HE ENTERED another bar, a few blocks away. Without thinking too much about it, he strolled up to the bartender, ordered a whiskey on the rocks, and paid for it in cash. He needed to quiet his mind a little. Going back to the empty apartment seemed a guaranteed recipe for a sleepless night, and he had to work in the morning.
He ignored the twinge of guilt and shame he felt on the first sip. It wasn’t illegal. One drink wouldn’t hurt. It hadn’t when he finished the martini.
Collins had apparently decided to cut and run. Sam wondered if he was fleeing from the cops, or if someone else was breathing down his neck. Sam couldn’t blame him for taking off, but he was still curious about what Collins wanted to tell him. In any case he was probably halfway across the world or hiding out in a Podunk town, somewhere off the beaten path. Sam didn’t care anymore, though he supposed he should. If the wrong person saw them together, he could be in danger. Nathan would be so disappointed if Sam got himself into trouble while he was away.
The whiskey went down so smoothly he regretted ordering a single. It had been a small pour, and the ice watered it down. He motioned to the bartender for one more—a double. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough for him to go home and sleep soundly, without any bad dreams.
He sipped his second drink. He didn’t want to be a disappointment, though he feared he wasn’t doing much to impede the process. But was he the only one to blame? What about Nathan? The missed calls and the quick chats were starting to grate on Sam’s nerves. Nathan was probably out doing who knew what. Or whom. Maybe he wouldn’t even tell Sam the truth.
The bar door opened with a jangle, and Sam turned around and was startled when he noticed a familiar face. He set down his glass—empty again.
Antonio Rivera was smooth-shaven, and he wore casual clothes. His smile took on a sardonic edge when he noticed the empty drink.
“Hello, Rivera,” said Sam, staring right back. He wasn’t about to hide from him, even if he was Nathan’s friend.
“Fancy seeing you here,” said Rivera as he took a seat next to Sam.
“I popped in for a nightcap. You come here often?”
“I’ve been renting a room in the building across the street.” Rivera gestured toward the window, and Sam recalled seeing a couple of nondescript brownstones when he came in.
“Oh.”
The conversation continued in stilted fits and starts until the bartender approached.
“I’ll have another,” said Sam.
“And I’ll have what he’s having,” said Rivera. Sam remembered what Rivera once said about trying to quit drinking when he was Sam’s age. Obviously it hadn’t worked, but Rivera seemed like a functional guy. He could handle his booze. And if he could, so could Sam. It didn’t have to be a big deal.
Sam closed his eyes and took a substantial sip. The whiskey warmed his insides predictably. It felt nice.
“What brings you to my neck of the woods?” asked Rivera.
Sam paused. They’d never met privately without Nathan, and they’d never socialized. He couldn’t tell Rivera the truth. “Just took a walk and found myself down here.”
“It’s a little out of the way for you.”
“I like to try new things,” Sam said with a shrug.
They were silent for a while, both nursing their drinks. The pleasant fuzz of inebriation softened Sam’s worries. He felt at ease again. Bolder. He didn’t have to answer to anyone. He turned to Rivera. “So, when are you heading back to New York?”
“A few days. I’ve got a new case. So that’s it. Good-bye, Stonebridge.” He lifted his glass. “You’ve been a real pain in the ass.”
“Hey,” said Sam. “She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s my pain in the ass.”
“You can keep her. So, any luck on your story?”
Sam was surprised he asked. “You mean on the mayor? Not so far. Who do you think did it? You think someone from his staff was involved? Is that why Collins took off?”
“You know I can’t talk about—”
“An open investigation. Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.” Sam drummed his fingers on the bar. “Nathan would say the same thing.” Suddenly he was suspicious. “Wait a second. Did Nathan ask you to keep an eye on me?”
Rivera didn’t flinch. “Nope.”
“But if he had, you wouldn’t tell me.”
“Probably not. But if he had, I wouldn’t be ordering you a drink.” Sam looked down at his glass, which was empty, and Rivera motioned for another round.
Panic started to creep into Sam’s gut. He had told himself just one, and then had two. And the next would make—four? He didn’t want to stop, and he wasn’t sure he could. A cold feeling of disgust settled over him, but he fought it and raised the glass to his lips.
He and Rivera continued their conversation as they drank. They talked about sports, and Sam realized Rivera was a pretty funny, self-deprecating guy under his gruff, FBI-agent exterior. Predictably he was a Yankees fan, since he’d gone to NYU and lived in New York ever since. Unlike Yuri he could at least admit the Sox had some good seasons. Sam was tempted to ask him about Donna Howard, but he figured that was too personal.
When he returned from a piss break, Rivera slapped him on the shoulder. Next to his cell phone on the bar, there was another drink. Sam picked it up with a feeling like relief.
“So, you off the wagon for good?” Rivera asked.
“Nope. This is a minor setback. I’d appreciate you not mentioning it to Nathan.” His words came out slightly slurred, but he knocked back the liquor anyway.
“Your secret is safe with me.” Rivera winked.
“’S not a secret.” He’d tell Nathan on his own terms, but he wasn’t about to go running to the phone, whining like a needy baby. Nathan would think he couldn’t even make it a few days without him. “What about you?”
“Me? My father was a drunk. I figure I’m doing better than he did, so why stop now? What about yours?”
“My father?” Sam thought. He’d often seen his dad with a glass of whiskey in hand, but not out of control. His father had never had a habit. “No.”
“Good on you, then.” Rivera tipped back the rest of his drink.
Sam hardly realized how much time had passed until the bartender flashed the lights for last call.
“Dammit,” Sam said, head swimming as he stood. “I gotta work tomorrow.” His stomach lurched in protest. Yuri would be so pissed if Sam called out. They were on a tight schedule to finish for Monday.
“Are you okay to get home?” Rivera asked as they exited the bar to the empty sidewalk. It had started to drizzle, and the oily pavement gleamed under yellow streetlights.
“M’fine,” said Sam, though he thought he might be sick. He squinted and tried to remember how many rounds they’d had. Maybe five. Six? Shit. Six was a lot, especially since he hadn’t had much for dinner. A trembly panic fluttered inside his chest.
“Good to see you, Sam.” Rivera patted Sam’s arm. “Take care of yourself.”
“Hey,” said Sam. “Don’t tell Nathan you saw me tonight.”
“I told you your secret’s safe with me.”
Those words dogged Sam’s footsteps as he made his way home.
Chapter Eight
SAM STABBED at the radio dial and turned it to another station, where an annoying commercial droned on about some super savings discount at a mattress emporium. He sighed and switched off the damn thing. His head was pounding as he made the drive to Shady Brook to see Tim.
He stopped at a gas station to grab a coffee and fill up, and he chewed a couple of antacid tablets—his old standard breakfast. It wouldn’t do to show up with an obvious hangover.
It had been a week since the night at the bar with Rivera. He hadn’t gotten drunk again until Nathan called. Their conversation was brief—almost like Nathan wanted to get off the phone. He said he was tired from working long days, but Sam knew he meant long nights. The news wasn’t good either. Nathan still didn’t kno
w how long it was going to take to wrap up the case, and he couldn’t tell Sam any of the details. For all Sam knew, it might be another month. Maybe two.
Sam only remembered the rest of the night in a blur. After hanging up with Nathan, he went to the corner store and bought a fifth of whiskey. He wound up watching sitcom reruns and drinking half the bottle before he even knew what he was doing. He was going to pour out the rest, but he didn’t. He would later.
There was a text on his phone when he got out of the truck.
Talk tonight?
Maybe. Might have plans, he sent back.
He knew it was bitchy, but he was too grumpy to be pleasant. Nathan returned the text almost immediately.
I know you’re angry. I’m sorry I’ve been busy. Please talk tonight? We can Skype if you want.
You’re starting to sound like a broken record. There’s a reason they don’t sell.
Maybe I deserve that. But I think you’re being a little unfair. You know I hate this as much as you do.
Sam’s irritation grew, and he pocketed his phone without replying. At least he had been keeping himself busy, working at Manella’s whenever he got the chance—and writing. Apparently missing Nathan was turning out to be good for his output. He’d already done a couple personal pieces for his blog about the repairs to the Episcopal Church and his own scorched-out building, and he planned to get in touch with some of the families who’d been affected. Maybe it would give him some insight into the White case too.
He was also in the middle of revisiting his old piece on the Streets Clean incentive program for high school students and planned to slam White’s administration for hypocrisy. He’d already gotten Damon and the program director on board for an interview.
Still no amount of work could drown out his love for Nathan, or the intensity of his loneliness. Of course he missed the sex. But more than that, he missed the warm, casual touches they shared, the way Nathan laughed at his stupid jokes. He missed the crinkle of skin next to Nathan’s eyes when he smiled. He missed the steadiness of his breathing in the night. The way he felt like home.
He grabbed his phone again.
S: Sorry. Got a lot on my mind. Miss you.
He thought about the half bottle of whiskey. He knew he was lying to himself about pouring it out. He had every intention of finishing it later.
SAM SET down his glass on the coffee table, and Shadow gave him an irritated look from the floor near his feet and raised her head from where it was pillowed on her paws. The phone rang again. After another moment’s hesitation, Sam answered it.
“What’s going on with you?” Nathan sounded concerned. Sam had avoided his call the previous night.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Yes, there is. You think I don’t know you?”
Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. His visit with Tim the day before had been a disaster, and when he got home from Shady Brook, he went straight to the kitchen to polish off the rest of the whiskey. He had promised himself no more, but that only lasted until an eight-o’clock trip to the package store. He was only slightly buzzed, though, so there was no way Nathan could tell he’d been drinking. Sam had enough practice over the years to be able to fool people. “I don’t want to be a burden. I know you’ve been busy with the case.”
“Screw the case. Dammit, Sam. I feel like you’re hiding something from me. Is this about the mayor’s murder? Have you gotten yourself into some trouble?”
“No. It’s Tim,” he said. “He had a seizure yesterday when I was visiting.”
It was horrible. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his brother’s flailing limbs and gasping mouth. Though it seemed to go on forever, in reality it had lasted less than a minute. The doctors stabilized him, but they weren’t sure what caused the seizure or what it meant, and they practically kicked Sam out at the end of the day. He went back again that morning and stayed until the early afternoon. To add to his concern, even Lisa looked worried, though she tried to mask it for Sam’s sake.
Nathan sucked in a sharp breath. “Is he okay?”
“He is now. But it freaked me out. It could mean he’s waking up, or it could be something bad. The doctors don’t know. We have to wait and see.” Wait and see. The most hated words in the English language. They weren’t much comfort when you were the one waiting, as they basically meant, “we know fuck all.”
“I wish I was there,” Nathan said.
“Me too.” Sam closed his eyes and rested his head against the couch. He had many questions on the tip of his tongue, but he felt like he couldn’t ask any of them. “How’s Eric?”
“Oh, he’s Eric. He’s fine. But I’m… I’m starting to feel it.”
Sam knew what he meant. He would probably have the same problem if their situations were reversed, but it stung all the same. He eyed the half-drunk glass of whiskey and grimaced. “Yeah. I guess it’s pretty hard not… to participate.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s the case wearing on me. I only want you. God, when I get home—”
A voice on the other end of the line interrupted Nathan. Sam could tell it was Eric speaking, but he couldn’t make out his words, only their emphatic tone.
“Shit,” Nathan murmured. Sam heard a few muffled exchanges. From the low growl in his throat, Nathan sounded like he was arguing.
“Let me guess—you have to go,” Sam said when Nathan returned to the call.
“Something’s come up. I’m sorry.”
Sorry was starting to feel like an empty word.
They disconnected, and Sam picked up his glass. The ice tinkled, and he hesitated and considered the amber liquid. A slow-spreading misery took hold of him. He was self-medicating. It wasn’t Nathan’s fault he had to work. The case took precedence, and Sam hated feeling so needy.
What had Nathan meant—the case was wearing on him? Sam knew Nathan’s work sometimes upset him, no matter the calm, rational exterior he presented to the rest of the world. Maybe the case was worse than expected. It was frustrating not to be able to hear the details and maybe offer some comfort. Then again Sam was barely holding it together himself, and the whiskey in his hand was proof.
He thought about reaching out to Alex and Rachel, but he didn’t. They were happy, and he didn’t want to drag them down. Yuri was busy mooning over his hot, young employee.
What would he do if Tim passed? Was it selfish to want his brother to continue living—if it could be called living—in his current limbo state? What if he was suffering, and Sam didn’t know? He’d been so young when his life was stolen. They’d never had the chance to discuss what-if scenarios. There had only been the future, overflowing with promise, but cruelly ephemeral. You should never have to wonder whether your brother would want to die.
“What are you staring at?” Shadow was still giving him a know-it-all look. She could judge away. He was going to finish his drink. And talking to his cat was a pretty sad substitute for human conversation. He was well on his way to becoming a drunk, crazy cat guy, if there was such a thing.
His cell rang again. He answered without bothering to look at the caller ID. “Look, Nathan. Really. It’s—”
“Hello? Is this Sam?” The voice was vaguely familiar, and it stopped Sam in his tracks. He set down his whiskey.
“Barney?”
“Yeah.”
“Holy shit. I went to your apartment the other day, but the cops said you’d left. Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you that, and I can’t talk for long. Listen. I don’t know who killed the mayor, but I might know why they did it.”
“Oh yeah?” Sam’s pulse started to race. He was on the precipice of something huge—something that might change his career entirely. All of his other worries vanished as Collins continued.
“The mayor was involved with the Voronkovs.”
“I knew it.” Sam slapped his knee and laughed in triumph. One of his first suspicions had been a mob link. “Is that why you took off?”
&n
bsp; “Listen carefully. There’s a mailbox on the corner of Regent and South Street, a few blocks from my place. Taped to the underside, you’ll find a key to a safe-deposit box at the Union Trust, number 203. Be careful no one follows you.”
Sam didn’t need to be warned twice. A small, tight scar on the top of his head served as a continual reminder of his encounter with Bernhardt Hoff, one of the Voronkov’s henchmen. The injury could have been much worse, but he was lucky. He managed to escape with only a concussion and a few bruises, because Nathan got there in time to save him.
“And you knew about this?” Disappointment quickly replaced excitement. Barney had seemed like an okay guy, but he’d obviously been covering for the mayor. Then it dawned on Sam, and he could have kicked himself for being so stupid. The fancy watch, the nice car, those top-shelf martinis. “You were getting paid off. Weren’t you? You son of a bitch.”
“I’m not proud, but I did what I did.” Collins sounded a little too haughty for Sam’s liking.
“Who else?” Sam demanded. “The deputy mayor?”
A pause. “It’s all in the files.”
“Shit.” Sam was up on his feet, pacing around the room. His mind whirled in a thousand different directions, fueled by an adrenaline rush. Not only had White been involved with the mob, his successor was crooked too. “Why are you telling me this now? Why incriminate yourself?”
“I guess you could say I had a crisis of conscience. I’m leaving the country now, and I won’t be back. Do whatever you want with the evidence. But I suggest you burn it. It’s dangerous. I’ve got to get going—”
Sam cut him off before he could hang up. “Wait. So you don’t have any idea who did it?”
Collins sighed. “It could have been anyone. Rodger was using more heavily after what happened last October. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. He thought he had everything under control.”
“He was getting sloppy?” Sam spun on his heel and headed to the coffee table to grab his keys. If the mayor had ceased to be useful and become a liability, it made sense that others, who wanted to retain power, might have killed him, especially if the deputy mayor was involved.
Blind Spot Page 9
