by L A Witt
At least then you’d sleep. And eat, if I could stomach her attempts at home cooking.
Fine. It was better than talking myself in circles like an idiot. I picked up my phone and—
Ding-dong.
I froze, every muscle in my body tensing like I’d just been shocked with a Taser. Stiffening up sent a searing burn along the length of my spine, but I couldn’t unclench. Who the hell was that? I wasn’t expecting anyone, and somebody from the hospital would have called me before coming over. I glanced at my phone—oh, duh. It was still powered off from my little ED stay. Well, then I’d check my messages and—
Ding-dong.
Whoever it was, they were persistent. The simplest thing I could do was to just go to the door and answer it. They were already here, after all.
But what if it was Officer Russel or DeMarco? No, why would they bother ringing the doorbell?
On the other hand, what did I expect, that they’d break down the door now just because one of them was probably the person responsible for beating me to a pulp?
I only realized I was hyperventilating when stars began to swim in front of my eyes. “Shit.” I forced myself to slow my breathing, the same way I did on the uphill sections of my longer runs—rein it in, keep it steady, steady, steady. Better. Okay, good. Now that I could breathe again, I could go and answer the door.
Instead, I sat there on the couch, listening to the sound of nothing. Maybe they had gone away. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe I would just sit here for the next few hours and—
“Ryan?”
The voice was faint through the locked door, but distinct. I stared at my blank TV for another second in complete disbelief before my brain and my body were on the same page, getting off the couch and heading for the door.
It was… but it shouldn’t be, he wasn’t supposed to be… I looked through the peephole, ignoring the slight blur, then unlocked the door in a rush.
“Mark?”
He stood there on my top step in a simple black suit and white shirt, his tie long gone, wearing a long coat that was dappled with rain across the shoulders. His hair was wet—of course, because he’d been standing out here for the last five freaking minutes, go me—and his face was—he looked like—
“Ryan.” He put his cold right hand over my left one, and I only just realized that I was still holding on to the baseball bat. “It’s all right. It’s just me.”
“Right.” Of course it was just Mark, who else would be here with him. “I—do you want to come in?”
“I’d like that,” he said gently. “But only if that’s what you want.”
Why was he even asking? I opened my mouth to tell him of course before I realized that I was still filling the doorframe, with no room to go around me, and I was holding on to my bat in a white-knuckled grip. “Shit, sorry!” I stepped—more like staggered—back far enough to make room for Mark. He let go of my hand just long enough to hang his coat up by the door, then took it again, running his thumb over my knuckles. When he reached for the bat, I let him have it with hardly a second thought.
He propped it next to the door, then looked me up and down, evaluating me just like a doctor would—or a detective. His gaze lingered on my stitched-up forehead and black, swollen eye, and his lips tightened.
I expected him to ask me about what happened. I was throwing a huge wrench into the works of his case, after all, and as much as I knew he liked me, I was just as sure that he wasn’t happy with me right now.
“Is it okay for me to hug you?”
I blinked. It made my facial bruises sting, but not enough to snap me out of the dazed state I must have entered. “I’m sorry?”
“I’d really like to give you a hug,” Mark said, slowly and clearly, “but I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Oh.” Maybe he’s saving the lecture for when I don’t look like roadkill. Whatever the reason, I’d take it. I was suddenly desperate for more contact—warm, caring contact that wouldn’t make my mind and body cringe. “Just avoid the middle of my back,” I told him. “That’s the worst of it.”
Mark’s calm expression fractured into something I didn’t quite understand, but his hug was as gentle as the touch on my hand had been. His arms stayed at my shoulder-level, and his squeeze was careful, but it still ranked in the top hugs I could remember getting. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to feel a touch that was tender, not businesslike or hurtful. I wrapped my arms around his waist and lowered my head to his shoulder, just able to avoid my stitches if I hunched a little.
“I’m so sorry,” Mark said, low and gruff like there was something caught in his throat. “I’m sorry you got hurt, Ryan.”
“Not your fault,” I managed.
“Maybe not, but it’s still awful, and I hate that it happened to you.”
“Me too.” I hated that I was too jumpy to relax in my own house, and I hated that I might have fucked up the Fredericks family’s chance for justice, and I hated everything about how powerless I still felt, in my abused body and messed-up head.
But I didn’t hate that Mark was here with me. That was the only bright spot I had to cling to, and here I was, clinging for my life. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.” He turned and kissed the side of my head, just behind my ear—a spot that was happily not bruised or abraded—then said, “Let’s go sit down, huh?”
I was about to ask “why” when I realized my whole body was shaking with a fine tremor, something he could probably feel as well. “Yeah, okay.” It was an effort to lift my head back up, and even more of an effort to make sure my bad leg didn’t collapse underneath me on the first step, but it was worth it to finally sink back onto the couch once we made it to the living room.
I gestured for Mark to join me, but he shook his head. “Not yet. When’s the last time you ate something?”
“Um.” I thought about it—tried to think about it. My head was as foggy as a San Francisco summer. “Breakfast? Ronnie brought me something at work, but I wasn’t hungry.” I still wasn’t hungry.
“You should probably eat something with your meds though, right?”
I shrugged slightly. “I don’t get more pain medicine for another few hours, but… yeah. Probably. What time is it, anyway?”
“After six,” Mark said without even having to glance at his watch or phone.
“Wow.” I had been assaulted just that morning, and now it was already evening, and soon it would be tomorrow. Would I feel better tomorrow? Worse? Would my memory be sharper, or was I looking at days, maybe weeks, of dullness? Maybe worse?
It’s a concussion, not a tumor, I reminded myself. It didn’t make me feel much better.
“I’ll get you some food,” Mark said, laying a hand on my shoulder before heading into the kitchen. I wanted to call after him to get some for himself as well, but the whole idea of a loud noise coming out of my mouth was suddenly intolerable. I shut my eyes and listened to the rhythm of my body, the pulse of my heart mirrored in every vein, throbbing in every bruise. I consciously tried to relax, to slow my heartrate some, but it was so hard to concentrate…
“Here.” I looked up and saw Mark set a plate down beside the couch, with a piece of toast and a bowl of what appeared to be some of my emergency canned soup in it. Minestrone, from the look of it.
“That was fast,” I said blurrily.
“Not too fast.” He sat down next to me, close enough that our knees touched, pulling the plate onto his lap as soon as it became apparent that reaching for it kind of fucked with my ribs.
I leaned over and sniffed the soup. “Huh,” I said after a second. “I can hardly smell it. Must have tweaked my olfactory nerve.”
Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Is that common with concussions?”
“Not especially, but it isn’t unheard of. My sense of smell will probably come back over the next week.” Or two, or however long it took me to recover. I picked up the spoon and took a bit. It tasted like… well, like canned soup, but
without the minimal benefit of smelling it to enhance the flavor. My stomach liked it, though, and I got it and the toast down as fast as I could without having to open my mouth too wide or move around too much.
“Thanks,” I said when I was done.
“It’s the absolute least I can do,” Mark replied. “Your cupboards are beyond bare.”
I flushed. “I know. I’ve been eating at work a lot lately. Just wanting to be around people, honestly.”
“I could have ordered something delivered, but I didn’t want to wait to get you fed.”
I shook my head slightly. “I prefer this to a stranger coming up to my front door right now.”
Mark nodded, looking pensive. “I understand.” He shook his head. “I—what else can I do for you?”
“Right now?” I thought about saying “nothing,” then decided not to lie. “Stay with me a while longer. Let me use you as a pillow. Maybe start up the same show we watched last time again, because I know I’ll forget anything new right now.”
His lips thinned as he ran a hand through his hair. “That doesn’t seem like enough.”
I sighed. “Welcome to my world.”
“What do you mean?”
God, what did I mean? I tried to marshal my molasses-slow thoughts. “I’m a doctor, and so… I’m supposed to make people feel better, you know? Even if it has to hurt first. I trained for years and years to learn to heal, but medicine isn’t a panacea. Sometimes the only thing that will really fix a problem is time, and sometimes nothing can fix it. All you can do then, all you can be, is there. Willing to stick it out with them, so they don’t have to go through it alone.” I reached out and took his hand. “You’re here, and I’m really grateful for that.”
“I can’t stay long.” The conflicted expression on his face told me how he felt about that, but I got it. I hated it, but I got it.
“I know. ‘Cause of the case.”
“Yes.”
“I understand.” I finally let myself do what I really wanted to, now that I had a meal in my belly, and slumped over onto my side so I could lean against him. “Just until I fall asleep?”
Mark smiled a little. “You shouldn’t sleep on a couch, it’ll hurt your back.”
“Nope, my couch is amazing,” I assured him. “Like… like… something really excellent to sleep on. A cloud.”
“You can’t sleep on clouds, Ryan.”
I grinned and shut my eyes. “Watch me.”
Mark huffed. “You make no sense at all.” He kissed me again, though, right on the tip of my nose, so I figured he was okay with a little nonsense from the man with the head injury. The TV started up a moment later, familiar theme music playing at a considerately-lowered volume.
I felt totally different now than I had just half an hour ago. It was as though Mark’s arrival had erected a wall between myself and my anxiety, holding it at bay long enough for me to actually relax. It wouldn’t last, I knew that—Mark couldn’t stay all night, and my recovery period was only beginning—but I’d take a few hours of really solid sleep on day one over a night spent tossing and turning and getting up every hour to check the locks again.
Tomorrow would be better. Or it wouldn’t, but it also probably wouldn’t be worse. And for now, at least, Mark was here. That in and of itself was a miracle I hadn’t seen coming. I was going to make the most of it—by sleeping, my dumb, insistent body informed me, instead of talking or kissing or doing any of the way more interesting things he and I could be doing together.
“Thanks,” I murmured as the throb of consciousness began to fade away. Mark didn’t say anything, but I could swear I felt the press of his lips one more time, gentle against my mouth, before I passed out completely.
Chapter 19
Mark
Under any other circumstances, I’d have stayed the night at Ryan’s place. After he’d been knocked around like that, I didn’t like the idea of him being alone, and I especially didn’t like him being out of my sight.
But as I’d reminded myself a hundred times, if there was any hope of doing Martin Fredericks the justice he deserved, I had to play this one by the book. In this case, that meant leaving a concussed and traumatized Ryan alone for the night, and it didn’t matter that I would’ve slept so much better beside him than halfway across town in my own bed. It was out of my hands, though.
After a night of tossing and turning, I called to make sure he was doing all right. Once I’d confirmed that he was conscious (if sore) and had a friend coming by to take him to a follow-up visit to his doctor, I decided I could breathe a little easier and maybe focus enough to get through the day.
“I’ll come by this evening,” I told him. “Any kind of food sounds good, text me and I’ll pick it up on the way over.”
“Ugh. Food doesn’t sound good at all right now, but we’ll see how I feel tonight.”
“Just eat something, okay? So you can—”
“Mark.” He laughed softly. “I am a doctor. I know how to take care of myself.”
“Uh-huh. And I’ve been told doctors are the worst patients. So.”
“Touché. All right, all right. I’ll eat something before my appointment. And I’ll let you know about tonight.”
I let him go, got myself ready for work, and headed to the office with a travel mug full of high-octane coffee. During my years as a beat cop and a detective, sleep deprivation had been normal. Something I’d learned to live with and work through. Since I’d moved to IA, I’d been on something closer to a nine-to-five schedule, and I’d gotten a little spoiled. One restless night and I was ready to collapse.
Or maybe that was less about lack of sleep and caffeine, and had more to do with just being emotionally wrung out. This investigation had been taxing in ways my cases usually weren’t. I had a personal connection with a witness. That witness had been threatened and beaten over his involvement, which had me worried to the point of literally sick.
That was just the personal side of things, and it was barely the tip of a much larger and more insidious iceberg.
The shooting of Martin Fredericks had led me down a rabbit hole to what appeared to be a massive systemic problem within the city’s police department. One I’d been a part of, if my name on a number of those case files was any indication. I wanted to believe I’d been objective and had taken each case as it came, coming to my conclusions based on the evidence and testimonies in front of me, but seeing those cases in that disproportionately huge stack of white cops shooting black civilians and being acquitted… it was impossible not to see a pattern.
All the way from home to my office, my stomach was wound in knots as I thought about everything I’d uncovered and had, without realizing it, been a part of. For fuck’s sake, I’d gone into Internal Affairs to take down dirty cops like my dad. I was in this to hold cops accountable and protect the public from those who abused the power of their badge. And now this? Fuck, what had I been doing all this time?
I gripped the wheel with both hands and took a deep breath as I slowed to a stop at a red light. Step one—close the Martin Fredericks case, and do it right. Step two—review all of my previous cases that had wound up in that ugly stack. Or better yet, have another IA official review them so they could be objective. While they did that, I could be reviewing all the other cases I’d pulled. The past couldn’t be changed, but cases could be reopened, verdicts could be overturned, and even if justice came far later than it should have, it wasn’t too late.
The light turned green, and I drummed my fingers on the wheel as I proceeded through the intersection. One thing at a time. I’d focus on Martin Fredericks now. After his case was closed, I’d start looking into the big, ugly picture.
Fifteen minutes later, I walked into IAB, and Erin looked up from her computer. “Oh hey.” She gestured over her shoulder. “Lieutenant Bridges wants to see you. She’s waiting in your office.”
I swallowed. “Great. Thanks.”
When I stepped into my office, Bridges w
as there, leaning against my desk with her arms folded. I nudged the door shut behind me. “You’re in early.”
“Yes, well.” She shifted her weight. “We’re on a schedule today.”
I blinked. “We?”
“Yes. The board and I reviewed everything you told me about the Martin Fredericks case and…” Her eyes flicked toward the files still stacked on my desk. “Anyway, in light of what you found in Officer Russel’s history, and the assault on Dr. Campbell, the board wants us to proceed quickly. If there’s reason to believe Officer Russel’s actions were criminal and part of a pattern of violence, then it’s in the city’s best interest for us to have him arrested and tried as soon as possible.”
I nodded. “All right. I assume you have a game plan, if you’re already here.”
“I do. We’re meeting Officer DeMarco for a second interview. He’s been called into his precinct under the pretense of squaring away some paperwork relating to his administrative leave. We’re going to meet him there now.”
Well, coffee or no coffee, sleep or no sleep, I was awake now.
When Officer DeMarco finished with his admin department, we were waiting for him, and from the look on his face—not to mention the fact that he was dressed in civilian clothes—he hadn’t been expecting us.
“Officer DeMarco,” I said. “We need a word.”
He swallowed. “Uh. I was just here to take care of some paperwork and—”
“And now you’re going to have a conversation with us.” I gestured down the hall. “If you please.” He stared at me wide-eyed, probably knowing full well that “if you please” was an empty courtesy. Conversations with Internal Affairs were not optional.
Prior to our arrival, we’d made arrangements with DeMarco’s captain to make use of an empty office, and the three of us trooped in there. Per policy, we offered to bring in his attorney, his union rep, and/or his captain, but he declined, and the three of us sat down.
