Post by mlm828 on Oct 26, 2006 23:27:15 GMT -5
Episode 23: “Drive-by Shooting”
Day One
Scene One
“Mornin’, Jim,” Karen said as Jim and Hank walked into the squad room. When Jim reached his desk and took off his coat, she took one look at his mismatched outfit and almost choked on her coffee. Lt. Fisk, who had followed Jim into the squad room, did a double-take. He motioned to Karen, Marty and Tom to come into his office. They followed him, moving as quietly as they could.
“OK, guys,” Fisk began after Marty closed the door, “who’s gonna tell him?”
The three detectives looked at each other. Finally Marty spoke up. “Why do we need to tell him?” he asked. “He’ll never know the difference.”
“C’mon, Marty, he’s sure to find out or figure it out eventually. Then he’ll know we didn’t tell him. We gotta tell him,” Karen asserted.
“It’s not in my job description,” Fisk said firmly. He looked at Karen. “He’s your partner.” Karen groaned and rolled her eyes.
“We’ll make ourselves scarce,” Tom told her, with a glance at Marty, who nodded his agreement.
When she was back at her desk and Tom and Marty had disappeared into the locker room, Karen rolled her chair closer to Jim’s desk. “Uh, Jim – ” she began.
“Yeah?” Jim asked, tilting his head quizzically.
“I hate to say this, but . . . .”
“C’mon, Karen, I know something’s going on. Just spit it out.”
“OK, it’s about what you’re wearing. Uh, your jacket and tie don’t . . . well, they don’t match the rest.”
Jim nodded, as if to himself, but didn’t say anything. Karen gave him a worried look, hoping she hadn’t embarrassed him. “I look like a blind guy picked out my clothes – is that what you’re telling me?” he finally asked, with a grin.
“Uh, yeah,” she agreed, relieved. “Christie didn’t say anything?” she asked.
“She had to leave for work early,” Jim explained. “I must’ve misread the tags,” he added, with a bemused expression. “Or maybe I just forgot.” He shrugged, then asked, with a little grin, “So what am I wearing?”
“Black pants and a blue shirt, with a brown and red striped tie and a brown jacket.”
“Oh.” He fingered his tie thoughtfully.
Karen noticed Tom and Marty returning and gave them a thumbs-up. When Jim heard them at their desks, he stood up, holding his hands out at his sides. “What d’you think, guys?” he asked, deadpan. “My wife says it’s the latest thing, you know, a fashion statement.” Karen looked away from Tom and Marty and smothered a laugh.
“I dunno, Jim,” Tom said. “It’s kinda – different. But I guess she’d know, wouldn’t she?”
“Jeez, Tom,” Marty told him, “get a clue. She didn’t really say that, right, Jim?”
“Right,” Jim confirmed with a smile. Marty pointed at Tom and gave him a knowing look, while Karen smiled to herself.
Jim sat back down at his desk and opened his laptop. While he waited for the computer to boot up, he reflected on what had just happened. He knew he’d made the right call, playing his clothing mix-up for laughs, and he had to admit it was funny. When he first went back on the job, he’d tried to downplay his blindness, hoping his co-workers would eventually come to think of him as just another detective, and not “the blind detective.” He knew now that he’d been kidding himself. That wasn’t going to happen – especially not today. His mismatched clothes would remind everyone, all day long, that he couldn’t see.
The clothing mix-up wasn’t the only thing on Jim’s mind. Ever since those skinheads grabbed him off the street three nights ago, Christie had been distant. Last night was no exception. She barely spoke to him all evening, and when he joined her in bed, she turned away from him and wouldn’t accept a good-night kiss. In the morning, she was already up when the alarm went off. He heard her moving around the apartment, but she didn’t speak to him and seemed to be avoiding him. When he came out of the bathroom after shaving, she told him she had to be at work early and rushed out of the apartment. He heard the hasty tapping of her footsteps and the front door closing, and she was gone. He knew what was bothering her, but he couldn’t do what she thought she wanted him to do. And he didn’t understand why she was shutting him out. It reminded him of how she had behaved toward him after learning of his affair. With a resigned sigh, he relegated his worries about Christie to the back of his mind and reached for his earpiece. There was nothing he could do about it until he got home tonight.
Fisk hung up his phone and came out of his office. “Who’s up?” he asked.
“I am,” Marty replied.
“We got a DOA,” Fisk told him, “Rivington Street, near Ludlow. Looks like it may be a drive-by.”
Marty groaned as he took a slip of paper from Fisk’s hand.
“Hit it,” the lieutenant ordered.
Scene Two
From the driver’s seat, Karen glanced over at Jim. She wasn’t sure she should say anything. Finally she spoke up, hesitantly. “I hope you don’t mind, I mean, me telling you about – you know.”
“How else would I know?”
“I just thought – you know, maybe you’d rather not know.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Jim told her dryly. “I don’t have to look at myself.”
“OK.” Karen dropped the subject, and they rode in silence until she stopped the car at the perimeter. “We’re here.”
Jim took her arm, and they ducked under the crime scene tape to join Marty, Tom, and the patrol sergeant, standing next to the DOA on the sidewalk.
“What’ve we got?” Karen asked them.
“White male, multiple gunshot wounds,” the sergeant summarized. “Happened around eight this morning, maybe a few minutes before. Neighbors saw a black SUV and heard male voices shouting “Rivington” just before the shots. No one got a good look at the shooter, or if they did, they’re too scared to say so. ID in the victim’s wallet says he’s Paul Glover, lives over on Orchard. There’s also an employee ID from Downtown Mercy Medical Center – apparently he’s a nurse there. Crime scene’s on the way.”
“We need to start a canvass, see if anyone saw or heard anything,” Karen said.
“OK,” Marty agreed. “We’ll wait until crime scene gets here and get them started, then canvass this side of the street.”
“We’ll take the other side,” Karen said. Jim took her arm, and they headed across the street.
Scene Three
“What’ve you got so far?” Fisk asked, perched on the desk opposite Jim’s.
“Crime scene found a couple of casings, probably nine millimeters,” Marty replied, adding, “but if it’s gang-related, there’s not much chance of finding the gun to match them to.”
“Yeah,” Fisk agreed. “What about the canvass?”
Tom shook his head. “Not much, boss. Most of the neighbors claimed they didn’t see or hear anything. More likely, they know it’s a gang shooting, and they’re just too scared to talk.”
“Did you get anything?” Fisk asked, with a frustrated frown.
“We found one lady whose apartment is right above where the victim was found – Elena Rios. She’s one of the ones who called it in. She says she didn’t see the actual shooting, just heard some guys yelling ‘Rivington,’ then the shots right after. When she looked out her window, she saw the DOA lying on the sidewalk. She only saw one car on the street, a black SUV, driving away. It was already too far away for her to see the rear plate.”
Karen spoke up. “A woman who lives across the street --” She consulted her notebook. “ – a Mildred Tanner – told us she saw a black SUV just before the shots. She said it was going real slow and looked like it was following the victim. There wasn’t anyone else on the street. It didn’t look right, so she kept watching. Just before the shots were fired, she saw an arm come out of the rear passenger window – it looked like someone was pointing at the victim. Then the SUV slowed down some more, and she heard men yelling – she said she couldn’t make out any words, but it sounded like several men’s voices – then she saw the gun sticking out of the front passenger window and heard the shots.”
“Did she give you any descriptions of anyone in the vehicle?” Fisk asked.
“No,” Karen replied, “she was looking down from the fourth floor. All she could see was the hand of the person who pointed out the victim, she said it looked dark-skinned. The shooter was wearing a jacket and gloves, so she couldn’t see his skin color.”
“You think the Rivington Street gang did the shooting?” Fisk asked.
“Yeah,” Marty answered, “the location is right in the middle of their territory.”
“What about the DOA? Any connection to the gang?” the lieutenant asked.
Jim shook his head, then continued. “He’s been definitely ID’d as Paul Glover, 37 years old. He worked as a registered nurse on the orthopedic floor at Downtown Mercy since moving here from Chicago about two years ago. No local family. No record. No known gang affiliation. His supervisor said he worked a twelve-hour shift overnight, got off a little after 7:00 this morning, so he must have been on his way home. She doesn’t know of any motive for the shooting, said he was well-liked, a good nurse, very patient-oriented.”
“Damn,” Fisk commented, frowning, “another random gang drive-by.”
“I’ve been thinking – ” Jim began.
“There’s something new,” Marty quipped.
Jim ignored him and continued. “ – about the DOA. What if it wasn’t random?”
“C’mon, Jim,” Marty protested, “it’s gotta be random, just claiming their territory. The guy has no record, no connection to any of Rivington’s rivals, nothing that would give them any reason to target him.”
“Nothing we know of,” Jim pointed out.
“What do you mean?” Karen asked.
“It just means we don’t know of anything. It doesn’t mean there isn’t anything,” Jim explained.
“So what are you suggesting?” Fisk asked.
“The witness across the street said the SUV seemed to be following him, and someone in the vehicle pointed at him right before the shots. So maybe he wasn’t a random target. I think we should take a closer look at Mr. Glover.”
“What do you want to do?” Tom asked.
“For starters, let’s take a look at his apartment.”
Scene Four
“There’s nothing here,” Marty groused as he went through Glover’s desk. “You know, it sure would be nice if Dunbar came up with a bright idea once in a while that didn’t involve the rest of us doing all the work.”
“Marty, that’s – ” Karen began, glaring at him from across the living room.
Tom stepped out of the kitchen and interrupted her. “C’mon, man. You think Jim wouldn’t help us search if he could?”
“I know, I know,” Marty conceded, “he would if he could. But he can’t – that’s my point.”
“And whose fault is that?” Karen demanded, then answered her own question. “It sure as hell isn’t Jim’s.”
“I’m not blaming him for being blind – ” Marty began.
Karen interrupted him, “Oh, yeah? Sure sounds like it to me.”
“ – I just get a little tired of doing the legwork when he comes up with one of his brain waves.”
“You want him to stop clearing cases?” Tom asked.
“No, of course not,” Marty retorted, “I’m just sayin’, it’s weird, you know, the way he just sits there at his desk, staring at nothing like he does, and then he comes up with this stuff. I wonder if he did that before – you know, when he could see.”
“So ask him,” Tom challenged him.
“You’re kidding, right? I’d just get one of those not-looking looks of his.”
“Jesus, Marty, get over it,” Karen told him. She gave him an exasperated look, then went into Glover’s bedroom to continue the search.
“Guys,” she called out a few minutes later, “come here, I got something.”
When Marty and Tom entered the bedroom, Karen was kneeling on the floor next to a large plastic bin. Its cover was next to it on the floor. In it were bottles and plastic bags full of pills. “This,” she said, gesturing toward the bin, “was under the bed.”
Tom whistled, then muttered, “Holy shit.”
“It’s a fucking pharmacy,” Marty added.
“Yeah,” Karen agreed, “maybe we just found a motive.” She pulled out her phone to call Jim.
Scene Five
Jim hung up the phone and headed for Fisk’s office.
“We got something, boss,” he said, standing in the doorway.
Fisk looked up from his computer. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Karen found – she called it ‘a pharmacy’ – under Glover’s bed. They’re calling in the evidence techs to inventory it, but it looks like it’s mostly prescription drugs, Oxycontin, Vicodin, Klonopin, that kind of stuff.”
“Jesus,” Fisk muttered. “Where’d he get the stuff – the hospital?”
“Probably. He would have had access to all of those drugs there. And they’d be worth a lot on the street.”
“You’re thinking he was in competition with Rivington?”
Jim nodded. “Yeah. And I bet it got him killed.”
“Makes sense,” Fisk agreed, “but it’s only a theory unless we can get something to back it up.”
“I know. I thought I’d give Sonny a call, see if he’s heard anything on the street about Rivington taking out a competitor.”
“Do it,” Fisk ordered. “Then you might as well head home, when you’ve finished up your fives.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Good night,” Jim said, then headed back to his desk.
Scene Six
After dinner, Jim stopped Christie as she headed for the bedroom. “Where’re you going?” he asked.
“To do some reading,” she answered.
“That can wait,” he told her firmly, taking her by the arm and propelling her toward the couch. When they were sitting side by side, he turned toward Christie, a worried expression on his face. “We need to talk,” he said.
“What’s the point?” she asked bitterly.
“Christie – ” he chided her.
“All right,” she said, sighing resignedly. “Just say what you need to say.”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you, Jimmy – not really. It’s just the whole – situation.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked down for a moment before answering him. “I thought I could handle it – I thought I was handling it. But while you were missing the other night, it all came back to me. I was back at the hospital on the day you were shot – ” She broke off, taking a deep breath to steady herself before continuing. “ – waiting, not knowing if you were going to live or die. I just can’t – ” Her voice trembled. “I can’t stand here and watch you walk out the door every morning, knowing what could happen.”
“Do you think I don’t know what can happen?” Jim asked quietly, seeming to look past her.
Shaken, Christie stared at her husband. As she focused on his sightless gaze, the full impact of his words sank in. “Oh, God, Jimmy, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I – we’ve finally found each other again, and then I thought I’d lost you, all over again. . . and I know it’s going to happen again – I just don’t know when. I don’t think I can live with that.”
“But no one’s ever completely safe – you told me that yourself,” Jim reminded her.
“Yes, I know, but . . . .”
“Do you remember Ken Michaels?” Jim asked.
“Yes, of course,” Christie replied, wondering why Jim was bringing up their friend who had died of cancer a year and a half before.
“Remember when we went to see him and Sandy that time, after the doctors told him the cancer had spread?”
“Yes.”
“Something he said to me that day really stuck with me. He said, ‘You know, I could still outlive you.’ When I asked him what he meant, he told me, ‘A semi could take you out when you’re driving home on the LIE tonight. No one knows how much time he has. The only difference between you and me is I have a better idea.’”
Jim paused, resting his chin on his hands, trying to think of the best way to explain himself. Then he continued, “I’ve thought about that a lot, especially since I got shot. Because Ken was right. Anyone’s time could be up, any day. When I walk out the door in the morning, I can’t promise you I’ll come home that night. But you can’t promise that, either.”
“But, Jimmy – ” Christie began.
He cut her off. “The point isn’t how much time you have. It’s how you spend that time. If you’re telling me I have to give up who I am, it’s not worth it. Not to me it isn’t. Not after everything else I’ve had to give up.”
“I’m not asking you to give up anything, Jimmy.”
“Then what – ?”
“I just . . . don’t want to be afraid for you anymore.”
“I know.” Jim reached out to Christie and held her. She rested her head on his shoulder as he stroked her hair. She had known all along that she couldn’t ask Jim to give up being a cop. It was too great a sacrifice. But she also knew she couldn’t simply banish her fear. She would have to find a way to live with it. Somehow.
Day One
Scene One
“Mornin’, Jim,” Karen said as Jim and Hank walked into the squad room. When Jim reached his desk and took off his coat, she took one look at his mismatched outfit and almost choked on her coffee. Lt. Fisk, who had followed Jim into the squad room, did a double-take. He motioned to Karen, Marty and Tom to come into his office. They followed him, moving as quietly as they could.
“OK, guys,” Fisk began after Marty closed the door, “who’s gonna tell him?”
The three detectives looked at each other. Finally Marty spoke up. “Why do we need to tell him?” he asked. “He’ll never know the difference.”
“C’mon, Marty, he’s sure to find out or figure it out eventually. Then he’ll know we didn’t tell him. We gotta tell him,” Karen asserted.
“It’s not in my job description,” Fisk said firmly. He looked at Karen. “He’s your partner.” Karen groaned and rolled her eyes.
“We’ll make ourselves scarce,” Tom told her, with a glance at Marty, who nodded his agreement.
When she was back at her desk and Tom and Marty had disappeared into the locker room, Karen rolled her chair closer to Jim’s desk. “Uh, Jim – ” she began.
“Yeah?” Jim asked, tilting his head quizzically.
“I hate to say this, but . . . .”
“C’mon, Karen, I know something’s going on. Just spit it out.”
“OK, it’s about what you’re wearing. Uh, your jacket and tie don’t . . . well, they don’t match the rest.”
Jim nodded, as if to himself, but didn’t say anything. Karen gave him a worried look, hoping she hadn’t embarrassed him. “I look like a blind guy picked out my clothes – is that what you’re telling me?” he finally asked, with a grin.
“Uh, yeah,” she agreed, relieved. “Christie didn’t say anything?” she asked.
“She had to leave for work early,” Jim explained. “I must’ve misread the tags,” he added, with a bemused expression. “Or maybe I just forgot.” He shrugged, then asked, with a little grin, “So what am I wearing?”
“Black pants and a blue shirt, with a brown and red striped tie and a brown jacket.”
“Oh.” He fingered his tie thoughtfully.
Karen noticed Tom and Marty returning and gave them a thumbs-up. When Jim heard them at their desks, he stood up, holding his hands out at his sides. “What d’you think, guys?” he asked, deadpan. “My wife says it’s the latest thing, you know, a fashion statement.” Karen looked away from Tom and Marty and smothered a laugh.
“I dunno, Jim,” Tom said. “It’s kinda – different. But I guess she’d know, wouldn’t she?”
“Jeez, Tom,” Marty told him, “get a clue. She didn’t really say that, right, Jim?”
“Right,” Jim confirmed with a smile. Marty pointed at Tom and gave him a knowing look, while Karen smiled to herself.
Jim sat back down at his desk and opened his laptop. While he waited for the computer to boot up, he reflected on what had just happened. He knew he’d made the right call, playing his clothing mix-up for laughs, and he had to admit it was funny. When he first went back on the job, he’d tried to downplay his blindness, hoping his co-workers would eventually come to think of him as just another detective, and not “the blind detective.” He knew now that he’d been kidding himself. That wasn’t going to happen – especially not today. His mismatched clothes would remind everyone, all day long, that he couldn’t see.
The clothing mix-up wasn’t the only thing on Jim’s mind. Ever since those skinheads grabbed him off the street three nights ago, Christie had been distant. Last night was no exception. She barely spoke to him all evening, and when he joined her in bed, she turned away from him and wouldn’t accept a good-night kiss. In the morning, she was already up when the alarm went off. He heard her moving around the apartment, but she didn’t speak to him and seemed to be avoiding him. When he came out of the bathroom after shaving, she told him she had to be at work early and rushed out of the apartment. He heard the hasty tapping of her footsteps and the front door closing, and she was gone. He knew what was bothering her, but he couldn’t do what she thought she wanted him to do. And he didn’t understand why she was shutting him out. It reminded him of how she had behaved toward him after learning of his affair. With a resigned sigh, he relegated his worries about Christie to the back of his mind and reached for his earpiece. There was nothing he could do about it until he got home tonight.
Fisk hung up his phone and came out of his office. “Who’s up?” he asked.
“I am,” Marty replied.
“We got a DOA,” Fisk told him, “Rivington Street, near Ludlow. Looks like it may be a drive-by.”
Marty groaned as he took a slip of paper from Fisk’s hand.
“Hit it,” the lieutenant ordered.
Scene Two
From the driver’s seat, Karen glanced over at Jim. She wasn’t sure she should say anything. Finally she spoke up, hesitantly. “I hope you don’t mind, I mean, me telling you about – you know.”
“How else would I know?”
“I just thought – you know, maybe you’d rather not know.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Jim told her dryly. “I don’t have to look at myself.”
“OK.” Karen dropped the subject, and they rode in silence until she stopped the car at the perimeter. “We’re here.”
Jim took her arm, and they ducked under the crime scene tape to join Marty, Tom, and the patrol sergeant, standing next to the DOA on the sidewalk.
“What’ve we got?” Karen asked them.
“White male, multiple gunshot wounds,” the sergeant summarized. “Happened around eight this morning, maybe a few minutes before. Neighbors saw a black SUV and heard male voices shouting “Rivington” just before the shots. No one got a good look at the shooter, or if they did, they’re too scared to say so. ID in the victim’s wallet says he’s Paul Glover, lives over on Orchard. There’s also an employee ID from Downtown Mercy Medical Center – apparently he’s a nurse there. Crime scene’s on the way.”
“We need to start a canvass, see if anyone saw or heard anything,” Karen said.
“OK,” Marty agreed. “We’ll wait until crime scene gets here and get them started, then canvass this side of the street.”
“We’ll take the other side,” Karen said. Jim took her arm, and they headed across the street.
Scene Three
“What’ve you got so far?” Fisk asked, perched on the desk opposite Jim’s.
“Crime scene found a couple of casings, probably nine millimeters,” Marty replied, adding, “but if it’s gang-related, there’s not much chance of finding the gun to match them to.”
“Yeah,” Fisk agreed. “What about the canvass?”
Tom shook his head. “Not much, boss. Most of the neighbors claimed they didn’t see or hear anything. More likely, they know it’s a gang shooting, and they’re just too scared to talk.”
“Did you get anything?” Fisk asked, with a frustrated frown.
“We found one lady whose apartment is right above where the victim was found – Elena Rios. She’s one of the ones who called it in. She says she didn’t see the actual shooting, just heard some guys yelling ‘Rivington,’ then the shots right after. When she looked out her window, she saw the DOA lying on the sidewalk. She only saw one car on the street, a black SUV, driving away. It was already too far away for her to see the rear plate.”
Karen spoke up. “A woman who lives across the street --” She consulted her notebook. “ – a Mildred Tanner – told us she saw a black SUV just before the shots. She said it was going real slow and looked like it was following the victim. There wasn’t anyone else on the street. It didn’t look right, so she kept watching. Just before the shots were fired, she saw an arm come out of the rear passenger window – it looked like someone was pointing at the victim. Then the SUV slowed down some more, and she heard men yelling – she said she couldn’t make out any words, but it sounded like several men’s voices – then she saw the gun sticking out of the front passenger window and heard the shots.”
“Did she give you any descriptions of anyone in the vehicle?” Fisk asked.
“No,” Karen replied, “she was looking down from the fourth floor. All she could see was the hand of the person who pointed out the victim, she said it looked dark-skinned. The shooter was wearing a jacket and gloves, so she couldn’t see his skin color.”
“You think the Rivington Street gang did the shooting?” Fisk asked.
“Yeah,” Marty answered, “the location is right in the middle of their territory.”
“What about the DOA? Any connection to the gang?” the lieutenant asked.
Jim shook his head, then continued. “He’s been definitely ID’d as Paul Glover, 37 years old. He worked as a registered nurse on the orthopedic floor at Downtown Mercy since moving here from Chicago about two years ago. No local family. No record. No known gang affiliation. His supervisor said he worked a twelve-hour shift overnight, got off a little after 7:00 this morning, so he must have been on his way home. She doesn’t know of any motive for the shooting, said he was well-liked, a good nurse, very patient-oriented.”
“Damn,” Fisk commented, frowning, “another random gang drive-by.”
“I’ve been thinking – ” Jim began.
“There’s something new,” Marty quipped.
Jim ignored him and continued. “ – about the DOA. What if it wasn’t random?”
“C’mon, Jim,” Marty protested, “it’s gotta be random, just claiming their territory. The guy has no record, no connection to any of Rivington’s rivals, nothing that would give them any reason to target him.”
“Nothing we know of,” Jim pointed out.
“What do you mean?” Karen asked.
“It just means we don’t know of anything. It doesn’t mean there isn’t anything,” Jim explained.
“So what are you suggesting?” Fisk asked.
“The witness across the street said the SUV seemed to be following him, and someone in the vehicle pointed at him right before the shots. So maybe he wasn’t a random target. I think we should take a closer look at Mr. Glover.”
“What do you want to do?” Tom asked.
“For starters, let’s take a look at his apartment.”
Scene Four
“There’s nothing here,” Marty groused as he went through Glover’s desk. “You know, it sure would be nice if Dunbar came up with a bright idea once in a while that didn’t involve the rest of us doing all the work.”
“Marty, that’s – ” Karen began, glaring at him from across the living room.
Tom stepped out of the kitchen and interrupted her. “C’mon, man. You think Jim wouldn’t help us search if he could?”
“I know, I know,” Marty conceded, “he would if he could. But he can’t – that’s my point.”
“And whose fault is that?” Karen demanded, then answered her own question. “It sure as hell isn’t Jim’s.”
“I’m not blaming him for being blind – ” Marty began.
Karen interrupted him, “Oh, yeah? Sure sounds like it to me.”
“ – I just get a little tired of doing the legwork when he comes up with one of his brain waves.”
“You want him to stop clearing cases?” Tom asked.
“No, of course not,” Marty retorted, “I’m just sayin’, it’s weird, you know, the way he just sits there at his desk, staring at nothing like he does, and then he comes up with this stuff. I wonder if he did that before – you know, when he could see.”
“So ask him,” Tom challenged him.
“You’re kidding, right? I’d just get one of those not-looking looks of his.”
“Jesus, Marty, get over it,” Karen told him. She gave him an exasperated look, then went into Glover’s bedroom to continue the search.
“Guys,” she called out a few minutes later, “come here, I got something.”
When Marty and Tom entered the bedroom, Karen was kneeling on the floor next to a large plastic bin. Its cover was next to it on the floor. In it were bottles and plastic bags full of pills. “This,” she said, gesturing toward the bin, “was under the bed.”
Tom whistled, then muttered, “Holy shit.”
“It’s a fucking pharmacy,” Marty added.
“Yeah,” Karen agreed, “maybe we just found a motive.” She pulled out her phone to call Jim.
Scene Five
Jim hung up the phone and headed for Fisk’s office.
“We got something, boss,” he said, standing in the doorway.
Fisk looked up from his computer. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Karen found – she called it ‘a pharmacy’ – under Glover’s bed. They’re calling in the evidence techs to inventory it, but it looks like it’s mostly prescription drugs, Oxycontin, Vicodin, Klonopin, that kind of stuff.”
“Jesus,” Fisk muttered. “Where’d he get the stuff – the hospital?”
“Probably. He would have had access to all of those drugs there. And they’d be worth a lot on the street.”
“You’re thinking he was in competition with Rivington?”
Jim nodded. “Yeah. And I bet it got him killed.”
“Makes sense,” Fisk agreed, “but it’s only a theory unless we can get something to back it up.”
“I know. I thought I’d give Sonny a call, see if he’s heard anything on the street about Rivington taking out a competitor.”
“Do it,” Fisk ordered. “Then you might as well head home, when you’ve finished up your fives.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Good night,” Jim said, then headed back to his desk.
Scene Six
After dinner, Jim stopped Christie as she headed for the bedroom. “Where’re you going?” he asked.
“To do some reading,” she answered.
“That can wait,” he told her firmly, taking her by the arm and propelling her toward the couch. When they were sitting side by side, he turned toward Christie, a worried expression on his face. “We need to talk,” he said.
“What’s the point?” she asked bitterly.
“Christie – ” he chided her.
“All right,” she said, sighing resignedly. “Just say what you need to say.”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you, Jimmy – not really. It’s just the whole – situation.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked down for a moment before answering him. “I thought I could handle it – I thought I was handling it. But while you were missing the other night, it all came back to me. I was back at the hospital on the day you were shot – ” She broke off, taking a deep breath to steady herself before continuing. “ – waiting, not knowing if you were going to live or die. I just can’t – ” Her voice trembled. “I can’t stand here and watch you walk out the door every morning, knowing what could happen.”
“Do you think I don’t know what can happen?” Jim asked quietly, seeming to look past her.
Shaken, Christie stared at her husband. As she focused on his sightless gaze, the full impact of his words sank in. “Oh, God, Jimmy, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I – we’ve finally found each other again, and then I thought I’d lost you, all over again. . . and I know it’s going to happen again – I just don’t know when. I don’t think I can live with that.”
“But no one’s ever completely safe – you told me that yourself,” Jim reminded her.
“Yes, I know, but . . . .”
“Do you remember Ken Michaels?” Jim asked.
“Yes, of course,” Christie replied, wondering why Jim was bringing up their friend who had died of cancer a year and a half before.
“Remember when we went to see him and Sandy that time, after the doctors told him the cancer had spread?”
“Yes.”
“Something he said to me that day really stuck with me. He said, ‘You know, I could still outlive you.’ When I asked him what he meant, he told me, ‘A semi could take you out when you’re driving home on the LIE tonight. No one knows how much time he has. The only difference between you and me is I have a better idea.’”
Jim paused, resting his chin on his hands, trying to think of the best way to explain himself. Then he continued, “I’ve thought about that a lot, especially since I got shot. Because Ken was right. Anyone’s time could be up, any day. When I walk out the door in the morning, I can’t promise you I’ll come home that night. But you can’t promise that, either.”
“But, Jimmy – ” Christie began.
He cut her off. “The point isn’t how much time you have. It’s how you spend that time. If you’re telling me I have to give up who I am, it’s not worth it. Not to me it isn’t. Not after everything else I’ve had to give up.”
“I’m not asking you to give up anything, Jimmy.”
“Then what – ?”
“I just . . . don’t want to be afraid for you anymore.”
“I know.” Jim reached out to Christie and held her. She rested her head on his shoulder as he stroked her hair. She had known all along that she couldn’t ask Jim to give up being a cop. It was too great a sacrifice. But she also knew she couldn’t simply banish her fear. She would have to find a way to live with it. Somehow.