back. Don't do it. "Please be careful, okay?"

"I won't scratch the car, I promise."

Jamie shook her head. "I don't give a rat's a.s.s about the car."

He smiled, turned with energy in his step.

She stepped back into the house, watched him go, knowing it was the right thing to do. At the computer, she signed into the chat room and exchanged a few brief messages about the case in Chicago. After knowing someone had been online, posing as her, it felt weird to be there-exposed-and she signed off after a few minutes.

When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, Jamie a.s.sumed it was Tony.

She pulled the door open and said, "You have a key-" She halted mid-sentence.

Tim stood on her doorstep.

"Sorry. I thought you were-" She shook her head.

"Can I come in?"

Jamie hesitated. Looking at Tim, she didn't feel angry. She realized it was the first time since she'd found him with Natasha that anger wasn't her first emotion. "Okay. For a few minutes."

"Thanks." Tim followed her to the kitchen. She could feel his gaze stop on Tony's shoes, which sat just inside the back door.

"You want some coffee?"

He nodded. "That would be great." He sat down and traced the wood grain on the table. Watching him, she had a vision of them lying in bed together, Tim reenacting a car chase with his fingers on the pillowcase. She searched her mind for the moment when things had gone wrong. She couldn't find it. Never could. One day it was just bad.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I'm not back to work yet. I went by and there's a bunch of picketers in front."

"Picketers?"

"Protesting my release."

Jamie poured two cups and sat down. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "It's my own fault."

Jamie thought about the question that had bothered her from the start. "Why did you move her?"

He met her gaze, shook his head. "She looked asleep-a little pale, maybe, but not dead." He turned the coffee cup in his hands, stared down at it. "I'd been hit in the head and I came to a little dizzy. When I saw her, I just picked her up instinctively. I knew she was hurt. I didn't get far before I realized..." He stopped, blinked.

She could see the emotion in his eyes and had to look away. She took a drink of coffee, felt the liquid burn her tongue.

"Maybe I knew she was dead and didn't want to accept it," he added quietly.

Maybe she should have asked more questions, but she couldn't. She already knew Tim had slept with Devlin before she died. That was enough. Plus, the murder wasn't her case.

Jamie didn't know what to say, couldn't find the words.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Tim stood up. "Thanks for letting me talk, Jamie."

She started to stand, but he stopped her. "I'll let myself out." Then, before she could stop him, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek and was gone.

Jamie dumped the coffees in the sink and stared out the window, trying to discern exactly how she felt. The very absence of anger felt so foreign. She wasn't even sure she could say it felt good. The anger was easy. This-forgiveness maybe-this was hard.

Upstairs, she showered, lingering under the scalding water. She tried not to think about Tim. Or even about Marchek or Scanlan or Tony.

Out of the shower, she dumped dirty clothes off the chair in her bedroom and dragged it to the window. Sitting in the natural light, she brushed her hair with the wood-handled brush she'd had for a decade. She fought with the gnarled bits. Eventually, she won and the knots came loose. She turned her head over and brushed the underneath and then flipped it back up. It was cool on her neck. She pa.s.sed the brush through the smooth strands, daring it to catch.

She held the brush in her hands, ran her fingers across the smooth wood. For some reason, brus.h.i.+ng her hair reminded her of the first female friend she'd had. Marisa Caltabiano was Italian, her father a police officer in the Bronx. She and her family-parents and two younger brothers-had moved in down the street from Tony and Jamie. They hadn't come from far, just from somewhere else in the Brooklyn. As a kid, though, a couple of blocks seemed like across the world. Marisa had lived near them for four years, beginning when Tony and Jamie were nine or maybe ten. No, it would have been nine.

She had moved away when they were thirteen-after the attack. Her father had been the one to find them. It had been his call. Jamie pushed those memories aside and thought about the early days.

Tony had discovered Marisa playing jacks down the street and brought her home like a stray puppy. Jamie had disliked her immediately. She had thick curls and olive skin and perfectly almond-shaped eyes. She was nice, not sweet, and held her own from the start. Tony and Mick were so taken with her that Jamie's Irish temper had been thrown into overdrive.

Jamie had been so protective of them, especially Tony. She wasn't used to sharing him. Marisa was the first time it had ever come up. Marisa and Tony had dated a bit; she was his first girlfriend. All of it before the attack, the rape. Before everything had changed.

Jamie glanced at the clock. Forty-seven minutes had pa.s.sed since Tony left-not nearly enough time to get groceries and get back, especially on a Sunday.

Her throat closed. She ignored it, found the pack of cigarettes on the floor by her bed. As she walked across the room, she shook one out. She opened the window and lit the cigarette, curling back into the chair. It was cool outside and she set the cigarette on the edge of her table to grab a sweats.h.i.+rt off the floor and pull it over her head. She retrieved the cigarette and inhaled with a hissing Darth Vader sound, exhaled.

The muscles in her neck loosened and she focused on a spot at the back of the yard. On the other side of the house, cars pa.s.sed in the distance, too far to hear. The room was quiet except for the whine of the wind through the open window.

Barney let out a moan on the bed, went back to sleep.

Her mind settled on her family-on Tony, Mick, on Pat Galen, and her father. And on their mothers. She couldn't remember her own-the memory was always still, an image from a photograph. But Lana-she could remember Lana with her dark hair and light eyes. Jamie pictured her bright eyes, wide and open and smiling, her contagious laugh. When she let it loose, it was untamed and free, like she couldn't control it. It used to make the kids smile just hearing her.

But in the end, the pain had stolen her laugh. Even her eyes had lost their humor. That Lana tried to mask it from all of them was her way, but it was there just below the surface. In the last weeks of her life, she'd let the kids into her room for only a few minutes at a time. Then she'd ushered them out so she could rest. And as soon as their backs were turned, her face would grow rigid in agony. Sometimes, when Jamie would look back, she'd see it.

Mick had been a fireball just like Lana. Always the first out of the station house, he was a born leader. Tony was quieter, shy, more like Pat.

Tony had said they'd had it hard growing up, but Jamie disagreed. They'd had two parents-three for the years with Lana. Their fathers had taken them to the firehouse every few weeks so they could climb on the truck and slide down the pole. The men had taken the kids bowling, thrown the ball with them. Pat taught them to play gin rummy for pretzels.

And then somewhere, it had fallen apart. It hadn't been as far back as the rape, although she was confident it had started there. Marisa left, but they remained in the same house with the memory of it all around them. Each of them shared the guilt-the dads, but also each of the kids for not having been there or not being able to stop it.

Mick turned fifteen and started to hang with a pack of older boys. Tony and Jamie were thirteen, starting high school. They were sucked into the mainstream. Four years later, Jamie left. That was it. She'd come to California for college and the boys-Tony, Mick, Pat and her father-had stayed in New York. Most right until the end.

She heard the garage door open, felt relief. She walked down the stairs, Barney trailing slowly behind. She opened the door. "Can I help?"

Tony nodded. "Sure. Grab a bag."

They unloaded the groceries into the kitchen and Jamie slowly pulled things out-cheese, lunch meats, chips, chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s, ice cream. "You got a lot of stuff."

He looked at her for a moment. "I thought we could use some food around here."

She nodded, felt relieved. Suicidal men didn't buy food.

"I found these, too. Remember them?" He pa.s.sed her a pack of baseball cards like the ones they had collected as kids.

She smiled.

"You used to sell me and Mick your cards and you'd hide the gum in your drawer with the money."

She frowned. "I don't remember that."

He smiled. "You did. I was collecting Donnie Mattingly cards. Must've been eight-four because it was his first year playing first, and I didn't have any money. Dad wouldn't give me any and Mick would just buy the d.a.m.n cards and keep them for himself.

"I was desperate for more cards and you gave me a bunch of money. It felt like a thousand dollars to me. You must've pulled ten dollars out of your sock drawer one day. And you gave it all to me."

She smiled at the memory, tried to picture Tony's excited face. She was sure it had been worth every cent. "I hope you still have those cards."

"Ah, s.h.i.+t. Deborah probably has them now."

The moment burst like a bubble. She turned to put the groceries away, wondered where Tony got the money to pay for them. It had been a long time since he'd worked. "You okay for cash?"

His eyes. .h.i.t the ground. He turned his back, whispered, "From Mick. From nine eleven. I was next of kin. Well, Dad, then me."

Jamie watched his back, searching for the right thing to say. She walked to the kitchen sink, struggling. d.a.m.n it. Why did it have to be so hard? She took a breath. "I'm glad you're here, T."

He looked up slowly. His wide eyes were gla.s.sy.

She blinked hard. Come on, Tony. She glanced at the ceiling and back, felt her own eyes fill. She stepped out, sucked a deep breath. "s.h.i.+t," she said finally.

Then she crossed to him. She pulled a box of crackers from his hand, set it down. She wrapped her arms around his back, pulled him against her.