by Brent Pilkey
George drew a chair close and took his wife’s free hand in his. “Does she know what she’s going to do? Does she see now that she has only one option?”
Evelyn frowned around the lip of her mug. “Don’t push her, George. I believe she knows what she has to do but hasn’t accepted the fact yet. She still hopes he’ll call or show up here and beg her to come home.”
George scowled. “Do you think he will?”
Evelyn shrugged daintily. “I can’t tell with that man any more, but you know our daughter. She wants her white knight to ride to her rescue and sweep her off her feet.”
“White knight, ha,” George scoffed. “That man is barely civilized, at best.” Evelyn smiled sadly but said nothing. George squeezed her hand. “I know you had hopes for him, Evie.”
Hopes? With my guidance, he could have become a man you would have been proud to call your son-in-law. And he all but spat in my face.
Again she shrugged, a mere lifting of her shoulders. “I saw the potential in him, that’s all.”
“We should be thankful it happened now and not later, after Karen had invested too much time with him. The sooner she distances herself from him, the better.”
“So we just jump straight to divorce?”
“Of course,” George said, sounding surprised Evelyn had to ask. “There are more than enough grounds: his growing tendency — no, passion — for violence, the infidelity —”
“That hasn’t been proven,” Evelyn pointed out.
George waved her words away as easily as he had the offer of tea. “Irreconcilable differences, Evie, and that’s more than enough.”
Evelyn sipped her tea to hide the loathing on her face. That’s far from enough. It’ll never be enough.
“Do you think he’ll call?” George asked again, almost sounding eager for a fight.
Evelyn stared at the phone sitting innocently on the counter. “I hope he doesn’t but . . .” She winced as she lifted her shoulders and set her mug down.
George got up and stood behind her, gently kneading her shoulders. She rested her head against her husband’s stomach and let herself surrender to his touch. She was almost dozing when she felt his hands slide from her shoulders to the buttons of her blouse.
“What are you doing?” she asked, pointedly.
“Helping you relax,” he replied huskily. His hands parted her blouse and slipped over her breasts.
“Our daughter is upstairs,” she told him.
“Sleeping,” George countered, massaging her nipples through the thin material of her bra. “You know, we’ve never had sex in the kitchen.”
“And we’re not about to,” she said, shrugging free of his hands.
“But . . .” he started, sounding like a petulant child.
“But nothing, George.” Evelyn buttoned her blouse. “Our daughter is upstairs and her husband could arrive or call at any moment. You certainly did choose an inappropriate time and place to make your advances.”
George moved to stand by the counter, blocking her view of the phone. She willed him to move. “I just thought . . .”
“You just thought what?” she inquired, once more holding her tea mug.
Her husband paused then shook his head. “Nothing, Evelyn. You’re right, it was a bad time. If you or Karen need me, I’ll be in my office.”
Alone once again, Evelyn sipped her tea and stared at the phone, willing it not to ring.
Jack stared at the phone, praying for it to ring, but silence reigned in the yard, broken only by his rough breathing and Justice’s occasional soft whine. The shepherd was curled up against Jack’s leg but not resting easily; his master was filled with too much pain for him to rest.
Jack sat on the deck steps, the kitchen’s cordless phone lying impotently in his hands.
Call her, you idiot. You know you have to call her, right?
“Yeah, I know,” he muttered miserably. Justice whined in sympathy and rested his head on Jack’s thigh. Jack stroked the soft fur unconsciously.
“What if she doesn’t want me to call?” Jack’s voice was rasping, beaten. “What if . . .” He swallowed, hesitant, afraid saying the words aloud, the words she had thrown at him, would endow them with substance, make them true. “What if . . . what if she is better off without me?”
Justice didn’t have an answer and Jack sat on the deck with the phone in his lap for a long time.
The Major Crime office was quiet. The shades were drawn, filtering the sunlight and dimming the room in grey shadows. Detective Rick Mason sat at his desk, elbows propped on the cluttered top as he massaged his temples.
Bloody fucking headache. And on the heels of that, I’m getting too old for this shit.
Sighing, he dropped his forearms to the desktop with a leaden thump, fluttering papers in the brief breeze. He wearily scanned the files littered in front of him. Homicide at Sherbourne and Dundas. Beaten hookers. Dealers he had his eye on and, on top of everything, that mess over in 52 Division. Just what he didn’t need: a pedophile’s dead brother.
Crap, he really fucked up on that one.
He felt like a juggler with a few too many balls in the air. He chuckled morosely. More like knives. Not for the first time, he wondered if it was all worth it. The stress, the tightrope he was constantly walking. As if in answer, his stomach gurgled uncomfortably. He placed a hand on his belly and as always was shocked and disgusted at how fat he’d gotten.
Marcie would kick your lard ass for getting so fat, old man.
He reached past the clutter on his desk for the silver-framed picture where it sat in the corner, untouched by the sea of shit that was his job. He drew the photograph to him, tracing the woman’s features with his fingers. Lovingly, tenderly. Painfully.
“I miss you, Marcie,” he whispered.
The door opened and harsh, unnatural light stabbed into Mason’s eyes as Tank flicked on the lights.
“Whatcha doing sitting in the dark, boss?”
“I was trying to get rid of a headache,” Mason growled as he set the picture back in its customary location.
“Oops, sorry, boss,” the big man said. “You want me to turn them off?”
“Fuck it. I’ve taken a long enough break.”
Tank frowned at the detective. “Somehow I doubt that, boss.”
Mason scowled. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Did you and Kris get anything at the hospital?”
Tank eased down into his chair, not relaxing until it had ceased groaning and squealing beneath him. “Nothing,” he reported sadly. “The victim couldn’t add anything to the description.”
“Could he id the suspect in a photo? If we ever find one, that is,” Mason added glumly. Definitely, too many knives.
“I doubt it,” Tank reasoned, shaking his head. “We hung around for most of the morning, hoping his head would clear some, but he’s pretty fucked up from the beating.”
“Wonderful.” Mason really didn’t care if a few streetwalkers got tuned up — they were just disease-ridden parasites as far as he was concerned — but what pissed him off was that it was happening in his division, on his streets, and that would not be tolerated. He didn’t care if the suspect was some self-appointed guardian vigilante or a fucked-up pervert getting his jollies from beating on women. Or men, in the last incident. The last of five.
Five since the beginning of the year and who knows how many more if we keep digging?
Kris and Tank had spent the morning, prior to attending the hospital, searching through old reports and had come up with three other serious assaults on prostitutes that could belong to their suspect. Two in 51 and a third just over the border into 52. The suspect description in each was similar in its vagueness: male, white, young, big build. The only connecting details were the victims’ profession and the suspect’s muscularity and viciousness. All the attacks h
ad left the victims in hospital in serious condition.
Frustratingly, there was no pattern to the attacks. One in February, two in April and now the two this month. The victims, all hookers, came in varying shapes, sizes and colours. Nothing to connect them beyond their working status.
Only one of the assaults involved a car. The rest of the time the suspect was on foot. This, plus the close proximity of the attacks — all five had occurred within an area four city blocks square — told Mason their man was a local. A local with serious issues that sometimes got to be too much to handle.
Despite involving sex workers, none of the attacks were sexual in nature, at least not in the usual sense. All the victims were badly beaten about the head and torso but their breasts and vaginas — and the tranny’s genitals — appeared to be specifically targeted. Is this guy making a statement? Mason believed the suspect was targeting hookers primarily because of their availability. That, plus prostitutes’ usual reluctance to speak with police.
So, we have a local who occasionally gets mad. Mad? Try fucking berserk. He has so much rage that he practically beats people to death but he can hold on to it long enough to find an appropriate time and place. What does that mean? He’s been dealing with this problem — whatever the fuck it is — for a long time?
“I should ask the nurse on the nut squad,” Mason told himself.
“What was that, boss?”
“Nothing, Tank. Just talking to myself. What time are Jack and Jenny getting in?”
“Four. You told them we should stay out later in case our suspect is wandering around.”
“Right. So I did.” Mason squeezed his temples between the heels of his hands. If this headache was anything like the migraines Jack suffered then Jack had Mason’s full sympathy. Crap, I’d consider eating my gun if I got too many like this.
A shadow fell across his desk. “I’m heading downstairs. You want anything?” Tank offered.
“Yeah. Grab me a Coke and something chocolate, would you? Jack says sugar and caffeine help when he’s getting a headache,” Mason reasoned through a strained smile.
“I think that’s just for migraines, boss. Yours sounds like stress to me. I don’t think they’ll help all that much.”
“Maybe not,” Mason conceded. “But it’ll give me something to do other than smacking you around.”
“One Coke and chocolate bar coming up,” Tank announced and backed warily away from his boss’s desk. He even turned the lights off when he left.
Tank was a good man, a solid, reliable officer. He and Mason had waded through some shit together, along with Kris and Taft. Good people, good coppers, all of them. Mason knew he could trust them, even trust them with the truth sometimes. But never the whole truth. Never that.
Kris and Tank were comfortable where they were right now — getting more than comfortable with each other by the looks of it — but Taftmore was looking ahead, wanting to further his career. He had his eye on either Hold Up or Intelligence and Mason wasn’t about to stand in his way. That meant there would be an opening in the MCU soon and Mason figured Jack was the man to fill it.
That he could trust Jack was beyond doubt; Jack hadn’t hesitated when Mason, sitting at this very desk, had presented him with a picture of Anthony Charles in order for Jack to positively identify the fucker in a photo lineup for Homicide.
Crap, what a fuck-up that had become. First, the Crown attorney had withdrawn the charges against Charles, then the little cocksucker had threatened Jack and his wife. And to add to the problems, Charles’s little retard brother had his head removed with a shotgun. Another mess Mason could lay at Silva’s feet.
But it had all worked out in the end: Charles dead, Jack a hero and no one the wiser. Not even the SIU, that cop-hating civilian watchdog agency, had been able to find anything out of place. Mason wondered sometimes about the shooting, the three bullets Jack had put into Charles. One in the belly and two in the chest. He wondered in what order they had been fired. Not that it mattered.
If only Sy hadn’t died.
“Fuck, what a mess.” Mason scrubbed his face. Time to pull his head out of the past and his ass. “What’s done is done.”
Mason, feeling tired and alone, began sifting through the paperwork one more time.
Jack trudged across the station’s parking lot. The humidity pressed down on him as heavily as his thoughts. Even the sight of Jenny hurrying between cars to catch up to him did little to lighten his mood.
“Hey, partner,” Jenny called out then stopped when she saw Jack’s face. “Are you all right, Jack? You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night.”
Jack snorted a bitter laugh. “I didn’t, really. Karen was gone when I got home.”
“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“Gone. Her and a bag of clothes. I imagine she’s at her parents’.”
“Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry.” Jenny laid a comforting hand on his arm. “Did you call her?”
Jack shook his head, defeated. “Naw. I was going to a couple of times but . . .”
“But what?”
Instead of answering, Jack motioned to the back door. “Let’s get inside. It’s too fucking hot out here.”
Her comforting hand locked on his arm and pulled him back. “You’re not sidestepping the question that easily, Jack. Why didn’t you call Karen?”
“It doesn’t matter, Jenny. Come on, we’ll be late.”
But his partner stood her ground. “Why didn’t you call?” she demanded, not releasing his arm.
Jack sighed and his shoulders slumped resignedly. “I did a lot of thinking last night and maybe they’re right,” he said, talking to the pavement. “Karen and her parents, I mean. Maybe she does deserve better than me.”
Jenny was momentarily wordless as the shock at Jack’s statement faded from her face. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Karen couldn’t ask for a better man.”
Jack finally met Jenny’s eyes. “Really? I’m not so sure.” He shrugged. “I have changed, I know that. But for good or bad? I don’t know, but I do know I’m not the man Karen married. Maybe she’d be better off with someone else.”
“Sounds like you’re giving up,” Jenny accused.
“I’ve not been giving up since Sy died,” Jack countered. He shrugged again, lost and confused. “Maybe I’m just tired of fighting.” He tilted his head, looking Jenny in the eye. “Did you know that when I threw Kayne off the bridge —”
“Don’t say it that way,” she cut in. “You didn’t throw him off. The wood broke and he fell. You didn’t do it intentionally.”
“Whatever,” Jack said, dismissing her argument. “Did you know my biggest concern that day was that I was probably going to miss my workout the next day because of all the overtime I was going to have to do?”
“So?” she asked, not seeing his point.
“Would a normal person think that way? Would I have thought that way a year ago? I didn’t care that I had just killed someone, Jenny. Asshole or not, I just didn’t care and the man Karen married would have never felt that way. Come on, we’ll be late.” Jack headed for the door.
Jenny stared after her partner for a moment before following, a worried expression clouding her face.
“Whoa, hey, guys.” Tank nearly ran over Jack and Jenny as he pounded down the stairs.
“What’s the rush, Tank? The guys’ john not working up there?”
“Ha. Very funny, Jenny.” The plainclothes copper eyed Jack. “You look like shit, Jack.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Good thing I ran into you guys,” Tank said as he herded them down the stairs. “You may as well hang out in the lunchroom for a few minutes.”
“Mason got something going on in the office?”
“Nope,” Tank told Jenny with a smile. “The boss just needs some time to hims
elf, that’s all.”
Jenny looked at Jack and they shrugged in unison before following the big man into the lunchroom. Tank headed for the vending machines and while he perused the chocolate bars, Jack got himself a Diet Coke. He held it out to Jenny and when she shook her head he plopped into a chair, popping the tab. Jenny perched on the table next to him before slipping her sunglasses off.
Tank whistled appreciatively. “That’s one nice shiner you got there, girl.”
Jack paused with the pop can halfway to his mouth. Tank was right, Jenny’s black eye was a beaut. The skin around her right eye was a nauseating smear of purple and yellow, but at least the swelling had gone down.
Jack rocked forward in his chair. “Are you okay? Headache or anything?” he asked. God, he felt like such an ass. He’d been moaning about his marital problems and had completely forgotten that Jenny had been hurt.
Way to support your partner, fuckhead, he chided himself.
“I’m fine,” she assured him with a little grin. “Besides, maybe Brian will want to examine it for me.”
“Brian? Oh, right. The date with the doctor this weekend.”
“A doctor?” Tank asked, sitting down next to Jack. “I’m impressed. Way to go, Jenny.”
“Thank you.” Jenny took a small bow from where she was sitting. “How long do we need to give the boss?”
“Few minutes,” Tank mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate.
Kris wandered into the lunchroom in time to hear Tank’s comment. “Rick in one of his funks?”
Tank nodded, swallowing. “Like the pink, babe.”
“Thanks, Tanky. I did it for you.” She fluffed her dyed spiky hair — her biceps bulging with the simple movement — then leaned down to give Tank’s bald pate a loud smack. Tank saw Jack and Jenny watching and blushed a deep scarlet.
“What’s with Mason?” Jenny asked, taking pity on Tank.
Kris fielded the question after looking at Tank for confirmation. “Every once in a while, usually when the stress is getting to him, Rick gets kind of low. We just give him some space and he comes out of it in a little while.”
