Fallen (4 page)

She touched her dark hair self-consciously. “Thanks. It saves me time in the mornings.”

He wanted to ask her about Varek, but didn’t. It certainly wasn’t a question he could just blurt out. Besides, after the trauma of the past few hours, he wasn’t sure he could handle it if she confirmed what he believed Varek had been trying to imply, that they were more than just friends. “Are you headed home?”

“I just have to get my things from my locker.”

“I’ll wait for you and walk you to your car.”

She didn’t refuse his offer. Ryan got off at the second floor with her and stayed in the hallway while Lydia went into the physician lounge. She returned a few minutes later wearing a sleeveless top and denim capris, a backpack slung over one slender shoulder. Ryan thought she looked more like a pretty college co-ed than an attending ER physician with a half-dozen residents under her charge.

They had both come a long way. Lydia had been a first-year resident when they’d met, and he’d been a uniformed cop. Since then, he had obtained his master’s in criminal justice and been promoted to APD detective, then moved up in the ranks to lieutenant detective, first class. Neither he nor Lydia had come from privileged backgrounds. They’d both worked hard to get where they were.

It was his dedication in particular that had cost them everything.

Leaving the elevator, they made their way past the remaining camera crews that were still in the lobby, pushing together through the plate-glass doors. Outside, the nighttime air was warm and humid, a sharp contrast to the hospital’s air-conditioned interior. It was mid-June, and the city was experiencing record heat.

They reached her car—the same silver Volvo—in one of the garage levels reserved for staff. It was after midnight, and the deck was dark and shadowed, with only a few anemic overhead lights. Ryan thought about where Nate had been shot, and he didn’t like the idea of Lydia walking out here alone. He wondered if Varek ever escorted her.

“I thought it was you tonight,” she said softly, surprising him. Her brown eyes were liquid and troubled. “All I knew was that a plainclothes had been shot—”

He shook his head, gently scolding. “Lydia.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t you, Ryan. I … I hope you know that.”

A heavy silence fell between them, until he finally opened the car door for her and took a step back. He felt the hard thrum of his pulse. Lydia tossed her backpack onto the passenger seat and got inside. A short time later, she looked at him once more through the car’s window and started the engine. Hands shoved inside his pockets, Ryan watched as she drove out of the garage toward her home.

He’d had to let her go. As much as he had been hurting, he’d known her pain was worse and that he’d been responsible. The divorce was what she wanted. Ryan hadn’t fought it.

He had deserved to lose her, he realized.

Chapter Three

R
yan studied the
grim, cordoned-off crime scene lit by mobile lights from Forensics. Although the parking deck had been kept clear until the area was processed, several members of the APD’s cross-precinct Major Crimes division still lingered, unwilling to leave the place where one of their own had been gunned down. Small yellow cones marked the locations where shell casings had been found on the garage floor, and a puddle of blood, now brownish and thick, remained in front of the closed doors of the elevator. A gruesome smear on the floor indicated where Nate had apparently pushed himself along the concrete slab, trying to escape. The image was disturbing.

“Where was Nate’s gun?” Ryan asked, a pain inside his throat. He carefully sidestepped a pile of bloodied gauze pads and empty, plastic vials left behind by the paramedics.

“The orange cone.” Mateo nodded to a marker different from the others. “The weapon wasn’t fired. According to the evidence techs, blood spatter and trajectories indicate the first shot was made from about twenty feet away. The bullet exited through Nate’s body and pierced the elevator door.”

“And the other two?”

Mateo moved to the blood pool and stood directly over it. Still wearing latex gloves, he pointed his finger downward in a gun-like motion, demonstrating. “The shooter was basically standing over him.”

Ryan recalled their earlier conversation. “What about Watterson? The cop shot behind the package store?”

“Same thing,” Det. Darnell Richardson answered as he walked from a gaggle of law enforcement to where Ryan and Mateo stood. A heavyset, middle-aged African American, he typically handled armed robbery and assault. He was in charge of the crime scene and had been the one to alert Mateo to the same type bullet being used in the two different police slayings.

“The first shot was fired from a distance to take Watterson down, the next two at close range,” Darnell said. “It’s suspected a silencer was used, since the package store was still open and no one heard anything. How you doin’, Ryan? Mateo said you were on your way over here.”

“Good to see you, Darnell.”

Darnell actually hugged him. It was an unusual gesture, but emotions within the force were running high. “I saw your baby brother tonight. He’s on duty, said he’ll probably catch up to you tomorrow.”

Ryan nodded. He and Adam sometimes took part in pickup basketball games in Goldsboro Park on Saturdays, if neither was working.

“Damn shame about Nate.” Darnell shook his head sorrowfully. “So what do you think? Is it open season on cops?”

Alone, the shell casing was common and could be purely coincidental. But Ryan had to admit the similar MO—three shots, two at close range and the possible use of a silencer—was troubling. “I think we need to wait on ballistics to see if we’re looking at the same gun.”

Darnell nodded. “Either way, it’s not going to be my investigation. It’s a homicide now.”

Ryan stared past the crime scene tape blocking the entrance to the garage deck. A uniformed cop was stationed there to keep out news crews and curious passersby, and to direct the building’s residents to a public lot across the street, where they would have to park temporarily. The cars already inside the garage were currently inaccessible to their owners and would remain so until the cleaning crew came in to do its job sometime in the next few hours.

“If it wasn’t an armed robbery, it was a hit. An execution,” Mateo pointed out, glancing up as the light panel in the ceiling flickered, making a buzzing sound.

Ryan thought again of the argument Nate had been having with someone on his cell the day before outside the precinct. It was worth looking into. They would need to get a writ for Nate’s phone records from the wireless carrier—or ask Kristen for his personal effects from the hospital, which probably included his cell. He didn’t want to bother her any more than necessary.

“I can tell you this—I can think of two dozen or so punks who wouldn’t mind putting a bullet in me.” Darnell checked his wristwatch. “It’s damn near one, way past my bedtime if I can get any sleep at all after this. We’re going to keep a guard unit here overnight. A news van from Channel Two’s still parked across the street, but if they think they’re getting in here, they’re SOL.”

“If it bleeds, it leads,” Mateo grumbled under his breath.

“Where’s Nate’s car?” Ryan asked.

Darnell had already begun walking away, but he turned and pointed to the last row. “Forensics went through it already. Nate was a neat freak, so the interior’s as clean as a preacher’s sheets. The exterior has a key scratch, though. A nice long one on the driver’s side.”

Gang members in particular were fond of keying cops’ vehicles. As a Narcotics and Vice detective, Nate had dealt with a number of them. Ryan called again to Darnell, who had already ducked under the crime scene tape. “What about Watterson’s car? Anything similar?”

“I’ll check into it.”

Ryan looked at the pool of blood on the deck’s floor. Anger tightened his chest.

“I want this case,” he said quietly.

“Be careful what you wish for.” Mateo stood beside him. “Thompson called me on the way over. He wants Homicide at the precinct at eight a.m. I told him I’d let you know.”

*

It was after two in the morning, but Lydia found herself still unable to sleep.

She stood at the floor-to-ceiling window in her high-rise condominium, looking down at Buckhead’s sprawling Lenox Square and Peachtree Road. From her eighth-floor view, Atlanta appeared quiet and peaceful, a cityscape of twinkling lights.

It was all a façade.

Around the city, car accidents were occurring—robberies happening, people being shot. Someone was dying from a heart attack or cancer. The possibilities were endless. As an ER doctor, Lydia carried this knowledge inside her. She grasped the thin stem of her wine glass, taking another sip. Nate’s death, his grieving family, seeing Ryan within the confines of the hospital … it had all reopened old wounds.

Tragedy could happen to anyone.

“There’s a child being brought in, a submersion victim.”
Abe Solomon, the ER’s chief of staff, had taken her aside. He’d spoken in his quiet, fatherly tone, sympathy and dread lining his face as he laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Lydia, I … have bad news. It’s Tyler. Your husband’s in the ambulance with him. They’re on their way.”

The words hadn’t seemed real to her. Sometimes they still didn’t.

The wail of a police siren on Peachtree below pulled her back to the present. Absently, Lydia watched as the flashing blue lights sailed around the other vehicles, the squad car running through a red light and disappearing down the street. Turning from the window, she glanced at the framed photos on a nearby bookshelf. They were cherished images of her life
before
. Magnetized, she moved closer, her fingers touching the silver frames one by one. In her favorite photo, Tyler grinned back at her, a green four-leaf clover painted on his cheek by a street artist at the city’s annual Dogwood Festival. A beautiful boy, he’d inherited her dark hair and Ryan’s nearly startling blue eyes. In another photo, she, Ryan and Tyler were on the beach in Hilton Head. The sun had been setting over the ocean behind them, the water on fire with orange and gold. Ryan held Tyler against his chest, his arms around him, their smiles identical. Lydia’s head lay on Ryan’s shoulder, her with her two men.

It had been their last family vacation.

She closed her eyes, trying to fight off the memories.

“Three-year-old male, unresponsive. Water aspiration leading to hypoxia and LOC—”

“Sustained apnea after cardiopulmonary resuscitation on scene and en route—”

Lydia had run alongside the paramedics’ gurney, grasping Tyler’s small, limp hand. He’d appeared so still and pale. Bluish. They’d put an endotracheal tube down his throat, which meant he wasn’t breathing on his own.

Oh, God. Tyler.

She’d sobbed, pleaded with him to open his eyes, until Abe and an orderly had blocked her from entering the trauma room. She’d had no choice but to watch helplessly through the observation window as physicians and nurses—the men and women she worked with every day—fought to save him. Her world had faded to gray.

“Get an arterial blood gas, chest X-ray, CBC—”

“Test for renal and liver functions—”

“Get Patel in Neuro down here now!”

Each phrase, each snippet of medical jargon, had been like a scalpel slicing away at her insides. This time, it was her child, her son.

Tyler.

It had taken awhile for her to become aware of Ryan’s presence. He’d been standing in the hallway a short distance away. His eyes were red, face ashen, hair and clothes wet. Shivering, he made a weak gesture with his hands, his throat convulsing.

“How long?”
She advanced on him.
“How long was he down there?”

“I-I don’t know. Five minutes—”

Even now, Lydia could still feel the sting against her palm, the jarring numbness in her wrist. She’d struck his face hard, needing to lash out, to focus her pain somewhere. Ryan had appeared stunned, on the verge of collapse. Tears had rolled down his cheeks as she’d beaten at his chest and then shoved him away.

She finished the wine and went to the kitchen, where she poured herself another generous glass, hoping it might dull the activity inside her mind. The condo was achingly quiet. She hadn’t even turned on the television, she realized. Around her, the kitchen appliances were stainless steel, framed by honey oak cabinets and granite counters. The floor was Italian tile. It was beautiful but also sterile, lacking any real warmth. Lydia thought of the cozy Craftsman bungalow in Inman Park, the one she and Ryan had worked so hard to renovate together, to make into a home.

He had bought her out as part of the divorce. Lydia couldn’t bear to live there with the memories, and the real estate market had gone soft along with the economy, making it harder to sell. But the market was getting better now.

Sometimes she believed he remained there to punish himself.

She’d gone into therapy after Tyler’s death. Taken a leave of absence from work to return home to New Orleans, to be with family and friends. Time had passed, allowing her grief to ease somewhat and along with it, the need to blame someone for the terrible thing that had happened.