Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by R. J. Pineiro

  I nod.

  “Then,” he says, “I need you… to promise… something else.”

  “Name it,” I say, suddenly feeling relief about being let off the hook.

  “Franky,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Promise me… Boss.”

  “Promise you what?”

  “You’ll look… after her.” He blinks rapidly again, his eye losing focus.

  I’m in shock, swallowing hard, momentarily at a loss for words. He’s just traded one type of hook for another one. Then all I can think of saying is, “I don’t have to promise anything because you’ll get better. You’ll see, man.”

  “Just say it… Boss.”

  “Besides,” I add, “Franky doesn’t need anyone taking care of her. She continues to do that on her own quite well.”

  “Look at me, Boss, and… fucking promise me. You… owe me.”

  “Fine, Dix. Fine. I promise, okay?”

  “Promise what, Boss? Say it.”

  “I… promise to look after Franky.”

  He closes his eye and mumbles, “Good… very… good. Besides… she always had… a thing for… you.”

  “What?”

  He barely nods, then, “Always felt like… there were… three of us… in bed…”

  I’m now in double shock. That’s precisely what Kate said when she dumped me.

  What the fuck?

  But before I can muster any form of a reply, his hand goes limp, and he is snoring again.

  Slowly, as I’m trying to process what I’ve just heard, I set his hand on his lap while my eyes drift to the book shelves.

  Shit.

  Did she hear all of that?

  I narrow my gaze at those shelves and realize that Franky was right. I can’t make the webcam, so neither should he. And while I’m suddenly uncertain what to say to her since it is very likely that she heard our conversation, I also understand her reasons for doing the installation. I’ve been here for just a couple of minutes, and I’m already about to hit rock bottom on the depression scale.

  There will always be people better off than you and also worse off than you.

  And then, there are those who are… beyond worse.

  I regard my brother-in-arms again while chastising myself for failing him in that hospital in Germa—

  “Look at the mess they’ve made of my baby.”

  I look over my shoulder at her, before slowly turning around. Franky is leaning against the door’s threshold holding the neck of my beer with the index and thumb of her right hand. She has almost finished it in the short time I’ve stood here. Now I wonder if she heard our conversation live, or perhaps she missed it while walking between the living room and the bedroom. But then I remember that the sound was muted, though she could have turned it up when seeing us talking.

  “Murph had to go,” she says with a tilt of the head. “MA business. Just saw him out.”

  I feel a bit of relief at the thought that perhaps she didn’t hear while being out with Murph. But I quickly tense when realizing that I’m now flying solo, without my wingman—and even more so when noticing that the belt of her robe is loose. And as she lifts her arm to drink, it parts just enough to reveal, in the semidarkness of the room, a two-inch-wide band of very pale skin. It runs from her neckline down to what I recognize as a bikini cut between her thighs.

  “I should go, too,” I say, trying hard not to stare.

  “But you just got here,” she whispers, lowering the bottle, which closes the robe. “Besides, he’s out for the night,” she adds, before motioning me to follow her back into the living room.

  I stand here a moment, as she turns around and starts to walk away, my gaze shifting between Dix’s snoring bulk and her departing figure.

  She pauses, looks over her shoulder, says, “C’mon, Law. Close the door. Let him sleep,” and continues to the living room.

  I once more obey. This time she sits on the sofa and taps the space next to her, and again, I curse the situation that I’ve allowed to develop. Had Murph and I succeeded in putting Dix out of his misery—

  “It’s okay, Law. Really. I won’t bite. Come,” she says at my hesitancy.

  But I remain standing, knowing very well what could happen if I—

  “Law,” she says, an edge now in her voice. “I get propositioned by guys every time I step out of that damn door. If I was going to cheat on Dix, I would have done so already. Now, for the last goddamned time, would you stop being so fucking shy and sit your jarhead ass down?”

  Tentatively, I take my assigned seat.

  “Good,” she says before her eyes shift to the two six packs on the table. Apparently, Murph decided to leave his booze behind. The beer stands next to the half bottle of Cava de Oro, but its level seems lower than when I left to go see Dix. Did she have another shot or two when I was in the room?

  “Hit us, Law.”

  I fill our shot glasses before reaching for two more beers. We chug the shots and chase them with the Budweiser.

  Then looking at me, she says, “Just like the night I picked you up. Remember?”

  I nod.

  “Who knew this would all end up so screwed up.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so she reaches over with her beer and we clink the longnecks.

  “Well, happy fucking anniversary,” she mumbles, and I notice her words are starting to get a little slurry.

  We drink while watching the news, which continues to replay the shooting, but with the sound still muted. This time I even catch a glimpse of Beatriz after we parted ways today. A reporter is following her with the camera, trying to put a microphone in her face.

  “I work with her,” I say.

  “Oh,” Franky replies, leaning closer to the screen before looking at me. “She’s very pretty.”

  I shrug as Beatriz finally waves the TV crew away and disappears inside the hospital

  “What? Not your type?” she comments before downing her third beer.

  I tilt my head.

  “What about that pretty doctor that Dix told me about?”

  “Kate. Didn’t work out.”

  “So not your type also,” she says before poking me playfully on the side with an index finger. “Tell me, Law, who is your type? Obviously, not me.”

  I’m shocked, but then again, it’s probably the alcohol now talking. I’m even feeling a little buzz and I’m twice her size. “Why—why would you say that?” I manage to half mumble. “You know I’ve always liked you, from the first time that I—”

  “You let Dix steal me away,” she says calmly, her light-blue stare once more cutting through me like a wave of radiation.

  “Franky, I… I was—”

  “Too damn shy, Law. Still are.” She frowns and looks away. “It could have been you, you know?”

  Holy shit. Talk about getting hammered tonight, first by Dix and now by little Franky.

  Before I can conjure any semblance of a reply she picks up her shot glass and tilts it toward me.

  I open my mouth to point out that maybe she had one too many, but she beats me to it. “Shut up and pour.”

  I quietly obey, and then she points at the six packs.

  I grab another cold one, twist the cap off and pass it to her. For her body weight, which can’t be over ninety pounds soaking wet, this, plus the three other beers and whatever number of shots she’s had before, is definitely one too many, and she’s starting to show it with this unexpected revelation.

  Franky downs the shot, followed by a mouthful of beer. Then she just stares at me again, and in an amazing feat of mind reading, she says, “I’m not drunk, Law. At least not yet. I worked a bar, remember? I drank guys under the table all night long.”

  I just nod.

  “Were you there today?” she asks, c
hanging the subject. “During the shooting?”

  “I was,” I say as a female reporter is interviewing someone in blue scrubs that I presume to be a doctor.

  “That must have been scary,” she says, and although she claims not to be drunk, I can see the alcohol haze in her eyes and hear it in her speech.

  Before I can help it, I say, “I put down the shooter.”

  As she finishes her fourth beer, Franky just stares at me, lips parted in a way that truly scares me to the bone.

  I can’t do this, not to Dix.

  He wants me to look after her, but not this way.

  Not this way.

  And most certainly, not while he’s still breathing.

  By the time the reporter is through interviewing the doctor and then a nurse, she has snuggled up against me, resting her head on my shoulder.

  “Franky, I can’t—”

  “Shut up and hold me, Marine.”

  At my reluctance, she adds, “Could you not be so fucking shy just this once? I really need this.”

  In spite of my better judgment, I run a hand under her legs and another behind her back. I then lift her frame and set her on my lap like I would cradle a baby, letting the side of her head rest against my chest.

  “Took you long enough,” she mumbles, placing her hands under her chin, like she was praying, and grabbing the front of my NWUs, pressing the fabric against her face.

  We just stay there in silence watching the news without a sound. While I realize this will seem extremely selfish given the situation, I find holding her very soothing, reminiscent of the feelings she brought out in me on that dance floor.

  “It isn’t fair, Law,” she whispers after a little while. “Life just isn’t fair.”

  I kiss the top of her head because it’s the only thing I can think of doing. The smell of lavender once more reaches my nostrils, and I inhale it deeply, filling my lungs with her scent as that old Carpenter’s tune fills my mind. But sudden guilt washes over me for feeling this way. This is my brother’s very depressed, very vulnerable, and very drunk wife I’m holding.

  “It just isn’t…” she adds, her voice breaking into a whimper before she starts to cry.

  Oh, man.

  I try to comfort her while she uses my uniform as a handkerchief, eyes closed, letting it all out—even blowing her little nose. And I say nothing. Sometimes a good cry is the best medicine.

  But my body is starting to respond to her, and I fear she will notice, just as my mind grows equally terrified of this moment escalating into something we may not be able to control—but something that I know I would regret afterwards.

  So, taking a deep breath while forcing thoughts of my brother all mangled up in there, I settle for just rubbing my right hand up and down her back.

  “Thank you… Law,” she mumbles after a while. “You’re a good man.” Then she lifts her face and kisses my right cheek before latching tighter to my uniform and pressing her head against my chest, hands still under her chin.

  Slowly, over the course of an hour-long segment that appears to be a panel discussion on gun control, my body settles back down and Franky drifts into sleep.

  Man, I couldn’t be more grateful for that, letting her float away from the reality of a life that no one should live.

  As soon as her breathing steadies, I stand while holding her tight, amazed at how little she weighs. I carry her into the bedroom and slowly lean down to deposit her gently in the rollaway. But in doing so, her robe parts and falls to the sides.

  Oh, boy.

  I set her down, trying hard not to look while quickly pulling up a white sheet to cover her. But I freeze when noticing a small Navy SEAL trident tattoo just below her left breast and another one with the words CLOSE TO YOU stenciled beneath the right one.

  Taking a deep breath while holding back the tears, I raise the sheet to her neck and tuck her in. I then lean down to kiss the side of her head. As I do so, she curls into a fetal position, hands once more under her chin, and eyes closed while mumbling something I can’t make out.

  Slowly, I step away and just stand in the doorway, holding on to it, just as she had over an hour ago, and listen to them breathe in the darkness while images from their wedding day flash in my head. I see my brother-in-arms, larger than life, in his pressed service uniform packed with shiny ribbons, carrying his beautiful bride.

  As I just did.

  It takes all of my strength not to become unhinged, clasping the side of the threshold until my knuckles turn white.

  Through the anger swelling inside of me, a wrath I’m finding very damn hard to control, Franky’s words resonate in my head.

  It isn’t fair, Law.

  Life just isn’t fair.

  Chapter 13

  “So, you’re the guy who’s gonna teach us how to kick down doors and clear rooms, like you did over at Hampton?”

  I look over the grayish body of a man lying face up on the stainless-steel autopsy table in the morgue of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the Tidewater District in Norfolk, Virginia. NCIS Assistant Special Agent in Charge (ASAC) Mia Patel is staring at me with a pair of brown eyes under thick brows that remind me of actress Brooke Shields. But that’s where the similarities with the celebrity end. Mia is a tad shorter than me and thickly built, like a pit bull—almost like the female version of Colonel Granite. But she isn’t fat. The woman is just solid. And like the colonel and me, she is also a former marine, having served multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan before joining NCIS. But her most intimidating feature is her man-like hands, big and strong, which I’m pretty sure make a lasting impression on anyone who shakes them, as they did with me when I met her a couple of hours ago.

  Those hands are now fidgeting with a pack of Marlboros and a shiny silver-and-gold lighter. Her skin is the color of honey, and she is dressed in a dark pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, a gray jacket, and black cowboy boots.

  Yeah. Cowboy boots.

  Mia comes across as someone who is always ready to kick ass and take numbers, and I like that.

  A gold badge is clipped to her waist, next to her service weapon, a Sig identical to the one on my belt.

  Her military experience, combined with a dozen years with the agency, makes her SAC Roy Ledet’s second-in-command of the large NCIS Norfolk Field Office.

  As Ledet explained this morning, after complimenting me for taking down the shooter, and before dispatching me to work with Mia, my primary role is now to train her large team in Close Quarter Battle tactics. Basically, what I did at Hampton but on a bigger scale. Although Mia is a marine, so she herself should not need as much help, the majority of her team comes from the civilian ranks, like Beatriz and her guys.

  However, instead of introducing me around the office so I can make an assessment of their CQB capabilities, first thing Mia did—after I located her smoking while devouring a monster breakfast burrito from a food truck parked outside the building—was to bring me here.

  There are three more stainless steel tables in this long, cold, and very depressing room. But only this one has a cadaver on it, the mortal remains of USMC Corporal Jay Dawson. I’m assuming any others waiting to be processed, including Franklin, the guy Beatriz and I took out yesterday—plus the victims from the shooting—are stored in the cold room body refrigerators. Made of shiny stainless-steel like everything else here, they line the left side of the morgue.

  The smell of a powerful disinfectant, mixed with the stench of death oozing from the body, assaults my nostrils. In some strange way, the combination reminds me of Dix’s room last night.

  The chief medical examiner, according to the title stenciled on his blue scrubs, is Dr. Harold Yanez, a medium-built man who looks to be in his fifties with silver hair and pale skin that suggests he doesn’t get out of the basement much. Fine lines form around his eyes as he squints wh
ile working the cut. He wears a clear visor and blue nitrile gloves and holds a scalpel as he endeavors to remove the deceased’s liver while speaking in the stereotypical forensic monotone voice. A small wireless microphone is secured to the scrubs just below his neckline.

  Next to him stands a younger man similarly attired whom I presume is his assistant, and who has purple hair and a neck tattoo that looks like a spiked collar that reminds me of Granite’s bulldog coffee mug. He’s even more pallid than Yanez, to the point that he could be laying on one of those pedestal tables and I wouldn’t bat an eye.

  Before I can reply, a tall man in his late twenties or early thirties dressed in a tight dark suit that shows his football-player-like physique pushes through the double doors and stares at Mia. A gold badge is clipped to his belt, next to his sidearm, another 9mm Sig.

  “Hey, Lil’ T.,” she says. “How’s Portsmouth treating you?”

  I almost choke at the nickname. The young man towers over her—and also me—by almost six inches.

  “Hey, fuck you, Mia,” he retorts in a booming voice that resonates in our antiseptic quarters. “The name’s Tony, and I’m not sure what kind of priority bullshit you pulled with Roy, but the next cut was supposed to be mine. He’s gonna hear about this!”

  “Then why are you still talking to me? Looking for balls? Maybe Harry can fix you up.” She uses the Marlboros as a pointing device, directing them toward the genitalia of the dead marine.

  “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Mia!” he retorts, his face tight and red.

  Man, that guy looks really pissed.

  “The Marlboro Man and this fine specimen from the teams is what’s coming to me,” she says, shifting the pack of smokes toward me. “Next in line for CQB training. So, when you run out of bullets ‘cause you’re such a lousy shot, maybe I’ll come rescue your little ass.”

  The agent storms away spewing a chain of obscenities.

  “What’s eating him?” Mia asks to no one in particular.

  Keeping both hands inside the body, Yanez says in his forensic voice, “Special Agent Rossi is working the fatal stabbing case of a John Doe in Portsmouth that occurred at twenty-three-hundred hours yesterday in the front seat of a stolen Cadillac Escalade SUV that the victim was driving. According to a grainy surveillance video from a security camera at a bank across the street, a man entered the rear door of the SUV at a stop sign and presumably stabbed the victim from behind before jumping out and escaping. He had no ID or phone with him, was pronounced dead at the scene, and was next in line here so I could ID him. I also need to compare the direction of the wounds in his abdomen with those in his clothing and the seat cover and help corroborate the video surveillance, since the tinted windows prevented a view of the actual alleged stabbing. And by the way, I was also supposed to be cutting Petty Office Franklin from yesterday’s shooting. But your dead marine mysteriously jumped to the front of my backlog. So, John Doe and Franklin are chilling in there waiting their turn.” He uses the scalpel to point to one of the body coolers, before shifting the tip to the double doors. “Special Agent Rossi is out there cursing like a sailor, and Special Agent Howard, who’s working the Franklin case, is going to wander in here any moment now.”