Beside me, Julia roused awake despite my best attempts to be quiet. “Mmm. Hey there.” Her voice was thick with sleep.
“Hey,” I returned.
She rolled over to face me. “What time is it?”
“It’s late. I’m sorry,” I whispered roughly. “I lost track of time.”
“There’s leftover pizza if you’re hungry,” she murmured sleepily. “I didn’t realize you’d be gone all night.”
“I already apologized,” I said tightly.
“Hush,” she chastised. Her hand sought out my hipbone beneath the sheets. “I’m not trying to start a fight.”
“Sorry,” I repeated, my kindling anger sufficiently snuffed.
I heard her sharp intake of air. “Were you smoking?”
“I had a cigarette,” I didn’t lie.
“Is everything alright?”
“Besides going to a funeral today for a military buddy who killed himself?”
Julia’s hand slipped away.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed out into the room. “I don’t want to take it out on you. But I’m ... I’m pissed,” I decided. “Reilly. What a fucking asshole. I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” I was quick to clarify, “but fuck, what a selfish prick. Pense lost both of his legs in the desert, and you don’t see him taking target practice with his head.”
My body vibrated with anger. Maybe it was the beer or maybe it was the buzz of the cigarette that had loosened my tongue. I waited for Julia’s response, but still she remained silent.
I heard the rustling of sheets and felt the movement of the mattress beneath me as Julia got out of bed.
“Where are you going?” I called to her.
“The bathroom,” she threw over her shoulder.
The bathroom light went on, momentarily flooding the room with its light before Julia shut the door behind her, casting me back into darkness. I lay on my back with my hands under my head and waited for her return as I stared up at the ceiling.
At the funeral I hadn’t felt much of anything; I’d been too uncomfortable in my surroundings. That discomfort had returned in full force in the home of Geoff Reilly’s mother as she’d fed Pensacola and me and had insisted I take a keepsake. It had only been at the bar with Pensacola that I’d had the opportunity to reflect on how Reilly’s death made me feel. I assumed he had suffering from survivor guilt—he may have even had PTSD—but Reilly hadn’t experienced hardship. He hadn’t witnessed the scattered brains and guts and limbs of our friends after the dirty bomb had gone off. He hadn’t had to jump into roadside ditches every time a vehicle rumbled by. He hadn’t had to drag Terrance Pensacola halfway across Hell. He’d had experienced anything; he’d been laid up at home base with diarrhea.
I continued to stew in my indignant anger, but I couldn’t help noticing how quiet it was. Despite how thin the walls were, I heard no sounds coming from the bathroom.
“Julia?” I called out.
When she didn’t respond, I climbed out of bed. A thin line of light spilled out from beneath the closed bathroom door. I pressed my ear to the door, but still heard nothing. I tried the door handle and, finding it unlocked, I gingerly pushed the door open.
Julia stood in front of the bathroom sink. Her eyes were shut and she hadn’t noticed my entrance. One hand clenched the edge of the countertop, and with the aid of the vanity mirror, I could see her other hand covering her mouth. Her back and shoulders sloped forward and her entire body shook with barely masked tears.
Seeing her tangible anguish caused something to click for me, triggering a memory about her past. We’d been sitting on a wooden pier in Embarrass at her family’s cabin when she’d told her about her brother. Jonathan had been separated military personnel like myself. He’d committed suicide not long after returning from war.
I’d been so concerned with myself and what Reilly’s had death meant to me, I’d never once stopped to think about how going to the funeral of a veteran who’d committed suicide might affect her. Jonathan had completely slipped from my mind.
My mouth fell open. “I’m an idiot.”
Julia whipped her head in my direction, my presence noticed for the first time. Her hand remained over her mouth, and her eyes were lined in exhaustion.
“Julia, I—.”
She cut me off. “I need a minute.”
I could only jump backwards and out of the way as the bathroom door closed in my face.
+ + +
Julia was silent all the next morning. She hadn’t said anything when she’d returned to bed the previous night. She didn’t speak when we got ready to leave or when we checked out of the hotel. I’d become so accustomed to the silent treatment that our wheeled suitcases sounded like a steamroller and her kitten heels pounded like a sledgehammer as we crossed the paved parking lot to where I’d left her car.
I stowed our suitcases in the trunk, but before I could round the car to go to the passenger side, Julia jangled her key ring. She still said nothing, but she tossed the keys in my general direction, indicating that I was driving. It surprised me; with the exception of driving to Geoff Reilly’s house, she’d never let me drive her car before.
The return drive to Minneapolis continued to be unsettlingly silent. Neither of us touched the car radio, which only made the silence more apparent. I focused on the road while a light rain spattered against the windshield and Julia stared out the passenger-side window, effectively ignoring me for the entirety of the four-hour drive.
I drove us back to her St. Paul condo and parked in her designated parking spot. When she reached for the passenger door handle, I hit the automatic locks, preventing either of us from leaving. This had gone on for far too long.
“You need to say something,” I told her. “I know I screwed up, but you can’t shut me out.”
Julia stared straight ahead instead of looking at me. “You’re allowed to be angry with your friend, but you should know better than anyone that not all war wounds are visible.”
“I know, I know. And I’m sorry I said those things about Reilly. I wasn’t thinking. I totally forgot about your brother.”
“Maybe you should stay at your own apartment tonight.”
Her words jerked out of my melancholy fog. “What? Why?”
Julia balled her hands into tight fists on her lap. “I need time, Cassidy.”
“For what?” I asked, not understanding.
“I need to think about things,” came her vague response.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek until it hurt. “I don’t think I like where this is going.”
“I was a fool,” she said, shaking her head. “Getting involved with someone who could … be like Jonathan.”
“I’m not your brother. I’m not going anywhere,” I insisted. “I wouldn’t do that.”
She finally turned to me. The pain etched on her features made my heart ache. “Just give me a little time, Cassidy,” she pled.
“Not too much, I hope?”
I hated the sad smile she gave me in response.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Hey, Miller. How’s it going?”
I stomped into the Cold Case office on Monday morning. The room was empty except for Sarah Conrad who sat at the central worktable. She didn’t look in my direction; her attention was on her cell phone, texting with one of her many paramours, no doubt.
“Hey,” I curtly greeted. I dumped my duffle bag on my desk along with my motorcycle helmet. “Anything happen while I was gone?”
Between the trip to Tracey Green’s parents’ house in St. Cloud and Geoff Reilly’s funeral in Fargo, I hadn’t been back to the office in several days.
“Nope.”
I exhaled loudly and logged onto my work e-mail. Before my inbox could refresh, Sarah’s smiling face appeared above my computer monitor.
“So … how did it go?” she sing-songed.
I knew what she was talking about. She wasn’t curious about Geoff Reilly’s funeral. I kept my eyes trained on the computer
screen.
I heard Sarah’s knowing chuckle. “That good, eh?”
“No comment.”
I was feeling sour that day, but not only because Julia and I weren’t speaking. With no real leads since Sarah had tracked down Tracey Green’s family, I was beginning to feel stir-crazy sitting at a desk. A House Mouse is what we called them upstairs—a cop who rarely left the Precinct building.
I scanned over the typical e-mails. Construction updates on the new police academy facility. Reminders about signing pay sheets. Notices of birthday cake in the break room. One message jumped out from amongst the others. It was dated from the previous Friday when I’d been in Fargo. The subject line read: Urgent.
Detective Miller,
I came across something today that might be helpful to your investigation. I’d rather speak to you personally about it, however, rather than over e-mail or phone. Could you meet me Monday morning?
Regards,
Victoria A. LeVitre
She had sent no secondary messages to follow up when I hadn’t replied. In my hurry to get to Reilly’s funeral, I’d forgotten to put up my Out of Office automatic reply.
“Hey, Sarah, did Victoria LeVitre call the office while I was gone?”
“Not that I know of. I wasn’t in on Friday though. The answering machine was empty when I checked this morning.”
“Does Stanley have a record-keeping system for phone messages?”
She gestured toward his workstation. “He typically leaves post-it notes on your desk if a call comes for you when you’re out of the office.”
I checked around my immediate desk area, including behind my computer monitor and on the floor. If Mrs. LeVitre had called when I didn’t immediately respond to her e-mail, there was no sign of a message.
Sarah strolled over to my desk. “What’s up?”
“LeVitre sent me an e-mail saying she found something that might be useful to the case. That was from Friday though, and she didn’t follow up.”
“Probably forgot between her rounds of golf or tennis or whatever rich people do,” Sarah retorted.
I dug through the top pullout drawer in my desk and found the business card Mrs. LeVitre had given me upon our second meeting. She didn’t technically have a job or office number, but the card listed a cell phone number and her e-mail.
I tried the number from my office phone, but it only rang and went to voicemail.
“Mrs. LeVitre, this is Detective Cassidy Miller.” I tried to keep the frustration out of my tone. “I’m sorry I missed your e-mail on Friday. Please call this number back at your earliest convenience to reschedule.”
My cell phone chirped with an incoming text message nearly the moment I hung up the office phone. My heart leapt at the prospect that it might be from Julia, but the phone message wasn’t from her.
“Is that her?” Sarah asked.
I stared at the three-letter message: S.O.S.
“When it rains,” I muttered.
I required no further notice, no additional instructions. I hopped up from my office chair, causing the legs to scrape across the floor.
“Damn, where’s the fire, Miller?”
“I’ve gotta go.” I grabbed my bike helmet and pulled it on, even though I was still inside.
“Go? Where?”
“Text me if LeVitre decides to call back,” I called on my way out the door.
I didn’t linger longer with excuses or explanations. I had somewhere to be.
+ + +
Adan sat by himself in a booth in his light blue police shirt and dark blue tie. He shuffled a ceramic coffee cup back and forth between his thin, tan hands. The bar was popular with cops, both on-duty and off, but everyone I knew left the beer for non-working hours.
He looked up at the sound of my heavy motorcycle boots.
“Is she here?”
I felt breathless even though I’d driven, not run, to the bar.
Adan shook his head.
I slid across the booth bench on the opposite side. “Do you know what’s going on? Anything on the radio?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just got in to work though. They’ve got me on second shift these days.”
It dawned on me for the first time since I’d taken the job with the cold case division that there was no police radio in our office. Unless someone bothered to call or physically come down to our basement office, we were essentially cut off from the day-to-day activities of beat cops.
I’d only ever gotten the S.O.S. text once before. We’d established the procedure within my group of cop friends not soon after graduating from the academy. If the shit hit the fan—if something happened while on duty—the text signaled a need to meet, like Batman’s spotlight in the night sky.
I started to compose a text message to Rich to see if he was coming or if he had any information, but he arrived at our table before I could send it.
“Hey,” he grunted in greeting. He looked sufficiently rumpled in his white dress shirt rolled to his elbows and dress pants in need of a hot iron.
“Do you know what happened?” I demanded.
“Her Rookie got hurt. Stabbed or shot, I think. The news was just coming across my desk when I got her text.”
I dropped my head in my hands. “Fuck this week.”
Rich cocked his head. “Why? What else is going on?”
I would have explained myself if not for spotting Angie coming through the front door. She was no longer in her uniform. I leapt from my seat and enveloped her in a hug. Her skin was warm and damp as though she’d taken a shower and hadn’t bothered to dry off completely.
Her arms were tight around my ribcage as if she expected me to flee. Neither of us said a word, and Adam and Rich had the good sense to let us have this moment. When Angie finally pulled away, the exhaustion was writ across her features. I grabbed a handful of cheap, flimsy white napkins and helped her dry her eyes and blow her nose.
“Come on, sit down,” I urged. “Let’s get you something to drink. Are you hungry?” My hand went in the air to signal the bartender.
Angie slumped into the booth with me while Rich slid in next to Adan. The four of us sat in the tiny booth in silence, save for the ceramic clink of metal stirring spoons hitting against coffee cups as the bartender—a steely-eyed military veteran named Jake—continued to refill our cups.
Angie breathed out roughly. “Stupid Boot.”
I glanced briefly in Rich’s direction. Working in Internal Affairs, he had more experience with this kind of thing than any of us.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Rich pressed.
“Is this on or off the record?” she wearily asked.
“Off—of course. This is your friend asking, not some nark from IA.”
Angie stared down at the hands clutching her coffee cup. “Everything routine has to be a production with him. It can never just be easy.” She looked up and glanced around the table. “I told ya’ll he forgot to put the car in park during his first traffic stop, right?” She snorted and shook her head. “Stupid Boot.”
I grabbed her knee under the table and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“I had to tell him every day—take your time, Boot. Stop. Think. Listen. But he never did. Forgot every day.” She licked her lips before continuing. “They told us in F.T.O. training how cops with partners get hurt more often than the ones who patrol on their own. You get this false sense of security—like, my partner’s got my back. I can rush in. I’m invincible.”
She choked down an unexpected sob and hid her mouth behind her coffee cup.
I wanted to tell her that it was okay to cry—especially in front of us—but the consolation got stuck in my throat.
“Is there anything we can do?” I offered instead. “Is there anything you need?”
“Not unless you wanna go to the hospital for me and tell his family why their son’s in the ICU.”
The final member of our group finally arrived, red faced and flustered. Lik
e Adan, Brent was still in his uniform. “I got here as soon as I could,” he bellowed. “What happened? What’d I miss?”
Angie turned her face into my shoulder and my arm reflexively went around her. I held her close and made no comment when I felt my shirt grow increasingly damp.
+ + +
Nobody likes hospitals. I doubted even medical staff were particularly fond of them. The antiseptic smell. The visual reminders of sickness and one’s mortality. With the exception of when Pensacola’s wife had gone into labor early, I’d done my best to avoid them. I’d spent enough time in the VA hospital after getting torn up by an IED that I didn’t need to visit the doctor anytime soon.
The waiting room of Regions Hospital reminded me of a chapel. The lighting had been dimmed and everything was decorated in light and dark blues—soothing and somber at the same time. Small groups huddled together in tight circles like campers around a bonfire. They spoke in hushed tones and avoided eye contact with others until doctors dressed all in white arrived to relay updates about loved ones.
I held onto Angie’s elbow in silent support as we walked up to one of the waiting groups. Those older than me held hands and engaged in quiet conversation. The younger ones sat separately, engaged by their phones or handheld gaming systems.
Angie cleared her throat. “Mrs. Andrews?”
One of the women turned from her protective huddle and looked in our direction. She was small and thin with straight silver hair that reached the tops of her shoulders. “Yes?”
Her eyes stopped first on Angie and then on me. We must have made an unusual pair with me in my dress clothes and she in the athletic wear she’d changed into after the incident. Neither of us looked like we worked at the hospital, which surely added to her confusion.
“My name is Angela Johnson,” Angie began. “I’m—.”
“Zachary’s partner, of course!” Without warning, she grabbed Angie into a tight hug.
I knew my friend lacked the sentimentality to be comfortable with hugs from strangers, but she handled herself well. She remained still while her partner’s mom cried into her shoulder.
Cold Blooded Lover Page 17
