by Karen Cimms
In the meantime, he’d at least show her he was trying. He unscrewed the cap on a bottle of Tanqueray and began to pour. Even the fumes were intoxicating.
His eyes dampened, but as much as he hated doing this, he knew he wasn’t getting misty over his disappearing liquor supply. He’d run so far and so fast from his roots, it surprised him to realize he hadn’t escaped them at all. He was no better than either of his parents: a lying, manipulative mother and a violent drunk of a father. His only saving grace was that he’d never laid a hand on his wife or kids.
But he’d left it up to Katie to create his idea of the perfect family, with little to no effort on his part. There was more to being a good husband and father than not knocking his wife’s teeth loose or putting his kid in the hospital. But beyond that, he hadn’t done much better. In trying to follow his dream, he’d become unreliable and selfish. There were times when he’d made good money and others when he had to scramble to find work. His career had been filled with so many spectacular highs and lows.
And there was only one way he knew how to ride that roller coaster. When things were good, he had an excuse to party and celebrate. When they were bad, he needed to dull the frustration.
Either way, he’d been checking out on what was important for years. But this time, he’d really fucked up, and he wasn’t sure he could fix it. After the highest high and lowest low of his career in the span of less than twenty-four hours, he may have destroyed what was most important to him.
To top it all off, Katie really thought he’d forgotten her birthday. He hadn’t. He’d spent almost a thousand bucks on a bracelet that he’d never had a chance to give her. It was still in the bottom of his duffle bag.
Two bottles of Grey Goose were next. Why the hell had he bought the expensive stuff?
As he poured, he pictured Kate dressed for her birthday dinner. Even sleepy, her hair mussed and her makeup smudged, she was the best thing he’d seen since he’d walked out of their kitchen nine weeks earlier. Thinking about her in that filthy jail waiting room made it a little easier to pour the next bottle down the drain.
He set aside a couple of bottles of Kate’s expensive liqueurs—surely he could keep his hands off those—and continued carrying out his self-imposed sentence. When he got to the forty-dollar bottle of Jack Daniels Single Barrel that Devin had given him for his birthday, his heart nearly broke. There was a reason he’d left this one for last. He opened the bottle and breathed deeply. His mouth watered. He tipped it but stopped as soon as the first drop hit the sink.
He tilted the bottle again. The whiskey rolled toward the neck. Just a little more. His arm hovered, his hand shook.
He lowered the bottle. He couldn’t do it. He listed in his head all the reasons not to dump it: It was a gift. It was wasteful. If he only had a little now and then, it wouldn’t be a big deal. He didn’t have a drinking problem. It was drugs that had gotten him in the most trouble, and he could stop that shit any time; he just used them to party or take the edge off before a gig. He didn’t need them.
He was in control.
To prove it, he pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with ice. He poured. Not too much. Two inches. That was enough, and really, the ice made it look like a lot more. He swirled the amber liquid a few times, chilling it, and took a sip. It trickled down his throat, the icy burn slipping through the center of his chest and fading into the recesses of his stomach.
He could do this. It was just a matter of knowing when to stop.
Chapter Fifteen
A cab ride anywhere in Manhattan during rush hour was a fool’s adventure. The trip from Joey’s loft to Mercy West was only about ten blocks, but Kate had hailed a cab, praying it would get her there faster. Just a couple of blocks from the hospital at a standstill on Broadway, she opted to run the rest of the way. She paid the driver and jumped out, nearly getting hit by another cab trying to make a new path through the gridlock.
She kicked off her heels, snatched them up and ran barefoot through the streets of lower Manhattan. At the emergency room, she slipped them back on and waited for a clerk.
“I got a call that my friend was brought in.” She struggled to catch her breath. “Joey Buccacino.”
The woman keyed some information into the computer. “I’m sorry. We can only give information to family.”
“We’re family. I’m his only family. Look.” Kate’s voice was rising. “Obviously you have my name because someone called me. I’m his emergency contact. Please tell me where he is!”
“Have a seat. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Can you at least tell me what happened?”
“Ma’am. Have a seat. I’ll see what I can do.”
Kate slipped into a seat near the front desk to ensure she wouldn’t be easily forgotten, and pulled out her cell phone. Before she could reconsider, her fingers were flying over the keyboard: “Joey at Mercy West. No one telling me anything.”
A few minutes later, her phone vibrated.
“On my way.”
She palmed the phone and pressed it to her chest. Billy had disappointed her over and over. Yet despite the fact that she’d ordered him out of their home and not spoken to him for over a week, he hadn’t even asked what she wanted of him. He was on his way.
Of course, knowing Joey, he could have fainted because he cut himself. She stifled a nervous giggle. It’s not like it hadn’t happened before. Maybe she should tell Billy to wait, in case it turned out to be something silly. Then again, if Joey were able, he’d have called her himself.
Fear gnawed at her belly, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.
She sent Billy another message. “How?”
A few seconds later: “Giving Thompson kid $100 to drive me.”
The Thompson kid? That meant Billy was at home. She started to send him the heart emoji but decided against it. Instead, she just typed “Thanks,” then added one more word: “Scared.”
The wait was nerve-wracking, especially not knowing anything. Anxiety had her wanting to pace the waiting room, but she was too afraid to leave her seat, afraid they’d come looking for her and she would miss them. Instead, she remained seated, swinging her leg frantically.
She was about to text the location of the hospital to Billy when a man walked up and held out his hand. A. Patel, MD was embroidered on the left side of his white coat.
“Can you come with me, Mrs. Donaldson?”
Kate followed him into a small office near the waiting room. He closed the door and invited her to sit down.
“This is highly irregular, but looking at Mr. Buccacino’s cell phone, we see he has indicated you as the first contact in case of emergency. Given there are no other contacts or family members highlighted, I assume you would be the proper person—the only person—we have available to discuss his condition.”
He continued speaking, but her mind stumbled over the next thing he said. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I said Mr. Buccacino suffered several bullet wounds.”
“I don’t understand. Bullet wounds. How? Where?” Her fingers gripped and twisted the soft chiffon fabric of her dress. The dress Joey had bought her to wear to the restaurant opening. The one he was supposed to be taking her to. Right now. She wanted to tell the doctor to cut the crap and let Joey know they were going to be late.
Trying to stay in the moment, she focused on the doctor’s eyes. Pale green, set under thick white brows, startling compared to the caramel color of his skin. A random smattering of dark, raised freckles dotted his nose and cheeks.
He caught on that she was having trouble following him and began to speak as if she had some type of mental impairment. “I don’t have all the details, but it appears to have been a robbery. Mr. Buccacino was found in an alley behind a boutique in Soho. He was shot three times, twice in the chest and once in his left leg.”
It felt as if he had reached inside her chest and was squeezing her heart and lungs.
&n
bsp; “Are you all right?”
Of course she wasn’t all right. She nodded anyway.
“Mr. Buccacino lost a lot of blood before they found him. The bullets were fired at close range, and they did a lot of damage.”
She began to rock.
“He’s still in surgery, but it is very serious. I can take you up to the ICU trauma unit where they’ll bring him after surgery. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there.”
Dazed, Kate followed him down the hall and into an elevator. When the doors opened, he led her past a large waiting room to a much smaller room. Unlike the harsh lighting and plastic chairs in the first room, it was comfortably furnished. There was a small sofa and upholstered chairs, end tables. Lamps bathed the room in warm light.
She stumbled as she backed away.
“This is where you take people to tell them someone died, isn’t it?”
He didn’t deny what she’d asked. “Please. I think you’ll be more comfortable here. There’s an officer in the hospital, and I’m sure he’ll want to speak with you. There will be fewer distractions here.”
He motioned for her to sit and asked if he could get her something to drink. She shook her head and chose a chair nearest the door.
After he left, she fired off another text.
“Where are you?”
“On my way. Any news?”
“Bad.”
A few minutes ticked by.
“How bad?”
How could she write in a text message that the best friend she’s ever had, would ever have, could be dying? If she wrote it, it would be real. She couldn’t simply push delete to make it go away.
She searched the emoji on her phone. When she found the one resembling a broken heart, she pushed send.
A few seconds later: “I’m sorry.”
She wanted to text him back and demand he not say that—not yet—but she couldn’t. She didn’t have the strength to be confrontational. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked. It was a habit of self-soothing she’d developed as a child, one she was frequently scolded for, which only made the desire stronger. There was no one to tell her to stop, and she needed the comfort it gave her.
She had no idea how long she sat there—twenty minutes, a half hour, maybe longer. It seemed like an eternity.
“Mrs. Donaldson?”
Two men stood in the doorway. Sport coats, ties. Definitely not doctors.
“I’m Lieutenant Burke, this is Detective Gullickson. We’re with the sixth precinct. We have some questions you may be able to help us with. We’ll try to answer any questions you might have, if we can.”
The lieutenant pulled a notebook from his pocket and began to read. “At 15:37 hours, we got a call for a man with multiple gunshot wounds in an alley near Broome and Watts streets.”
“He has a shop there.” Kate’s voice was barely audible. “It’s new.” She counted on her fingers. Noon was twelve. Then thirteen, fourteen. Fifteen would be three o’clock. So at 3:37. What had she been doing at 3:37? Why didn’t he just say 3:37?
“He had no identification on him, but the people in the shop, the person who found him, told us who he was.”
A loophole! She became animated. “Maybe they were wrong. Maybe it’s not him. You don’t know for sure, right?”
The officers exchanged glances.
“One of his employees”—Lt. Burke flipped back a few pages in his notebook—“a Ginger Lane, identified the victim as Joey Buccacino.”
The loophole vanished. Ginger had worked for Joey for several years. Kate’s eyes fell to a stain in the carpet near the detective’s foot.
“Ms. Lane wasn’t sure how long he’d been gone or why he stepped into the alley. His cell phone was on his desk. He had no wallet, and it wasn’t inside the shop. We believe it was a robbery.”
Kate couldn’t speak. Nodding was also difficult.
Lt. Burke continued. “He had nothing of value on him. Did he normally wear jewelry? A ring? Cuff links?”
None of this was important. All that mattered was that they fix him. “I don’t know. I can’t think.” She started rocking again.
Detective Gullickson pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of her. “Mrs. Donaldson? If you can identify any jewelry or anything else that might have been stolen, when the perp tries to fence it, it’ll be a lot easier for us to track down the sonofabitch who did this. Do you understand?”
Kate met the detective’s eyes and winced; they were the same soft gray as Joey’s.
She pictured Joey leaving the loft that morning. He’d been wearing a purple houndstooth blazer, a charcoal gray vest, and a pink patterned tie. There was a matching handkerchief in his breast pocket.
“He has a ring he wears on his right hand, ring finger. I think it’s platinum. Looks like a wedding ring. I could probably draw it. He never took that off. If he’s not wearing it, it was stolen.”
The lieutenant made notes as she spoke.
“Anything else?” Detective Gullickson asked.
She nodded. “Cuff links. Silver cylinders with purple enamel stripes.”
Lt. Burke nodded. “This is good.”
Trying to picture Joey made her want to cry.
“A TAG Heuer watch. Polished steel. I know he had that on this morning. I remember him looking at it when he was leaving, to remind me what time to be ready. We’re supposed to be . . .”
She took a few deep breaths.
“Is there anything else?” the detective asked.
Meeting the detective’s eyes, she shook her head. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
Chapter Sixteen
It was quiet in the ICU waiting room. People sat alone, separated by a chair or two, or gathered in small groups of two and three. Billy scanned the room. No Katie. Frustrated, he ran his hand through his hair. The nurse had said she was in the waiting room. He continued down the hall. Maybe there was another waiting room somewhere.
He was about to ask when he saw her. Her head was lowered, her hair loose, a shiny, chestnut curtain making it difficult to see her face, but he’d know her anywhere. A man sat in front of her, head bent to her level.
“Excuse me.” Billy tried to shoulder past the man standing in the doorway, but the gorilla held out his arm, blocking him from entering the room.
“Not now. There’s a waiting room down the hall.” His voice carried a warning note, one Billy had no intention of heeding.
“Katie.”
Her head jerked up, and the look on her face just about tore his heart in two. The dude in the doorway stepped aside to let Billy pass, while his buddy stood and pulled the chair away. Billy dropped to his knees in its place and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Are you okay?”
She shook her head.
“Come here.” He guided her from the chair to a nearby sofa, then sat beside her, pulling her close against him.
With Kate’s body settled against his, Billy directed his attention to the two men. Short hair, shiny shoes, jaded expressions. Cops, most likely.
“I’m her husband. What the hell’s goin’ on?”
Turned out they were cops. NYPD. The one who’d been talking to Kate, a lieutenant, introduced himself and his partner, then for Billy’s benefit, he ran down what they’d already told her. Once he’d finished, he held out a card. Kate stared as if she hadn’t a clue what to do with it. Billy took it and tucked it into his pocket.
“Just give us a call if you have any questions or remember anything of significance.”
As they were leaving, the officer by the door spoke. “We’ll do our best, Mrs. Donaldson, but if this was just a case of your friend being in the wrong place at the wrong time and we don’t come up with any witnesses, it’s going to be difficult to find whoever did this.”
Kate continued staring after the officers left, while Billy tried to process what had happened.
Joey? Shot? It made no sense. There was no way in hell he would’ve tussled wi
th someone trying to take his wallet. Joey was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them.
Kate took a deep, shaky breath.
“Babe, are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think I’m in shock.”
Billy tightened his hold and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I’ve got you.”
The tension in her body unspooled, as if she’d been waiting for assurance that he was truly there for her.
They sat in silence, insulated from the world while the trauma unit hummed with activity just outside the door.
“What’s this?” Kate ran a finger over the raised, blistered edges of the Celtic symbol he’d recently had tattooed where his wedding ring should be. “You stopped wearing your ring?”
“Just till it heals.” He spread his fingers wider, tilting his hand so she could see her name written in script on the inside of his finger. He turned his hand again so she could see the words Always and Forever tattooed on the other side nearest his pinkie.
He maneuvered his body until his eyes met hers. “Because it is forever.”
She traced the words with the tip of her pinky. “Every time we fight, you get another tattoo. You’re a walking testament to marital discord.”
“It was more than a fight this time, Katie.”
Her eyes fell to the three Japanese symbols tattooed on the inside of his wrist: Harmony, tranquility, family. A reminder of another time when he’d lost his temper, only that time he’d walked out on Kate. His body was inked with a roadmap of emotions, reminders to keep himself in check.
Her fingers traveled to another tattoo, script that started at the first joint of his right thumb and ran along the edge of his hand and around his wrist.
“You got this right after Devin was born. I don’t remember any fight.”
As part of his wedding vows, he had quoted from the poet Pedro Calderón de la Barca: “When love is not madness, it is not love.” On his hand was inked what he’d said after reciting that quote and the date of their wedding: You are my madness and my love—May 20, 1989.
