by L A Witt
“This your car?”
“Yes.”
“How about a license and registration?”
“What? Can’t a black man have a nice car without—”
“Just get him the registration, dumbass. It’s in the glove box.”
“You got any guns in this—hey! Keep your hands where I can see ‘em!”
“I’m just trying to get the registration!”
“There a gun in there? You reaching for a gun?”
“I ain’t reaching for nothing but the registration! Do you want—”
“How about you both get out of the car? Nice and easy.”
“Whoa! Whoa! Man, ain’t no need for a gun! Why you got a gun out!”
“Sir, put that phone away.”
“You put the gun away!”
“Put the phone away right now.”
“I’m calling for backup. Did you boys hear me? I said get the fuck out of the car.”
“All right. All right.”
There were sounds of movement and car doors opening and closing. Then, abruptly, someone grunted, and it sounded like the phone smacking into something.
“You got a gun? You armed?”
“No! No! I ain’t armed!”
“Man, we ain’t doing nothing!”
“Then why are you so nervous?”
“Because you got a piece, and I don’t—”
“Shut up and cooperate, and—”
Suddenly there were voices over voices. Shouting. Scuffling. The phone was briefly too muffled to catch anything, then picked up rustling and heavy, panicked breathing.
“I ain’t got a gun! I told you I—”
The distinct crack of gunfire made me jump. Ryan too, even though he’d already listened. On the recording, there were shouts, screams, footsteps, and more gunfire, and then a hard thud.
With a sickly groan, a man called out, “JJ, run!”
“Get back here, fucker!”
“Oh my God!” A woman’s voice now, close by, hysterical, and sobbing. “Someone call an ambulance!”
Ryan switched off the recording. “You see why I had to bring this to you?”
Mute, I nodded.
“Can you do something with it?” he whispered. “There’s nothing we can do for him, but what about those cops?”
I stared at the dark, quiet phone. “The voices on the recording—the cops—were those the two who came into your trauma bay?”
He nodded. “I’d know those voices anywhere.”
“Okay. Okay. Fuck.” Exhaling hard, I rubbed the back of my neck. “We gotta do this carefully. Do it right so the evidence actually sticks.”
Ryan’s brow creased. “Sticks?” He gestured at the phone. “That’s pretty damning, isn’t it?”
“It is, but I guarantee these cops will have some good defense attorneys. If there’s any chance they can claim the chain of custody was compromised, or that while we were accessing the phone, we could have deleted or altered any files…”
His shoulders sank. “Oh, shit.” Beat. “But what about JJ? The other guy? Martin insisted he’s got something too, and if he was able to get away and keep his phone, then he might have something better. He might even have video.”
“Finding him isn’t gonna be easy.” I tapped my fingers on the desk beside the phone. “But I need to, and sooner than later.”
“Any ideas?”
I thought about it, then gave another nod. “A few, yeah.”
“I’m glad you do,” Ryan muttered. He leaned forward and cradled his face in his hands. “God, what a mess.”
“And it’ll probably get worse before it gets better.”
He lifted his head, brow pinched.
“That’s reality when we’re investigating cops. Believe me—I know.” My conversation with Bridges ran through my head, and I sighed. “It’s also going to be an uphill battle because the city thinks I have it out for the cops I haven’t already taken down.”
Ryan’s features contorted with confusion. “But… I mean… You heard the recording. And if the other guy’s got a video…”
“I know. I wish I could tell you it’ll add up to a slam-dunk conviction, but I’ve been around for too long to buy that.”
He rubbed his eyes and swore. Dropping his hand to the armrest, he said, “So, what happens if they get away with it?”
I studied him, then shook my head. “Let’s not start thinking down that road. Not now. We investigate, and we do everything we can to bust these fuckers.” I took the empty chair beside him. “I can’t promise we’ll win, but I’ll do everything I can.”
Ryan swallowed. “Funny—I say that to a lot of people too.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do.”
We held each other’s gazes for a moment, and it was hard to believe this was the man I’d been trying to tumble into bed with less than twenty-four hours ago. Now all hell had broken loose, and things were complicated.
And it wasn’t just the case itself that was complicated.
I cleared my throat. “Listen, uh… While this is going on, we’re gonna have to shelve…” I gestured at both of us.
Ryan’s shoulders drooped a bit more. “Damn. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. So we don’t compromise things.”
“Yeah. Unfortunately.” Our eyes met, and I regretted tacking on that “unfortunately,” because I could see my own feelings in his face. I wanted him. He wanted me. We’d had just enough of a taste to know what we were missing, and God knew what kind of potential there was if we didn’t call it off now.
But we had to. Because there was a dead man who deserved justice, and we couldn’t let anything compromise this investigation.
Ryan laughed humorlessly and slouched back in the chair. “Figures. I finally meet somebody, and…” He waved a hand at Martin’s phone.
“Tell me about it.”
We looked at each other again. There was a part of me that wished it wouldn’t be crass or inappropriate to suggest we steal a kiss or something before we had to call time, but it was. Martin was my priority. I needed to jump on this investigation immediately, and I couldn’t be involved with this case and Ryan at the same time. That was just how it was.
Ryan, however, looked like he was about to collapse, and it wouldn’t be crossing any lines to make sure he was all right.
I straightened a little, putting some space between us. “Do you need a lift home? You look like you’re barely holding yourself up.”
“I drove, but…” He seemed to sway a bit. “Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
“All right. Let me get my keys.”
The drive back to Ryan’s place was silent. I suspected he was both exhausted from his shift and rattled by everything he’d heard, not to mention frustrated that I couldn’t definitively say we were going to take down the officers responsible for this. I understood that part all too well. No one liked accepting that the bad guys sometimes got away. That those bad guys were sometimes—too often, I thought—cops who not only got away with it, but kept their badges, guns, and power? Not an easy pill to swallow. An even tougher one to swallow for someone victimized by that cop’s actions. Or traumatized, in Ryan’s case.
“Turn here,” he said, his tone flat. “Second to last house on the left.”
I nodded, turned down a suburban street lined with immaculate lawns in front of equally immaculate houses. Ryan’s place was big, especially for just one person, the lawn encased by a decorative stone wall, and I pulled up in front of the closed two-car garage.
Engine idling, I turned to him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a more optimistic answer. I promise, though—this case is going to be my priority.”
He studied me, then nodded slowly. “I know. And it’s not your fault. The system is…” He shook his head and made a frustrated sound. “These assholes probably wouldn’t have killed him if they thought the deck was stacked against them instead of in their favor.”
That was… Fuck. That was profoundly true.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “You could say that.”
Our eyes locked, and the other reality of our situation made my chest hurt. It was hardly an injustice compared to this situation that Ryan had brought to me, but I indulged in a moment to be frustrated that we had to let each other go.
Moistening his lips, he unbuckled his seat belt. “Look, I know we have to… That we can’t…” He dropped his gaze for a second, and when he looked at me again, he was blushing. “One goodbye kiss won’t kill us, will it?”
My brain was still in IAB mode because alarm bells immediately clanged, telling me to say no and just walk away. But even years of being painfully by the book couldn’t convince me to resist a single kiss before I let Ryan go.
“No,” I whispered. “It won’t kill us.”
He smiled sadly, and we both leaned in to meet over the console between the seats.
The instant our lips met, I didn’t want to let him go. I knew I had to, and I knew I would, but dear God, I didn’t want to. He was soft and tender this time, and even that was enough to make me think of how aggressive and needy he’d been that night—that one night—we’d tried to get into bed together.
Much too soon, he broke the kiss and drew back, locking eyes with me. I didn’t speak. Neither did he. I supposed there wasn’t much to say.
After a moment, he dropped his gaze and reached for the door. “Thanks for the lift. I’ll, um…” He swallowed. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
I nodded. “Of course. I’ll have somebody reach out to get a statement from you at some point too.”
Our eyes met again, and though he didn’t say a word, I could see his thoughts clear as day in his expression. Somebody? I won’t be giving you my statement? Oh. Right. I guess that’s the best way to go.
“Take it easy,” I whispered. “I’ll do everything I can to bust these guys. I promise.”
“I know.” He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks. And thanks again for the lift.”
Then he got out. I watched him head for the front porch, and once he’d unlocked the front door, I backed out of the driveway. As I drove up his street, I glanced in the rearview, catching a glimpse of the distinctive retaining wall in front of his yard. Ryan was already out of sight. In the house. Out of my reach.
Facing forward again, I exhaled hard, my chest aching and my lips still tingling.
Maybe that last kiss would kill me after all.
Chapter 8
Ryan
The heaviest part of my job was being a counselor to my patients, a bearer of bad news. It was an inextricable aspect of doctoring, helping people deal with things that didn’t go well. There was a way to do it with kindness, but also with distance, that made it possible to continue to practice medicine after the first loss. Distance was important, necessary for mental and emotional health. If you loved everyone you treated, then a piece of you would die every time a patient did.
Manage your expectations, I was told over and over again during my training. Understand how to shepherd someone through what may be the worst day of their lives, whether it’s your patient or their family, but leave their problems at the hospital door. You can’t take it home with you. After a decade as a doctor, I thought I was pretty good at giving myself the distance I needed to function when something bad happened at work.
Martin’s death, though… it was sticking with me. Sticking to me, somehow. It wasn’t just that the circumstances surrounding it were so strange, although if I never had to listen to that recording again it would be too soon. I felt sick just thinking about it—the sheer desperation in his voice, the way that nothing he did seemed to go right, the sharp retort of the bullet at the end of it all… I heard that shot in my sleep.
The nightmares were bad, but making it all worse was the realization that I hadn’t just lost a patient that day—I’d lost a relationship, too. It felt stupid to get so hung up on it—Mark and I barely knew each other, after all. A few brief and interrupted dates and the occasional text did not a relationship make, but we’d had the hope of something more, and now that was gone. At least for the foreseeable future. How long did cases like Martin’s take to resolve, anyway? Months? Years?
You don’t have to wait around, I reminded myself three days after I’d handed off the phone to Mark. It’s not like you made any promises to him. You could go out to a club and find someone to fuck in under an hour. Nice, warm, comforting and anonymous. But that comfort was an illusion, and even my body knew it. When I tried to picture someone anonymous on their knees for me, or imagine the weight of a cock in my mouth, blood-hot and hard, inevitably the anonymity melted into Mark’s face, Mark’s cock, Mark’s hands in my hair and on my back and—
“Fuck,” I muttered, giving up on sleeping any later than seven a.m.. I was in a long stretch of time off, four whole days—too much time, honestly. I ran so much the first two days that I had to stop or give myself shin splints. I still ended up hobbling around like an old man today, so hell, maybe I already had them. A bath helped, putting my feet up on the couch helped, but I couldn’t seem to focus on my favorite show or the book I meant to read. I was restless, with no way to work it out of my system.
I finally got desperate enough for someone to talk to that I called my sister, which began with a pleasant hello and quickly turned into her telling me I was going to die sad and alone. Samantha had married young, divorced fast, and repeated that three more times before settling down three years ago with Husband Number Five. Talk about a fear of being alone.
“What about the guy?” Samantha pressed after I told her I totally won’t die alone, you gremlin, so shut up. It took exactly no time for me to revert to being a teenager around her. “Weren’t you having some sort of modern epistolary courtship?”
“God, you sound like such a nerd.”
“I am an English professor, jerk. But weren’t you? What’s going on with that?”
“That’s been…” I slouched back on the squishy couch arm with a sigh. “Put on hold. Indefinitely.” Because Mark has something a lot bigger than us to deal with.
“It’s not like you to let someone leave you hanging like that,” she said after a moment, her voice full of suspicion. “You’re either head-over-heels for them or in denial that you ever liked them in the first place. Do I need to come over there and beat somebody up for you again?”
“I didn’t ask you to get into a fight with Knox.” Knox was the last guy I brought home for the holidays, my only med school-era boyfriend. I’d been totally in love with him, sure he was the one. He, in turn, decided to get drunk and hit on my sister’s second husband at home while the rest of us went to the Christmas Eve service.
Her husband had laughed it off. Samantha had definitely not. Threats were uttered, punches were thrown, nuts were imperiled. My relationship with Knox fell apart pretty fast after that.
“You didn’t have to ask me. That piece of shit had it coming. But seriously,” she continued. “What happened with the guy? You seemed to really like him.”
“I still do. It’s…” I wanted to tell her about it, about Martin’s suspicious death and the pushy cops and the fact that pursuing justice meant postponing anything with a guy I was ridiculously into—that I knew my thing with Mark was the lowest priority right now and I totally got why—but I couldn’t. “It’s complicated.”
“Aw, honey.” She sounded like she wanted to reach through the phone and pat my shoulder. “Is he married?”
“What? No!”
“Is he closeted?”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose with my fingertips. “No. He’s out.”
“Is he super religious, then?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not getting the problem.”
“The problem is something I legally can’t discuss with you right now.”
“Oh shit.” Her voice went hushed. “Ryan, tell me you didn’t fall for a patient.”
Oh my God. “No!” I
almost shouted into the phone. “Jesus, no! Why would you even think that?”
“You won’t tell me anything, what am I supposed to think?”
“Sam!”
“Ryan!”
A few more minutes of shouting later, I ended the call. When Sam and I were on the same page, we were unstoppable, but we were no good to each other when tempers got hot. She had too much experience fighting to back down, and I tended to avoid interpersonal conflict when I could. I liked to fix people, not break them. I would never have punched Knox, not even when I found out he was a cheater. I would have waited for him to leave, and if he didn’t, I’d have found passive-aggressive ways to remind him that his presence wasn’t welcome any more.
Coward.
Was I a coward? Should I have confronted those cops at the hospital? I had their names, their badge numbers—I could have called their superior officer myself. But would that really have changed anything? I’d taken the safe route, bringing this case to Mark. Mark was a professional, he was reliable, he was all about being honest and straightforward. He would handle this case the way it needed to be handled.
All the rationalization in the world didn’t keep me from feeling like shit about passing it off, though.
On a wild hair, I pulled up the local paper on my tablet and checked the obituaries. I didn’t have a lot to go on, but—ah. Yeah, there he was. Martin Fredericks, twenty-eight years old, survived by his mother Jasmine and a daughter, Nyla. Oh, fuck. She was only four. There was going to be a service for him at the funeral home on Park Avenue at three o’ clock on… today.
My eyes automatically sought out the nearest digital device. Two-forty-four, my microwave glared accusatorily at me. It would take me at least ten minutes to get ready, and another twenty to get down there. I was going to be late. Was it even worth going, if I was going to be late? What connection did I have to Martin anyway, other than losing him in the ED? I’d turned my evidence over to Mark. It was in his hands now. I could just let it go.
I thought about Martin lying there on the bed, prepped for the morgue, his few belongings already confiscated by cops who had an agenda. I remembered how ferociously he’d clutched his phone, and how out of everyone he could have confided in, he’d gone with me. He was a man, a son, a father, and now he was dead. He deserved to be remembered. It was the least I could do.
