Falling Under

by Lisa Renee Jones

“What?” he asks, and I feel his attention on me now, not the doors.

  I glance over at him. “I just want you to know that I know you’d take a bullet for me and it’s a mutual thing. I’ve got your back, too.”

  “I don’t want you to take a bullet for me, Jewel. I protect you. You don’t protect me.”

  “Sorry, Jacob. That’s just not how this works. And I don’t want you to take a bullet for me, either. But there is something about knowing that the person by your side would.”

  The elevator dings and I can feel him fighting an urge to pull me close. “We’re going to talk about this conversation later,” he says, his tone hard, something unreadable in his eyes.

  “Talk all you want,” I say. “Conversation won’t change who I am or what I believe.”

  The doors finally open and I step forward, only to have Jacob catch my arm. “Ladies don’t go first into danger.”

  “I’m a—”

  “Don’t say detective,” he says. “Because that conversation, as you say, changes nothing.” He pulls me behind him.

  I grimace but he’s already stepping into the hallway, blocking my path several beats, giving me space to join him, and motioning me forward.

  Once I’m at his side, he points to the hallway several feet ahead, and right. We walk in that direction and, of course, he rounds the corner first before we continue on toward Smith’s office. We locate the proper room number to find the office door cracked open. Instinct has my hand going to my weapon, and Jacob does the same. We glance at each other and give a ready nod.

  Both of us flatten on the wall. “Hello?” I call out, while Jacob kicks open the door and reclaims his spot out of the line of sight. “Hello?!” I call out again, easing around the doorframe just enough to get a visual that sets my heart to racing. Not only is a man that I assume to be Gerome lying on the floor in a pool of blood, Rodriquez is next to him and he’s not moving. “Rodriquez!” I shout. “Rodriquez, damn it, answer me!”

  He doesn’t move and I share a look with Jacob, who motions to the door, a moment before he enters, his weapon ahead of him, scanning left and right. “Don’t touch anything,” I order, trusting him to cover me as I make a beeline for Rodriquez, and the bullet hole I spot between Gerome’s eyes does not make me hopeful. But as I squat down in a blood-free zone next to Rodriquez, hope forms with the absence of an obvious injury anywhere on his body. I press my fingers to his neck, but there is no pulse to be found. “Damn it,” I murmur, moving my fingers and trying again. “He’s dead!” I call out and then murmur again, “Damn it, he’s dead.”

  “We’re clear,” Jacob calls out, while I frown at the sight of a piece of paper lying on top of Rodriquez’s legs. I scoot down in that direction to find handwriting that reads: I’m sorry, Jewel. He knew things you just weren’t ready to know. If you were, you'd have seen what I already showed you

  My spine stiffens with the words “weren’t ready.”

  “Jacob!” I call out, reaching in my bag for gloves.

  “I’m here,” Jacob says, kneeling beside me, and the instant his gaze hits the note, he curses. “Is that the Rodriquez’s writing?”

  “Yes.”

  “‘Not ready’? Either Rodriquez is your slayer, or this isn’t a murder/suicide as that note suggests. It’s murder, and that’s a message to you.”

  “He’s not the slayer,” I say, my gut screaming with that reply. “And the slayer is too smart to believe I’d believe that.” I rotate to face him, pulling on my gloves. “I need to hear that my father is okay. Please call Savage while I’m calling this in.” I hand him a pair of gloves. “You need to wear these.”

  He takes them and grabs my hand a moment. “Your father is safe, but I’ll go call and check in with Savage. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m always okay at a crime scene. I have to be.”

  He studies me a moment in which I’m certain he wants to point out that this isn’t a normal crime scene, but he doesn’t. All he says is, “I’ll be back,” before he pushes to his feet and walks toward the door.

  I stand up and grab my phone, connecting to the station, scanning the few pieces of furniture in the room. A desk. A credenza. Two chairs. “This is Detective Carpenter,” I say when the line is answered. “I have a double homicide with a detective involved and dead.” I answer a series of questions, and give them the address, before standing up and dialing the Lieutenant, scanning around the bodies.

  “Detective,” he says. “If this is about rotation—”

  “Rodriquez is dead. I’m at the scene.”

  “Holy fuck. Give me the address. I’m walking toward the exit now to come to you.”

  I give him the address. “It’s Gerome Smith’s office.” And because I know his next questions before he asks them, I supply details. “I’m not sure if Gerome was an informant or what exactly. He was going to meet him and asked me to back him up.”

  “And Gerome killed him,” he assumes.

  “No,” I say. “He and Gerome are both dead. It looks like a murder/suicide with Rodriquez as the trigger. Without forensic input to confirm, it appears he may have shot Gerome and took some sort of toxin, which of course, will take weeks to confirm.”

  He’s silent a beat. “Did he do it?” he asks gravely.

  “My professional opinion is no. It’s a set-up.”

  “Facts,” he orders. “Back that up. Tell me what you do know.”

  I give him the rundown on Gerome and the theories I’d discussed with Jacob. “You’re telling me that Rodriquez might have been dirty?”

  “I’m telling you that I want this case and that I have to use that as a working hypothesis.”

  “That hypothesis,” he argues rightfully, “supports a murder/suicide.”

  “I know that,” I say. “But it wasn’t.”

  “Don’t make me work for this Carpenter,” he snaps. “Back it up.”

  “He left a note addressed to me and while it’s his handwriting, it reads like something my stalker would write.”

  “Okay. I am going to put that bombshell aside because your head is fucked by this stalker. Rodriquez called you for back up and the note was addressed to you. That sounds like he, himself, planned it.”

  “With all due respect,” I bite out, “My head is not fucked up, Lieutenant.”

  “Why did he call you, of all people, to back him up?” he demands.

  “He told me that Gerome was ‘the guy’ to go to hide a body. He wouldn’t tell me more but as I think this through, I assume Rodriguez had something on the guy and was using him to solve cases. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Sirens sound in the near distance. “Deal with the forensic team,” he says. “Check any cameras. I’ll be there in fifteen.” He hangs up and I shove my phone inside my bag, and study the body, looking for signs of trauma that just don’t exist.

  “Your father’s fine,” Jacob says, rejoining me. “And Savage is going to stay the night in his apartment with him.” He glances down at the body, tilting his head to the side, and then looking at me again. “No bullet wound?”

  “No,” I say. “No obvious trauma at all. Which means—”

  “Pills or poison,” he supplies. “Which one could reason, was because he was afraid to pull the trigger on himself.”

  “No,” I say, rejecting that idea. “This is no murder/suicide, but it was made to look like one. And if the forensics agree, I’m going to have a hard time proving otherwise. I will, though. I will prove it and I will get him. I know this was the slayer.”

  “I don’t disagree,” Jacob say, “but the first question we have to ask is, to what end game?”

  When one of our own dies, the city takes notice, and an army of law enforcement sweep down on the murder scene at Gerome’s office. I take the lead, and with Jacob never far away, I direct the teams, looking for answers my way. The cameras are checked and no help. The scene empty of many clues but I take photos of handwriting samples and random documents I find
in Gerome’s desk. The lieutenant arrives much later than expected, an hour into the investigation, and with no explanation. But once he does, it’s his team. His man. His lead. He gives directions, walks the scene and then motions for me to head to the hallway.

  Jacob stays by my side, obviously trying to be as informed as possible, but this time, my boss isn’t having it. “We need a moment, son,” he says gruffly, scrubbing the graying whiskers on his hard-set square jaw.

  “Yes, sir,” Jacob says, reluctance in the speed of his steps.

  “Were you fucking him?” he demands.

  I blanch, the anger that follows barely contained. “What? Did you really just ask me that?”

  “Were you?” he demands again.

  “No. Never. Even. Close.”

  “Why did he write a suicide note to you?”

  “He didn’t,” I bite out. “I told you. My stalker used that same wording. The words ‘you’re not ready.’ That’s a theme.”

  He narrows his eyes on me. “You’re saying they were murdered by your stalker?”

  “You ask that now as if I haven’t already said that to you. So yes. I’m saying that both myself and Jacob think it’s on the table as an option.”

  “Why kill Gerome?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I told you on the phone, or I think I did. He was my lead to find the bodies in our billionaire CEO case.”

  “Why would he want to stop you from finding those bodies?

  “I don’t have the answers,” I bite out. “Maybe he’s just fucking with me and my career”

  “Or?"

  “Or Gerome had something on Rodriquez and was blackmailing him and Rodriquez just lost it.”

  He looks around me and motions Jacob back. I don’t turn, but Jacob is standing next to me moments later and I’m not threatened by his presence or my boss’s interest in his opinion. I’m damn glad for the backup. “You and your team believe this could be a result of her stalker?” the lieutenant asks.

  “We do,” Jacob says, his tone absolute.

  My boss’s lips thin and he refocuses on me. “Why would your stalker choose Gerome as the murder victim?”

  “Rodriquez said that this guy is the guy to make bodies disappear,” I say. “Gerome was on my radar as a person of interest. I wanted to talk to him.”

  “Why would your stalker care about that case?” he asks.

  “He doesn’t,” Jacob says. “He cares about her. He’s obsessed with her.”

  The lieutenant looks between us. “Do we know who he is?”

  “No,” I say. “We do not.”

  “Lieutenant!” someone shouts.

  “Damn it,” he grumbles, looking at Jacob. “Are you with her around the clock?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s well protected.”

  “Good,” he says, looking at me. “Get out of here for now. We’ll talk about how to keep anyone else from getting hurt tomorrow.”

  “I want this case,” I argue. “I need to take this one.”

  “You’re too close to this,” he says. “So not no, but hell no. Get out of here.”

  “I need to at least go to his apartment. I need—”

  “I sent a team there before I ever got here. I’ll send you the reports. For now, you may be in danger and you may be putting others in danger. I need to deal with Rodriquez and his family tonight.”

  “What family?”

  “He has a brother and pre-teen daughter that lives with her mother in Long Island.”

  My throat thickens. “Rodriquez has a daughter?”

  “Yes. He had a daughter. Go home. We’ll regroup tomorrow.” He turns and walks away.

  I inhale and let it out, a ball of emotion in my chest that I don’t want to feel. I don’t look at Jacob or anyone. I need out of here. I need to breathe. I rotate to start walking and a body bag is suddenly being rolled in front of me, one of the two men, who died because of me, inside. Jacob gently nudges my arm, stopping short of actually holding onto me, and obviously reading me, points at the stairwell, understanding that I need an escape and I need it now.

  We start walking and enter the stairwell, and when I would continue downward, Jacob grabs me and pulls me to him. “Are you okay?”

  “He had a daughter, Jacob. He had a fucking daughter.”

  “No one takes a job like ours without knowing the risks.”

  “No one takes a job like ours and intends to die, either. I need to be on this case.”

  “We’ll talk to your boss tomorrow. We’ll make the argument that our team is supporting this investigation.”

  I press my hand to my forehead. “He died because of me. Both of those men died because of me.”

  “Are you sure the slayer wasn’t Rodriquez?”

  “It’s not him. He didn’t walk like him. He didn’t feel like him. The bottom line here that we both know, but don’t want to say: the slayer killed Rodriquez to taunt me. Maybe even a way to punish me for having you involved. You have to back off before someone else gets killed.”

  “If I have to tie you to your bed and keep you there while my team finds him, that’s what I’ll do. You are not going to be stupid enough to do what he wants you to do.”

  “I’m not trying to be stupid.” I grab his jacket. “I can’t live with the idea that someone else dies because of me. A little girl will never see her father again.”

  His hands come down on my face. “I know. I understand. You’re emotional right now, and for justified reasons, but that’s why we make decisions tomorrow.”

  “Pretend you’re not with me. Cover me from a distance.”

  “I’m not leaving room for him to get to you, without coming through me.”

  My fist balls on his chest. “We just need to catch him and then this conversation won’t matter. Now. Right now.”

  “How do you suggest we do that?”

  “He made a mistake. Everyone makes a mistake. We have to figure out what it was.”

  The doors below open and voices sound, coming in our direction. I twist away from Jacob and we both start walking, giving quick waves to the uniforms headed up while we go down. We exit to the street and the chaos of emergency staff and press, and make our way past the yellow tape, dodging several reporters, before we enter a subway entrance. “Where are we going?” Jacob asks, keeping pace next to me on the stairs leading into the tunnel.

  “The precinct.”

  “You aren’t allowed to be there right now,” he reminds me. “Your boss—”

  “Can fire me if he so desires, but I’m searching Rodriquez’s desk before anyone else gets to it.”

  He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t fight me on this because he knows this has to be done. In fact, he doesn’t speak at all until we’re in an otherwise empty train, sharing a pole again, hands stacked. “Are you okay?” he asks, his powerful leg hugging mine, that intimacy between us affecting me now more than ever, and I can’t say why. It just does.

  “I told you,” I say. “I’m always okay at a crime scene.”

  “Sweetheart, we aren’t at a crime scene. We’re alone, just you and me.” His hand comes down on my hip. “Deep breathe a moment and then talk to me.”

  “I can’t deep breathe. I’m still living the adrenaline rush of it all.”

  “How well did you know Rodriquez?”

  “Not well at all apparently. I didn’t know about his daughter.” I laugh without humor. “He brought me a donut on Valentine’s Day in the hopes I’d be less of a bitch. Obviously, it didn’t work.” My voice cracks. “Damn it. I can’t believe he’s dead. I can’t believe he’s dead because of me.”

  “When you say that, the slayer wins. He’s fucking with your head. Rodriquez is dead because of the slayer, not you.”

  “But you know—”

  “No buts, Jewel. I know you know I’m right. Logically you know, but in times like this it can be hard to see the truth above the guilt.”

  “Even for the Tin Man?”

  “He
ll yeah, sweetheart. I’m human, too. But being human is what makes us different from the slayers of the world.”

  The train jerks to the side and I grab his jacket, when I would never automatically reach for anyone else in my life, past or present. Because Jacob is different and I want the chance to know how and why. “What if he comes after you?”

  “Then he dies and this is over. And maybe that’s exactly how we catch him. We make him come to me.”

  “How?”

  “That’s a question for you and Sierra. Profile him. Decide how we trip his trigger and drive his attention to me.”

  “No,” I say. “No. I won’t let you do this. I don’t want you to do this.”

  “I’m—”

  “Don’t say you’re a Green Beret. Rodriquez was a sharpshooter. He had a black belt in karate, and he was a ten-year veteran of the force. Gerome hid dead bodies for a living. They’re both dead.”

  The car screeches to a halt and Jacob presses his lips to my ear. “Believe in me as much as you believe in him.”

  I don’t look at him. I don’t know what he’ll see in my face or what I even feel. I don’t want to care about someone who is going to die, again. I can’t. And he’s trying to get himself killed. The doors open and I pull away from the pole and him. He doesn’t stop me, but as it seems he always is now, he’s immediately by my side. We exit to the street and start walking, cold seeping into my bones, proof that my adrenaline has come down a notch, since I felt hot all over before the train ride. “Do you feel him?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No,” I say as we approach the precinct. “But if he’s been watching me for two years, maybe I’m used to how he feels.”

  “I don’t, though,” he says, opening the door for me. “Which is why you can call me an asshole all you want, but you’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”

  I rub the back of my neck and pass him by, guilt-ridden by how much relief I feel in those words. He’s making himself a target. I’m making him a target. That isn’t okay. It’s that thought that drives my footsteps and I waste no time clearing us past security and hurrying up the stairs. We reach my old desk, and I ignore it and sit at Rodriquez’s. Jacob joins me and opens a drawer, and the two of us start a search. We’re about to give up and I actually fill a box with all of his things, when I lift the pad on top of the desk.