Over and Again
Casus Fortuitus #4
Brooke Edwards
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, names, characters, places and incidents is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Brooke Edwards.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the publisher, except brief quotations in reviews or articles.
Published by Brooke Edwards.
Author contact:
www.brookeedwardsauthor.com
brookeedwards.blog
www.facebook.com/brookeedwardsauthor
[email protected]
Editing: Pinny’s Proofreading
Cover Design: Soxsational Cover Art
Formatting: The Graphics and Formatting Shed
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Brooke Edwards
1
Brock Hart has been around the block more than once. A couple of decades in the courtroom gives someone a different perspective on the world, he’s found. Not to paint them all with the same brush, but most of the lawyers he knows tend to operate on a grayer morality scale than the wider population. Some cling to the law as this lofty ideal, something that you don’t have to go outside of to seek justice. Others have seen one too many failures where the law hasn’t done the job it was supposed to. Brock’s seen a lot of those failures over the years.
That’s not to say that he doesn’t love the law. It’s been his weapon for most of his life, and he’s used it to serve justice to those most deserving of it for a long time. He’d become an Assistant United States Attorney a few weeks before he turned thirty, and his fiftieth birthday is looming ever closer. It would be easy to get lost in looking at the empty apartment in Washington, D.C. that he spends less than a third of his life in as a failure too, if not for the fact that there are thousands of scumbags in prison because of it. It’s a job that requires dedication and sacrifice to do properly. In Brock’s experience, anyway. Two lawyers isn’t a pairing that works, and people in most other professions don’t generally tolerate more than a couple of missed birthdays or anniversaries before cutting and running. Brock’s seen the crash and burn of both.
Being alone is easier. He has connections and friends, by the loosest definition. There are people he’d call if he was in trouble who aren’t his family. That’s enough for him, and also the reason he finds himself packing up his hotel room in the middle of the night to head back to New York.
Derek Moore had wormed his way under Brock’s guard a few years back. Whip-smart and with a better grasp of reality than most of the starry-eyed graduates Brock’s mentored over the years, Brock had pulled some strings to get him into a position that he probably wouldn’t have qualified for without a few more years of experience. Brock had taken the lead on prosecuting Coy Fairhall for his own satisfaction as much as for the sake of duty. The human trafficking case he’d been dealing with had been waiting when he returned, and had only been wrapped up a couple of days ago. There was a distant memory of hearing about Fairhall’s escape, but it obviously hadn’t sunk all the way in, because the email from Marian Andrews catches him entirely off guard. Snippets jump out as he glances over it, but the last paragraph leaves him with a hollow, cold feeling in his chest.
We’ve lost Moore for the foreseeable future at least, from what I’ve heard. How do you feel about setting up here for a while?
Marian
Brock’s willingness to pick up and move has always made him a valuable asset to the Department of Justice. Even if Marian hadn’t reached out, Brock expects that the offer would have come through an official channel in the next few days anyway. He’d helped clean up the aftermath the first time around, and sure as hell planned to make sure the loose ends got tied up properly this time too. He might not have many friends, but Derek Moore is one of them. If there’s any justice to be had with Fairhall dead, Brock’s going to make sure they get it.
None of the training or simulations at the Academy really prepared Cohen Bailey for what being a police officer was actually going to be like. There were long stretches of dull things, traffic infractions and noise complaints and petty theft, but Cohen hadn’t even been sworn-in for a month before he and his partner had responded to what turned out to be a murder. Four years later, the last of them in the heart of New York City, and it’s a pleasant change of pace when a month goes by without responding to something that would have given him nightmares once upon a time. Still, he knows he’s got a long way to go before he becomes as jaded as some of the officers he works with. Part of him wants to hold on to whatever is left of the teenager who’d decided at his sophomore year career day that it wasn’t just a childhood dream anymore and he wanted to become a police officer to save people. It gets smaller and smaller with every case, every time all they end up being able to do is pick up the pieces left behind.
It doesn’t leave Cohen much time to mull over the fact that the extent of his personal life was a quickly ignited crush on his Captain. One that pretty much burned out when the man lied to his face to slip away and confront a psychotic killer who’d been stalking the city—most notably, James’s prosecutor boyfriend—for weeks with dead animals, and then dead criminals. Most things don’t withstand a reality check like that, and it was a relief when it went away, honestly. It had been kind of obvious, to everyone except James evidently, and his relationship with his fellow officers improved afterward.
That was the most important thing at this point—that the people he’s grown to care about through all the time on the streets together are safe. Coy Fairhall’s escape and second rampage through the city had brought them all closer together, especially with the proof of how fragile life is. Cohen’s just happy that they all survived it this time around too, with the bonus of a few more friends to lean on. That’s his priority right now. He’s still young, after all. Plenty of time to find someone to come home to after a hard case.
Cohen has spent the last two days waiting for anything more than Daniel’s sparse text messages. He spent the whole afternoon that they’d left for Albany compulsively checking his cell while trying to coordinate a group of stressed, worried cops into a unit that could catch up to Jake Bartlett the second he showed his face. Roger Murphy had stayed in James’s office for most of the afternoon. The next day had been even worse, and now it’s Day Three, and he’s running on maybe six hours of sleep that entire time—if he rounds up. He’s still glaring at his cell, silent and damning on his desk, when someone’s fingers close around his wrist and yank. Kay’s eyes are wide and on the bloodshot side, but her makeup is perfect and the smile on her face terrifying. He doesn’t resist as she pulls him to his feet and hauls him toward one of the conference rooms, just lets her push him down into one of the chairs and shut the door.
“They’re not going to be back for a while,” she says, boosting herself up to sit on the table. Her heels barely brush the ground. “Sam called me this morning. James is going to need some physical therapy, they don’t know how much. Broke his leg in a couple places and tore something in his hip. Not crippling, from what Sam said, but bad enough that he’ll end up behind his desk permanently.”
Cohen nods sharply. His heart hurts for James, knowing how long he’d been on the force and how much it meant to him, but being alive is more important. He can appreciat
e that. “Derek?” he asks, and Kay’s eyes drop away from his.
“They said that his concussion from coming out of the cab was probably worse than he let on. A second, bigger one within a couple weeks rattled him good.” She smooths out the fabric of her pants and then looks back up at him. “He’s conscious now, and remembers who they all are, so they think it’s probably not major. He doesn’t remember much about being up there, or what happened. Just hard to figure out how much, and how serious, any damage is while he’s still on painkillers.”
“Probably best that they stay where they can get the best help and care,” Cohen says after a moment of silence. The thought of James not returning for an indeterminate period of time makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end, but he sits up straighter to hide the shiver. “What about Callahan?”
“Danny’ll be back tomorrow,” Kay says, and a smile curls the corners of her mouth. “You can punch him for sucking at relaying information back, I promise I’ll deny seeing anything.”
Cohen can’t hold back the snort of laughter, and Kay’s smile gets wider. She slides off the table and pats him on the shoulder on her way to the door. “You did good, rookie,” she says and disappears into the bullpen.
Still shaking off the indignity, Cohen barely hears the first call of his name. The second is louder, and closer to him. Kay’s head and shoulders appear around the door. “Someone’s here to see you, Officer Bailey,” she says, and one eyebrow lifts as she smirks. “Requested whoever is dealing with the Bartlett case.”
It takes a second for Cohen to realize that that’s him. With Daniel still in Albany and Rhys off-shift today, anyway. He shoots to his feet, the chair spinning away from him in a slow, wobbly arc. Kay rolls her eyes and jerks her head toward the bullpen before disappearing again.
Cohen makes it to the doorway at the same time as a tall redheaded man in an ash-gray suit. His eyes are clear and vaguely gray too, and there’s something familiar about him. Cohen clears his throat, tugging at the bottom of his uniform shirt before squaring his shoulders. “Cohen Bailey,” he says and reaches out. “How can I help you?”
“Brock Hart, Assistant United States Attorney,” the man says, and he ignores Cohen’s outstretched hand to point into the conference room. “I’d like to know everything you know about Jake Bartlett.”
Daniel twirls the keys to the rental SUV around his fingers, tugging the neck of his shirt with his other hand. Derek’s brother-in-law Ben is considerably bigger than him, so the shirt gapes under his arms and around the collar. He guesses he’s just lucky that Ben had the foresight to pack any changes of clothes at all. Obviously he hadn’t exactly been thinking ahead to three days down the road when they’d left. Peter had borrowed a pair of scrubs from the nicest nurse they’d encountered at the hospital the first night, and braved a laundromat to clean their clothes. Daniel’s shirt had ended up suspiciously tight when Peter had returned with it, so he’d taken Ben up on the offer of a spare outfit. The hotel room had been cramped, but comfortable enough to sleep during the hours they weren’t at the hospital.
James had started to come around a few hours after they arrived at the hospital. Sam and Lydia disappeared into his room while Daniel fidgeted in the waiting room. Being around Derek’s parents hadn’t been so awkward since the first summer he’d tagged along for their family trip. Genevieve had hugged him when she’d pulled herself away from Lara and Ben, her face tearstained and pale, and Clinton had shaken his hand. He doesn’t remember introducing Peter, but assumes he did because they all sat there in silence together until a doctor came out and had taken the Moores into a room.
Peter dragged him out into the parking lot and made him sit on one of the benches, muttering something about sun. It was closing in on dusk, but Daniel didn’t argue. They’d waited out there until Sam and Lydia, the Moores, and Ben had come through the exit.
Sam and Lydia had mustered smiles and told him that James was awake and coherent for a while, which was a good sign. Clinton and Genevieve didn’t say much at all, but Ben leaned close and said that they were keeping Derek under for a while, before he and Lara followed the older couple further into the parking lot. Peter’s hand stays in Daniel’s, grounding and warm, through the silent ride back to a hotel with Sam and Lydia. Daniel doesn’t remember checking in or much at all before Peter had yanked the comforter up to his chin and tucked it in aggressively. The next day had been clearer. Tougher, but clearer. Daniel isn’t sure he’s ever going to forget the wreckage of the boathouse out on a secluded part of Lake George, or ever stop thinking about how differently it could have ended.
They hadn’t gone back to the hospital after visiting the scene. Peter had ordered room service and let Daniel slump against him while he picked at the food, not complaining at all but guiding Daniel’s head and shoulders down into his lap and playing gently with his hair until he drifted off instead.
The decision to leave isn’t an easy one, or one that Daniel even manages to make on his own. Sam was outside of James’s room when they arrived, and he’d pulled Daniel into a hug that had stolen the breath from his lungs. “They’re gonna be okay.” His voice shook in Daniel’s ear but his arms were steady. “They’re gonna be okay, so you can go.”
James was awake when he went into the room. Groggy, but awake enough to squeeze Daniel’s arm when he got close and offer a bleary smile. His left leg was elevated, a blanket draped over it, and he doesn’t even need to say anything for Daniel to read him.
“Of course I came,” he said, throat tight. “But I’ll get back on it, I promise.”
“Damn straight.” James’s voice is a rasp, but it’s stronger and steadier than in the nightmares that kept haunting Daniel. “See you when I get back, kiddo.”
That carries him through the ten minutes he spends at Derek’s bedside, trying to find relief in the fact that their last argument was lost to the effects of a couple of head traumas close together. Derek doesn’t wake up, but neither does Genevieve from her place slumped against the side of his bed.
Peter is waiting by the car when he gets there, squinting and with his hair lit up by the midmorning sun. Daniel’s lips twitch upward as he hits the central locking control, and Peter startles when the car chirps as it unlocks.
His “Hey, asshole!” is grossly fond, and something warm curls in Daniel’s chest as he swings into the driver’s side, starting the car and shifting into Reverse.
“You ready to head home?” he asks, adjusting the rearview mirror and slinging his arm across the back of Peter’s seat, brushing his fingers across the back of his neck in passing as he twists to check behind the car.
“Am I ever,” Peter says, stretching out with a pleased hum. “This has proven I’m a city rat, I actually missed the smog and noise.”
Brock isn’t surprised that Daniel Callahan isn’t around. Disappointed, maybe, but not surprised. The leadership vacuum is obvious even to an outsider, but Cohen Bailey is younger than Brock would have expected him to be, as well versed in this particular case as he is. Competent enough, he learns quickly, but young all the same. His nervous tics are painfully obvious, tapping fingers and the muscle jumping in his cheek made worse by the bruised shadows under his eyes. Brock isn’t surprised at that either, not with what Marian had said in her email. He’d caught himself on the verge of typing out messages to Derek more than once over the last couple of days.
It’s barely been two days since he learned it, but Brock already wants to go back to the days before he knew Jake Bartlett’s name. There’s a vicious satisfaction in knowing that Coy Fairhall won’t ever breathe again, but Jake Bartlett’s rap sheet and mugshot have carved out a place of their own at the back of Brock’s mind. It takes something special to make it there. He slides one of his cards across the table until it rests under Cohen’s fingers.
“My cell number is on the back,” he says, willing back the tired itch in his eyes. “I’m staying downtown.”
“I’ll pass it along.�
�� Cohen’s mouth twitches slightly, and Brock doesn’t have time to figure out whether it’s a yawn or a smile before it’s gone. The younger man’s expression wavers, tiredness and professionalism warring for control. Brock holds out a hand, and Cohen shakes it firmly. His hands are large and solid, and the rough calluses along the bases of his fingers drag against Brock’s palm when he releases his grip. His lips turn up into a tiny smile, one that doesn’t make it to his eyes but doesn’t seem any less genuine for it.
“We’ll be in touch,” Brock says, tucking his hand into his pocket and turning on his heel. The officers in the bullpen watch him from the corners of their eyes as he passes, and the receptionist doesn’t even bother to disguise the fact. Her gaze sticks to him as he passes, watching his progress without so much as blinking.
The breeze carries exhaust fumes when the outside air hits Brock a few minutes later, and he breathes out as some of the tension leeches out of his shoulders. Wet asphalt and smog hang heavy in his nose, and he plucks at the fabric of his shirt where it sticks to his chest. The pavement is spotted with spatters of rain, but they get fainter and dry up right before his eyes. He always misses New York when he’s anywhere else, and wonders why when he gets back.
Brock turns right and starts walking, rolling his shoulders back and stretching his neck out. The hum of traffic and the pounding of hundreds of feet on the pavement around him settles in his ears. Eight-and-a-half-million people crammed into a city barely three hundred square miles is a hell of a feat, and he always forgets just a little every time he spends time away. The sharp edge of his fingernail catches at the mound of his thumb as Brock remembers how much harder it becomes to find someone in such a densely populated area. Manhunts in crowded cities are never ideal because unless you incite panic and lock it down, if someone doesn’t want to be found there are just too many people to get lost in.
Over and Again Page 1
