Command: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World)

by Amélie S. Duncan

  I crossed into the correctional facility. When I arrived, I greeted Liv, who recently transferred from our department dispatch to the lockup’s security desk. “I’m here to see Shana Callahan. How’s she doing?”

  She shrugged. “Freaked. We placed her in one of the suicide-watch cells at the end. They’re bigger, and we will have to keep an eye on her for safety. Not because she’s suicidal, but because—”

  “I understand,” I said. Even though the judge abandoned her there for the weekend, Shana would receive certain privileges.

  “Do you want to talk to her in the quad?”

  I shook my head. “No. Do me a favor and don’t tell her it’s me.”

  I wanted to catch Shana off guard. See if her reaction to me would be different than the open-armed hug from a few hours ago. What would her sober response be? I paused a cell back from the one they placed her in.

  Through the bars, she looked small in the blue jumpsuit. Her long auburn, maroon, and blonde hair appeared lank and damp, covering her shoulders. She sat expectantly, perched on the edge of the thin mattress pad on the metal grate next to the toilet. Her hands rubbed up and down her arms. Nervous or cold?

  Jails were a shitty place to be, but that was the point. Comforts were for the free, and therefore, no one should ever want to be there.

  I walked closer and stood in front of her cell. My chest went tight when our eyes met. Her eyes were dull and puffy with dark rings around them. She’d been crying. Wasn’t surprised. But was it more? More drugs? Lack of sleep? I used to be able to read her, but the broken girl in front of me wasn’t that girl anymore. She’d changed. The girl I knew, who had been joined at the hip with Jackson and me, had been ready to leap out of trees without looking for the landing. The woman I still compared to all others because she was not only beautiful but a spitfire. The spark she had was gone. That broke apart the space inside my heart where I kept her. Where I yearned and wished for the woman I’d loved all my life.

  She dropped her head and folded her arms.

  “Hello, Shana.”

  She didn’t say a word.

  “I bet you’re sober now, huh? Feeling showered and refreshed,” I taunted to get her to talk to me. My Shadow would have taken the bait.

  She twisted her mouth. “There’s nothing like having a flashlight shined up my ass to ruin a buzz. Is that what you want to hear? That I’m scared straight now?”

  I scoffed. “You want a pity party? We’re all out of them here. That’s what happens when you get caught with a purse full of drugs.”

  “A purse full? Those drugs were planted on me. If you’re done poking the bear with a stick, you can go now.” She turned her head to face the cement wall.

  I grunted and stayed put. “In jail, you don’t get to call the shots. Hell, I might stay here all night if I feel like it.”

  “Do whatever you want, Officer Donleavy,” she drawled.

  “You claim the drugs are not yours, then call your dad and get out. Stop being so fucking stubborn and fix this shit.”

  “Fix the mess you and your partner got me in? I don’t need a lawyer because the drugs weren’t mine. You will have to release me . . . come Monday.” She scratched the skin of her arms red with her nails.

  “What’s wrong with your arms?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.

  “You drugged yourself. We didn’t plant drugs in your bag. We arrested you because that’s our job. The only person I feel sorry for is Coach Pam. She lost her daughter Bridget tonight.”

  Her brows rose. “What do you mean?”

  “Bridget Birks died in that club tonight.”

  “Oh my God, Bridget . . . Pam’s Bridget?” I nodded and she choked, covering her mouth.

  I gave Shana a few moments to let the reality of the situation sink in. Bridget appeared to have overdosed, but I’d wait for the autopsy report to confirm that. Shana seemed shocked by the news; tears fell from her eyes. She rarely cried, and it pained me to see her cry now.

  “Tell me something about what’s going on with you,” I said, gentling my tone.

  She wiped her face on the T-shirt and cleared her throat. “I didn’t know about Bridget. I know you think I’m a fuck-up. I am. I took the drugs, but someone planted the pack in my bag. I’m no dealer. I lived in LA and had my own company. You must have checked my record by now, and it’s hardly the profile of Scarface. I wouldn’t begin to know how to sell. I’ve no priors. No drug convictions.”

  I hadn’t checked her police history yet. Most people hired to sell were chosen because they had no convictions, but I didn’t want to give her more worries now that she spoke to me straight. Still, I’d compare what she said in her statement to check for lies. “How can I help you?”

  She hesitated for a few moments, then shook her head. “We’re not friends.”

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t help you. Tell me what happened tonight. Go over everything with me—”

  “You arrest me and tell me we’re not friends. But you show up to help me? Just leave,” she croaked.

  She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself. Something she used to do a lot after Jackson died. One time she told me when she hugged herself like that, she could feel him.

  “I’d never leave . . . when you need help, Shana.” Hell, I’d never leave her ever, like she’d done me.

  Her tough-chick veil slipped more, and the softer woman I once knew well peered through. She was scared, alone, and just knowing that made my heart burn. I wanted to comfort her, chase that hollow look from her beautiful face. But this wasn’t a lover’s reunion. The unsettled scars of the love we once shared filled the space. What remained unsaid, mixed up with the pain, jammed the air.

  “I think it’s better if you and I leave each other alone,” she whispered.

  “Who said you had a say in what I do with you? I command, you follow. Got that?” I half-joked with her.

  Shana cracked a smile before blanking her expression. Behind her wall, I glimpsed the woman I remembered and missed. Even so, I had to remind myself she wasn’t staying here.

  She didn’t come back to me. Why did she come back?

  I waited, but she didn’t speak another word. After ten minutes I decided to leave the questions for another day. “I’ll give you some time to think.”

  I left her with that and walked back to the security desk. There, I had to wait for Liv to return from her checks to speak with her again.

  “Hey, could you do me a favor?” I asked with a smile.

  “I already let you chat with Shana Callahan after hours. You want more, you’ll need to negotiate,” she teased.

  I grinned. “Okay. Shana hyperventilates when she panics. Could you look out for her and make sure, if she can’t regain control of herself, a doctor comes to check on her?”

  “So, you want Shana to get babied for cellitis? All inmates go through growing pains in lockup. I’ll help during my shift, but I’m off on Sundays. We have new hires here. I could put in a word to their supervisors . . . for Maeve’s soda bread?”

  My sister, Maeve, was the best cook in town, besides working as a pediatric nurse. We both knew Maeve would bake for her without asking a favor. Still, I held out my hand, and we shook on it. “Deal.”

  Liv could help keep Shana protected, but I made a note to myself to stop by and talk to the guards on Sunday too. I couldn’t protect her or stop all the bad from happening to her in jail. I could make them think twice. If word reached me or my dad, who shared a close friendship with the police chief, their job would be in jeopardy.

  After I left the correctional center, I returned to the precinct and my desk to finish my report. I checked Shana’s intake and record. She had parking tickets, but nothing for drugs. In her statement, she admitted to taking a mood stabilizer, alcohol, ecstasy, and marijuana, but nothing else. We’d taken saliva, blood, and urine for testing and had to wait for the results. Her bag had prescription medications with her name on them.
The content was out-of-date speed, pain relievers, and anti-depressives—typical Dr. Feelgood shit for the careful addict. The drugs found in the pack were for hardcore abusers: heroin, meth, and cocaine. Toxicology reports would take time if the prosecution sought to link Bridget’s drugs to the package. The bottom line was that the content didn’t fit or match anything in her bag. However, the amount weighed a little over three point five grams, which meant she wouldn’t walk away from this without a bail hearing. Jail time, if found guilty down the road.

  I finished my report but couldn’t bring myself to go home to my empty house yet.

  I could have walked, but I took my ’69 Pontiac Trans Am over to Hooligan’s Bar. Going there felt more like putting on a worn sweater—it went on smooth and fit right every time.

  Everyone knew your name and business but minded their own. The drinks were good. They also had darts, pool, card games, and sports on flat-screens running twenty-four/seven to fill your time. Like any bar, there were fights and hookups. I’d had a few of my own. But what happened there stayed there. If you broke the code, you’d find your ass on the outside, and being on the outs as a cop would end your career fast.

  The bartender came for my order, the second-best fish and chips in the city. Maeve’s cooking remained number one. With a cold beer in hand, I approached the counter, taking the padded stool next to a guy named Wes Winters, who tried to chat up a tube-topped, tanned blonde on the other side of him. She took the free drink he offered and twitched her ass back to sit with her friends.

  “You’re better coming than going anyway, darling. Flat ass.”

  He said the last bit louder than the jukebox music—an insult to save face. Most of us had seen him give plenty lately.

  She sent him the finger, and the other women at the table flung a few “assholes” his way too. The show ended, and my friend and fellow officer, Grant Malone, came and stood by Wes’s now vacant seat.

  “How you doing?” he asked.

  “Same stuff,” I said, and that was about as far as Grant wanted to get into work at the bar, like most of us. “Saw your picks for fantasy baseball. You really don’t want to win this year.”

  “I’ll win with my picks and stay loyal to your old team,” he pointed out.

  I laughed. “Hey, I’m loyal, but I also enjoy taking all your money.”

  “The San Francisco Giants have Thompson from the Astros,” Grant added, putting all his faith in their new pitcher.

  I shrugged. “Bring it. I’m with the Dodgers all the way to your bank. But if I lose, and that’s a big if, because the Dodgers passed on Pete Goode, we’ll crush you in family football.”

  Our sports rivalry extended to an annual Donleavys vs. Malones family summer football tournament. He and his two brothers versus my brother Aidan, Maeve, and me; we’re both damn scrappy.

  “Aidan’s on his way back to town?” he asked.

  I nodded my head. “Not yet, he’s due back soon from Afghanistan.”

  Grant’s wife, Emerson, came up to him, and all his attention shifted to her. She touched his waist, and he leaned over and whispered something soft and kissed her lips. He was her touchstone, and just by contacting, they synced. Moments passed, and they continued to gaze into each other’s eyes and smile. I didn’t want to interrupt them or stay and watch. But I also didn’t want to be rude.

  “Hello, Emerson. Maeve says hi.”

  “Tell her to come by with her shepherd’s pie,” Emerson said, and Grant and I both smiled at that.

  I said goodbye and watched them go to their table. Grant had what I wanted: a good woman who loved him. He’d become an all-in family man with her—focused and present. Most couldn’t manage cop life for the long haul. This was especially so if she or he worked on the beat—something I’d already grown tired of doing every day.

  I ate at home, then walked down the block to Maeve’s house. Most of us who grew up in Sunnyville stayed for our families. Lucky for me, I not only received a second family but a good one, after the Donleavys adopted me. They already had two children of their own, Maeve and Aidan. I wasn’t a baby either, and had been passed around to a few homes and returned back to my mom before going home with them. The day I arrived and to this very day, they never called me anything but a Donleavy son and brother. I was theirs forever.

  Maeve had left her screen door open, and I walked in. She, like me, worked odd hours. At the hospital she often needed to unwind after a late night. She frequently came to my place or I’d go to hers. The smell of her cooking made my mouth water, and I regretted stopping at Hooligan’s for food. She had her piping bag in her hands, frosting a cake that looked like a hospital.

  “Who is that for?” I asked.

  “One of the kids who’s going home tomorrow.”

  Typical Maeve, always doing something nice for someone else.

  I turned down the risotto she had already made but filled a container to take home.

  While I loaded enough for more than a meal, she filled me in on her work at the hospital. She used conversation gymnastics to steer the subject to a lady she wanted me to date.

  “Tabitha is new in town. She’s a teacher at the Montessori school—”

  “No hippy-dippy types.” I pushed her phone away. She had whipped it out to show me her photo. “I don’t want someone preaching to me about how I should live.”

  “Oh, come on. Tabitha’s pretty. Here, look.”

  She showed me a picture. Okay. She was a pretty brunette with big green eyes and full, sensual lips. Promising. The second photo showed a full-body image of her in a floral, puffy-sleeved, calf-length dress. Old photo? Nope. I spotted the sign of McGregor’s. I took Maeve’s phone and flipped through the rest she’d posted on a match dating app. No boobs or ass shots. Just like I thought. Too uptight.

  I handed the phone back. “I don’t have time to date.”

  “Says a guy hanging out at his sister’s house at . . . one a.m.?” she grumbled, eyeing her watch. “You have time for that airline stewardess, Melody.”

  I smirked. “Yeah. I have time for sex. Melody’s only when she’s on the West Coast, which is not often enough.”

  “See? You need someone in town. You can build something real with a woman like Tabitha.”

  Sure, I wanted a relationship, but I wanted sex too. Not after spending weeks dating. That was what Tinder was invented for, and where I had my profile. I wasn’t on the dating website Maeve showed me. And calf-length-dress-Tabitha’s photos told me she wouldn’t start where I wanted.

  I didn’t need to figure out compatibility with Shana. I’d known her most of my life. I know her body very well too. Shit. I was back to thinking about her again, which, when I considered how long it took me to get over her, made sense. Maeve had suggested Shana was the reason I hadn’t found a woman to settle down with, but I was only twenty-six. Way too early. Yet, Shana breezed back into town, and already I felt that innate longing for her. That I can’t entertain.

  I went to Maeve’s fridge and took a water. “I’ll find my own dates, thank you. Or did you already tell Tabitha yes for me?”

  Her defective poker-face fell apart instantly, and she blushed.

  “Hell no. Come on, Maeve.”

  “Maybe a drink at McGregor’s? Think about it . . .”

  “I already did, and, no.”

  That ended that conversation for the moment, but then she rolled into another topic to pressure me about. She never stopped meddling. And I loved her dearly despite that.

  “Did you tell Dad you’re leaving the force?” she asked.

  Maeve knew what I really wanted to do. I loved being a cop, but police work never finished at the end of the day. Working as a cop took over all parts of your life with little power as a patrolman. Lasting change only happened when you advanced higher up on the chain of command, and that was why I planned to study in the San Francisco Juris Doctor program. Another step toward my goal of becoming a district attorney. A far cry from pro ball, but pol
icing changed me. I wanted to bring the cases that mattered to justice, protect lives, and ultimately make us all safer. But Dad asked me to join because they were short-staffed. I wouldn’t let him down.

  I shook my head. “Dad needs my help. I’ll go next year.”

  “That’s what you said last year. Before you know it, you’ll be a sergeant and never get to do what you really want.”

  I scoffed. “Says the woman who really wants to be a chef.”

  She went back to her cake, adding little edible nurses and doctors. “I cook to unwind from my job. I do it for fun. Most restaurants fail. I’m all for stability.”

  “So am I,” I said, and that ended that subject. To break our silence, I brought up Shana and gave Maeve a short version of what happened.

  “Drugs? Oh, no.” She frowned. “You know, I’ve worried so much about her over the years. Losing a twin . . . God, I’d find it hard enough if I lost you or Aidan. I know people change, but you know Shana. Well . . . knew Shana. Do you really think she’s dealing?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t, but I don’t want to believe Shana would. She wasn’t doing herself any favors by being a smart-ass to me.”

  “She’s probably scared and feeling betrayed. You, Jackson, and Shana were inseparable. You know her. She may have gone wild in high school—”

  “I haven’t forgotten. And as you know, I carried her ass home or covered for Jackson when he did something dangerous like planking, jumping off cliffs, or whatever shit popped in his head to try. Shana’s been messed up for a while. When does she stop getting rescued and start taking some responsibility?”

  Maeve didn’t have a comeback for that.

  During the first five years of my life, I’d wondered if my addicted mom would remember to feed me that day or if I’d have to go through my neighbor’s garbage. Shana and Jackson had everything, including a big house with a yard and swimming pool. They had both parents in their home as well as money and connections. They received more chances to screw up than most could afford. Jackson always pushed the envelope, and one day it caught up to him. I loved Jack like a brother, but that was the truth. Shana didn’t start out reckless. That had always been Jackson’s place. After he died, she took over and became careless, maybe even more so.