Restoration 01 - Getting It Right (25 page)

“But it wasn’t a clear case?”

“Yes and no.”

Nate was getting officially confused. “How’s that?”

“Turns out our vandal is the kind of sick bastard who likes to tie people up against their will, beat them and then loan them out to his friends.”

“Jesus. Who told you that?”

“His victim. The same kid involved in the vandalism case. He gave a statement this morning about what Lopez did to him. Awful shit. Make your toes curl, Wolf.”

“That’s what’s got you so pissed?”

“No, I’m pissed because it’s an impossible case to make stick. It’ll become a domestic he-said, she-said, because there’s no physical evidence. No swabs, no rape kit, no photos. I’ve got a few witnesses to Romy’s general behavior those few months, as well as his physical state when he was taken away from Lopez, but statements only go so far in criminal court.”

“Shit, that sucks.” Something else in the information stream pinged Nate’s memory.

“Romy? How common do you think that name is?”

“No idea, why? You know him?”

“No, but James is seeing a client named Romy Myers who’s been through hell and back.

Wonder if it’s the same guy.”

“That’s him. He told me today he’s seeing a shrink that he likes. He’s getting his head on right, and that’s why he wanted to make a statement about the abuse.” Carey slapped an open palm against his desk. “I wanted to help that kid.”

Nate knew all too well the helplessness of seeing a case going south and being unable to save it. Of knowing some piece of shit was getting away with a horrible crime because there wasn’t enough evidence. A few sworn statements from someone’s friends would never get the case past the DA’s assistant, much less all the way to a grand jury.

“I’m sorry, man,” Nate said.

“Welcome back,” Carey said, the abrupt topic switch indicating the conversation was over. “Enjoying answering the phones?”

“Meh. Mostly I’ve been catching up on old cases.”

“Spokes?”

“Can’t help myself.”

“Detective Carey?” Officer Pfieffer approached with mild caution, a folder in his hands.

“Oh sorry. Welcome back, Detective Wolf.”

“Thanks,” Nate said.

“Must be strange after being gone for so long.”

“Is that for me?” Carey asked, saving Nate from irritating small talk with a rookie who meant well.

“Oh yes, sir. The autopsy report on the latest John Doe.” He handed off the folder, then ambled away.

Carey flipped through the folder’s contents. The way he scowled at the report tripped Nate’s internal alarms.

“Were you waiting to confirm cause of death?” Nate asked.

“Yes. Brain trauma caused by a narrow, tapered object inserted through the ear.”

Nate went cold all over. “Just like Spokes?”

“Same as Spokes and two other dead bodies we’ve found in the last four months. One still a John Doe, the other identified.”

“Christ.” Nate slid off the desk and into an empty chair next to it.

“We don’t have anything else that ties them together. No physical evidence or prints on any of the bodies. Two were discovered at the scene of the murder. Our current John Doe was killed elsewhere like Spokes.”

“What about physically? The four vics?”

“Young males, between twenty and twenty-eight years old. No match in height, hair or eye color.”

“Evidence of sexual assault?”

“Evidence of recent sexual activity, but no signs of assault or resistance from any of them.”

“So chances are they knew their killer.”

Carey shook his head. “Don’t go there, Wolf. This is an active investigation, and if we can find enough evidence that the four deaths are connected, we’ll be pulling Spokes’s file away from you.”

Anger snapped at Nate’s control. “Look, just because I’m stuck without a gun, behind a desk, doesn’t mean my brain has to shut off. I’m a damned good investigator, Wally, and you know it. I can help with this case.”

“You’re personally involved in this case.”

“How?”

“You were nearly killed while investigating it, you fool.”

“All the more reason to see it through.”

“That’s not how it works and you know it.”

Nate did know it. Didn’t mean he liked it. “Look, I’m not asking to go out and examine crime scenes. I just want to stay in the loop.” When Carey didn’t reply, he went for a lowball shot. “You can’t look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t take Romy’s case personally today.”

Carey grimaced. “Fine. You clear it with Danvers, and I’ll copy you on the case. For consultation only.”

“Done.”

“You say that now.”

“Danvers likes me.”

“At least someone around here does.”

Nate flipped him off. “You missed me, and you know it.”

“Like I miss last week’s heartburn. Don’t you have something to file?”

With a short bark of laughter, Nate got up. He bypassed his own desk and headed right for Lieutenant Danvers’s office.

Thirty minutes later, he had permission and files on the other three victims. He parked himself at his desk to go over them.

First one was two weeks after Spokes. Garrett Kincaid, twenty-four, killed at the scene.

No physical comparison to Spokes, other than being very thin and good-looking—at least from what he could see from the crime scene photos. No current residence, last known address a couch in a friend’s apartment. No citations or arrests in the state of Delaware, but he fit the profile of a prostitute. And it gave him a connection to Spokes.

The second, a month after Kincaid, was John Doe #1. He glanced at the photos and nearly dropped the file.

It’s Wily.

The pictures weren’t great, but Nate recognized the tattoo on his neck. A cat’s paw, claws leaving dragging marks down the skin from ear to shoulder. Beneath the closed lids were vividly green eyes that had been at once suspicious of Nate’s questions and desperate for any kind of gentle attention. The eyes of someone used to the uncertainty of life on the street.

Nate scanned the report. Brain trauma. Tapered object. Bruising near the genitals suggested sexual activity, but did not confirm assault. Same signs of being restrained. Age assumed between twenty and twenty-three.

“Beat it, asshole, this is my spot.”

“I’m not on the job tonight, friend. Looking for a buddy of mine. He hangs out here
sometimes.”

“Sometimes ain’t tonight, so move your ass before I remove it.”

He’d lived up to his street name, which it had cost Nate ten bucks to get. He hadn’t gotten much else out of Wily, except that he was an unapologetic whore who’d rather sell his ass than be what society expected. A familiar song.

So many details of his few hours on the streets prior to his own attack were fuzzy.

Specifics on faces and conversation faded in and out, and the doctors had said that was to be expected, given the trauma. But Nate hadn’t forgotten his encounter with Wily. Not a single moment of it.

Wily was the last person Nate had spoken to that night.

And now he was dead.

Tension made his temples throb. Nate dropped the file and rubbed above his ears. He shut his eyes, ignoring the constant noises around him. The footsteps and voices, the creak of chairs and bang of doors.

“You’re fucking tense, dude. And if you’re one of us, then I’m Justin Bieber.”

“You look more like Zac Efron, honey.”

“And I’m a better liar than you. There are easier ways to get laid, you know.”

With the headache still looming, Nate scanned the bullpen. Carey was nowhere in sight, so Nate called him.

“Carey.”

“It’s Wolf. I’ve got some information on John Doe #1.”

“I’m upstairs. I’ll be at your desk in five.”

Nate gazed at the photo of Wily, his thoughts and emotions all over the place. Nate had questioned Wily, established some kind of relationship and, six weeks later, Wily ended up in the morgue. As cold as the case Nate had been previously investigating.

He didn’t believe in coincidences that big.

“I tell myself that I’ve got a year of peace. It should help, but it doesn’t really.”

James kept himself from nodding or commiserating with Romy over the shitty outcome of Carlos’s trial. Romy had gotten news of the sentence four days ago, and it still hadn’t settled in and taken root. “From what I understand, Carlos’s deal was for the incident at the coffee shop last month, and not for his relationship with and subsequent abuse of you.”

Romy shrugged. “Yeah.”

“In terms of what he did to the coffee shop, how do you feel about the sentence?”

“I don’t know. He scared the shit out of me that morning. He broke the window because I was there. Ezra and Alessandro had to replace the window because of me.”

“The window had to be replaced because of Carlos, not you. You are not responsible for his actions, or for his fixation on you after you left his house. He’s the only one to blame.”

Romy chewed on that for a while. “Then I guess the sentence was fair. I wish it was longer, though. What happens in a year?”

“In a year, Carlos gets out.”

“Exactly. I mean, unless we somehow manage to get him on trial for all the shit he put me through, which Detective Carey thinks is unlikely. A year. And then he’s out again.”

“A year is a very long time, Romy. People change. Circumstances change. Can you say for certain that you’ll still be in Wilmington in a year?”

“I guess not for sure, but I don’t really see myself leaving. My family’s here.”

James smiled, glad to hear such an important thing stated so simply. Romy had found a place for himself with Brendan, Ezra and their friends. He had a support system—something Will Madden didn’t have. Something many of his younger clients didn’t have. “I know it will be difficult, but you can’t spend the next year wondering what happens next with Carlos. You need to live your life. Enjoy yourself. Be happy, Romy. I know you’re used to the worst-case scenario coming true, but there is also every chance that Carlos will get out in a year and you’ll never see or hear from him again.”

“That’s true.” Romy picked at the inseam of his jeans.

“Have you given a lot of thought to the future?”

“Not really. I mean, I know I don’t want to bus tables at Half Dozen for the rest of my life, but I’m not really good at anything except sex, and that’s not—” He stopped talking, his face going scarlet.

James pushed back his curiosity about how Romy was going to end his thought.
That’s
not going to happen. That’s not an option anymore. That’s not something I enjoy anymore.

He let Romy find his voice in his own time.

“Sometimes I really hate who I was,” Romy said, so quietly that James had to lean forward to hear. “I hate who I became and the things I did. But I also know that I survived the best way I knew how, and if I hadn’t survived I wouldn’t have found Brendan. If I wasn’t a survivor, I never would have made it out of Carlos’s house alive.”

Romy perked up, his expression clearing of all misery and leaving calm in its place. He’d come to a conclusion about himself, and it looked like a very good thing.

“Every choice we make,” James said, “and every path we take are what leads us to the points we’re at today. To the people we love and who love us. Sometimes those paths are horrific, but we wouldn’t be the people we are if we hadn’t traveled them.”

Nathan hadn’t deserved what he’d gone through, but he’d survived and come out a

stronger man. A man that James loved with his whole heart. He’d become the man he needed to be in order to love James. Nathan deserved better.

“Dr. Taggert?”

He snapped his head up, aware he’d zoned out in the middle of a session. “Yes?”

Romy’s lips quirked. “You weren’t just talking about me right then, were you?”

“It applies to all of us, but certainly some more than others. You may have chosen a path that led to Carlos’s door, but the moment he began chaining you up and keeping you prisoner, you fell off your path and onto his. You have to cope with what he did to you, but it doesn’t have to define you. Because that was him. Not you.”

“I know. I mean, I know in my head, right? The rest of me is still catching up.”

“You’ll get there. It’s only been four sessions, Romy. I’m not going anywhere.”

Romy’s smile was genuine and brilliant. “Thank you.”

Their session ended a few minutes later, and Romy was still smiling when he left. James told Gina to go home, since it was after six. He locked the front door behind her, then returned to his office to finish writing a few notes.

At six thirty-five, his phone buzzed with a text.

Nathan:
You done yet? Finished my appt.
His third appointment with Dr. Sands.

James: Almost done. Dinner?

Nathan: Lasagna in my freezer. OK?

James: Sounds good. Your place, see you @7.

Nathan: See you, hot stuff.

James laughed at the compliment. They’d managed to squeak out time together every night this week. James was glad they’d fallen back into their usual selves. Nathan didn’t bring up the whiskey again, and he was grateful. Nathan was still doing occasional surveillance on James’s mom, but so far so good. Their biggest issue this week was whose place they’d stay at overnight.

He loved seeing Nathan’s deodorant on his bathroom sink.

Halfway to Nathan’s house, his phone rang with Kate Alden’s tone. “Dr. Taggert.”

“It’s Will Madden,” she said without a greeting.

His heart tripped. “What happened?”

“His foster mother found him passed out in his room. He’s in the emergency room right now. She thinks he hasn’t been eating again.”

“Shit. Are the doctors doing another feeding tube?”

“I don’t know. I just got the call myself, so I’m not there yet.”

“I’m on my way.”

James found a parking lot to idle in so he could send a text to Nathan.
Emergency with
client. Serious. Sorry but have to miss dinner. Love you.

He gave the reply sixty seconds, then got back on the road, altering his route for the hospital. A few minutes later, Nathan responded.