Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1) (27 page)

Daniels' face reddened.

Jules led Jamie to the other end of the room, away from Scanlan, and motioned for her to sit in his chair. "He's got something to help, Jamie," he said, motioning to Scanlan. "Let him get it out and we can get rid of him."

She nodded.

He wiped his brow and turned back. "Officer Scanlan, watch yourself. Your father doesn't run Sex Crimes. I do. You understand me?"

Scanlan dropped his head. "Yes, sir."

"Okay, Daniels. Let's hear what your boy has to say. Then I want all of you out of here."

Daniels didn't look happy, but he nodded at Scanlan. Scanlan leaned forward in his chair, rested his elbows on his knees. Jamie glanced around the room, settling on Mackenzie. Mackenzie gave her a quick look and Jamie thought she saw a smile behind the very swollen lips.

"I drove Natasha—uh, Inspector Devlin—back from the awards banquet that night."

"And you had sex with her?" Jamie interrupted.

Daniels glared at her.

Scanlan shook his head. "No." He kept his head down.

Jamie felt a shift in the room. She looked at Jules, who looked perplexed. He didn't know, but Daniels looked distinctly uncomfortable. Marshall looked awkward and annoyed, and Washington didn't meet her gaze. No one spoke. What the hell was going on?

"Someone had sex with her in that office just before she was killed," Jamie said. "And you brought her here."

"I didn't have sex with her."

Jamie watched Scanlan. His face was ruddy, sweat beading on his lip. He looked like a school kid in the principal's office. "You're lying."

"Enough," Daniels snapped.

Jamie stared at Bruce Daniels. He looked away. They were lying—both of them. She glanced at Washington, who studied his hands. What were they hiding? Jamie opened her notebook to the pages where she'd noted Roger's findings. She skimmed the words. Devlin had two samples of semen inside her—one six or so hours old, one within a half hour of her death. The most recent sample contained no sperm.

According to Roger, there was no way to determine why the second sample was aspermatic. It could have been a genetic anomaly or the man had undergone a vasectomy. Pure odds favored the vasectomy. She looked at Scanlan, frowning. He was young. He'd never had children. Why would he have a vasectomy?

She looked up at him, glanced at Daniels. "Did you bring Devlin back to meet someone else?"

Scanlan's eyes widened.

Daniels spoke up. "I think it's enough that Officer Scanlan has told us that he wasn't with Devlin that night."

"It's not enough, Officer Daniels," Jamie retorted. "Because whoever was with Devlin that night is a key suspect in her murder."

"I have to agree with Inspector Vail," Jules piped in.

Daniels looked at Scanlan, who seemed to plead with his eyes.

And suddenly it made sense. Scanlan's discomfort, the other men's awkwardness, the vasectomy. "It was your father, wasn't it? He was the last person to have sex with Devlin?"

Scanlan dropped his head into his hands.

Daniels sank back into his chair, let his head fall back.

Washington shrank down in his chair.

Someone else uttered a curse under his breath.

The room silenced.

Jamie glanced at Hailey. She shook her head. Deputy Chief Scanlan was the last person to have sex with the murdered inspector.

Their case had just gotten a hell of a lot more complicated.

Chapter 27

Tony waited a half hour after Jamie left. He stared at the clock, not allowing himself to go near the garage, not until thirty minutes had passed. The last five minutes were the longest. Then it was finally over. It wasn't even nine o'clock in the morning. He didn't care.

He half ran to the garage and pulled out the fifth of Jim Beam he'd hidden under an unopened bag of potting soil. He stared at the bottle, shook his head. Goddamn it. He couldn't help himself. He twisted the black cap in his fist, felt it pop off in his hand.

He closed his eyes, searching for the strength to resist. In the end, desire won out. He tipped the bottle to his lips, savored the harshness of the whiskey, the way his throat automatically closed on the liquor. He coughed, cupped his hand over his lips to catch the dribble on his chin. Then he licked it off his fingers like a kid with a melted ice cream cone.

The burn in his throat was the best part—that and the numbness. He needed the numbness today, just for a while. He hadn't expected to find liquor in a grocery store. In New York, you couldn't buy it there. But in California, it was right alongside the wines and beers.

He'd spent the weekend thinking about the first drink he'd take once she was gone. Just enough to survive the day. Maybe Jamie knew, but she didn't let on. She didn't want to know about his problems. Maybe she had once. Maybe a long time ago. He tried to remember life back then, but it was gone. Any tangible memories had grown into a handful of snapshots of grinning kids in goofy outfits.

He walked back into the house, cradling the bottle like a child. He sank onto the couch, rested his eyes. The bee buzzed in his brain. Thank God for the bottle. He glanced around at Jamie's house, at the unpacked boxes, the uncovered windows.

She was as fucked up as he was—maybe more so because she wouldn't admit how bad off she was. He was relieved that she was gone today. The constant weight of her stares had grown too heavy. Deborah had become the same way, especially at the end. It felt as though she was just waiting for him to fuck up—to go get drunk, to lose the latest no-end job, to come home a failure again. And it was that stare that ultimately led him to do just that—all in one fucking day.

"You're going to be late for work, Tony," she nagged. "You can't be late. We need this job. We have to pay the mortgage. I can't do it alone." It was like a tape on repeat, and the words bounced off his skull until it was too much.

Then came the day he just didn't want to go. It was a worthless job at a stupid factory in Jersey. It wasn't even a job he would have taken if not for her. He would have just collected unemployment and waited for a chance to get back into the department. He was a firefighter—that was his calling. He'd been a firefighter in New York's Battalion 1, Civic Center, for eleven years. She wanted him to go to work in a fucking factory. Christ, even a lame security position was a step in the right direction compared to that.

He woke up on a Tuesday—a Tuesday so much like the one when Mick had died—a beautiful crisp Tuesday in the fall. Blue skies and clear. Clear enough to fly a goddamn plane right into downtown Manhattan.

Shit, he just didn't want to go to work, couldn't handle it.

"I'm not going in today," he'd said. That should have been okay. She should have known that he just needed to blow off some steam. It was understandable. Some years had passed, but it was almost the anniversary of that day. Shit, September 11th. On that September Tuesday, he'd been out of the department for two months. And he'd been sober.

Thank God he'd been sober that day. Not that it mattered. Not that sobriety had kept him and Mick from arguing. Tony had been heading into the North Tower. Mick was already inside. He told Tony to get lost, but Tony was too stubborn. He wouldn't leave, so they'd argued. Mick left, taking the South Tower instead. That was the last time Tony saw his brother. Mick never made it out.

Tony must have replayed those last minutes with his brother a thousand times. Maybe if he'd been drunk that day, Mick would still be alive. Mick might have gotten Tony tossed out of there altogether. Tony might have stumbled home, away from the towers before either had fallen. Mick might have gone up the North Tower instead of the South Tower. Or maybe Mick would have been the one to drag Tony away. Maybe taking care of his little brother would have saved his life.

If Tony hadn't been there, Mick might have gotten out. Tony took another drag on the bottle. He closed his eyes and pictured that day—the cloudless sky, a perfect fall day in New York.

It was just two months after Tony had gotten canned. Fired for showing up drunk. It had been a four-alarm fire at the Millennium Hilton on Church Street. They'd called him in and he'd come. It was his day off, but they needed the manpower. He shouldn't have gone.

Deborah had tried to stop him, but he didn't listen.

He got in his car and drove there, stinking drunk. Mick sent him home immediately, but he didn't listen. Mick had pleaded and fought, dragged him away from the burning building. Mick had tried to save Tony—his life, his job. And in return, Tony had gotten Mick killed—gotten him killed with his own stubborn stupidity. Tony thought he could handle it. Tony always thought he could handle it.

He knew better now. His battalion commander had come to see what was going on, why Mick wasn't up in the building, why they were wasting time fighting each other instead of the angry blazes. Tony had tried to push by. He'd fought with his commander, told him off, and was fired. That was July 9th.

Two months, two days later, he was working security in 5 World Trade Center. He'd been on at seven a.m., was in the lobby of his building, watching people in fancy suits come and go when they'd heard that first explosion. He'd looked at his watch exactly one minute before—eight forty-five. He had a break at nine. He never took it.

* * *

When Tony woke, he was staring up at the ceiling in Jamie's living room. He felt like he was sucking on cotton. He sat up, blinked hard, and stood. The room turned on its side and he grabbed the couch for support. He looked down at the bottle, two-thirds gone, and gave his head a light shake. It pounded. He staggered to the kitchen and turned the faucet on, let the water run over his hands. He splashed his face, then drank thirstily, using his hand as a cup. The clock on the stove said 7:50. It was dark outside. He hadn't eaten all day.

He shut the water off, leaned against the cool tile of the countertop. When he opened his eyes, he stared out the window. Clouds filled the gray sky, the sight of it almost
     
soothing. He blinked hard and wondered if Jamie had any aspirin in the place. He opened a cupboard, then another one, before turning toward the bathroom. Jamie would be home soon. He was surprised she wasn't already. He had to get his shit together.

He passed through the back hall when he heard a scream. He stopped, stunned, and listened. The wind whined against the window. He heard something slap the side of the house like a gate slamming closed.

He opened the back door. Behind him, Barney's claws ticked against the wood stairs. He heard only the wind.

He started to close the door when Barney barked. He glanced at the dog, stepped outside. The wind cooled his face. He heard a sound from the far side of the house—a human cry. He turned back to the house for a split second, searching for something he could use as a weapon.

He found a broom handle on the ground outside the back door. He lifted it, held it over his shoulder like a baseball bat, and crept silently into the dark. His eyes slowly adjusted as shapes took form against the blanket of gray sky. He saw a lone tree, the fence.

Had he imagined the noise?

Barney barked again. He halted, breathed. His head pounded. The numbness had evaporated into a dull fuzz. The pain was back. At least the cold wind eased his aching skull.

He reached the corner of the house, peered down the side. A garbage can, a water spigot. Below it, a puddle of water had formed. He studied the spigot, saw no leak. Someone had been running water.

Just then, Barney barked again. He turned back, heard a branch snap beside him. As he turned, a shadow dove at him. He swung the broom handle, heard it crack on flesh as the man landed on him. Tony fell backwards, smacked his head on hard pavement. The shadow slammed him into the ground, grabbed for the broomstick. Tony gripped it harder. The man wore a black ski mask, had dark eyes. The two struggled. Tony shoved the stick upwards, trying to knock his attacker off balance.

"Marchek," he said, remembering the name Jamie had used.

The dark eyes narrowed, the pressure increased.

Tony wedged a foot up, kicked, and hoisted the bar over his head. The man flipped over his head. Tony jumped up, spun, the broomstick still in his fists.