Messiah Josiah

[greenbeing]

Chapter One

He’d always hated treadmills—running, running, running, like when you get chased in a dream. You never get anywhere, and in a minute or two, your throat’s going to be slit and you’ll be lying in a pool of blood, but you’ll be able to see yourself from above, like an angel, a total out of body experience. And there’d be no pain, like you were a ghost to begin with. Like you’d never been human, just detached from the body. Sometimes he felt that way about being blind, too: detached.

Out of body was the only way to deal with the treadmill, too. Let the body run while the mind escape the interminable boredom by thinking of anything else. Jim had found the treadmill to be one of the best ways to keep in shape lately. Endless, running. Maybe he was getting used to it, because he had to admit, it wasn’t as bad anymore—there wasn’t anything to see, anyway. He was coming to terms with that. Even if he’d been in Central Park, he’d have had to imagine the scenery. Here, he could imagine whatever he wanted without worrying about ducking trees and dodging dogs. And he didn’t need a guide.

Hank was waiting patiently when Jim was done with the treadmill. Hank didn’t care for the machines much, either. He preferred chasing a ball in the park—why run if you couldn’t chase a ball? Or a rabbit, or a squirrel? Humans didn’t make much sense. He sneezed on the treadmill as he passed on the way to his master, just to show it how little he thought of it.

Jim followed Hank back to his gym bag, panting like, well, like Hank did after they’d been playing ball and Frisbee and tug-of-war in the park for an hour. Jim grabbed his towel from his bag and wiped off the dripping sweat. He’d pushed himself harder today than usual. If he could barely breathe, his brain wouldn’t be working overtime, thinking of Christie or Marty or cases they were working. Sometimes even cases they’d closed, they wouldn’t stay out of his brain. What if they’d gotten there sooner, what if they’d pieced it together faster? What if…?

Jim showered before putting on his suit and heading home to Christie.

Only Christie wasn’t there. They weren’t much for notes, since Christie didn’t care for Braille, and there was no message on the answering machine. The waiting game, see if she was mad at him, see if she had some huge project at work…

Jim got out the racquetball he liked to toss against the wall, bounce it off the floor, practice his spacial perception. He sat on the arm of the couch and Hank sat by, waiting for Jim to miss.

That was Hank’s favorite part. Sometimes, if Jim hadn’t missed in a while, Hank couldn’t help himself and he would snatch it midair before it reached Jim’s outstretched hand, and they’d run around the apartment, spreading dog drool all over, and they’d wrestle and both would end up panting on the floor in some corner of the apartment twenty minutes later, ready for a beer—or a bowl of water.

Jim idly tossed the ball, slow and rhythmic. He’d never been slow, or patient, when he could see. He’d never taken the time. He would have been like Hank, snatching the ball mid-air before it could get to him. He’d always been rushing off, if he managed to come home at all.

An image of Christie flashed through his mind. He would never forget her, even if sometimes he had trouble picturing her as a whole image. Sometimes all he could picture would be an eye, or the sheen of her hair as it fell across the backless velvet dress at the Christmas party two years ago. Sometimes he just heard the echo of her laugh in his mind, her excitement over the most trivial things, the way her voice got when she wanted him to do something she knew he wouldn’t want to.

He had to admit, he’d had his own trivial interests before—bowling, playing pool, going to bars with the guys from the squad.

“You don’t see enough of them during the day?” Christie’d snapped once.

Just time to unwind…

“Then what am I here for?”

She liked higher class things—fashion shows, jazz clubs, snazzy restaurants. She made lots of contacts with people in high places who had good taste, and she wasn’t afraid to call upon those contacts when she wanted to go out.

Jim didn’t mind going to see bands, he didn’t mind music, but the clubs were never places he felt comfortable. He’d smile as she played her fingers through his hair, but the whole time he’d be thinking, when can we get out of here? He’d bob his head to the music like the other people in the club, but he’d have rather been somewhere louder, more exciting.

Like working a case, where he got to go all sorts of places and found himself in all different situations. He was never bored at work. He’d never felt out of place in a bar with the guys. He just couldn’t get Christie to go to a low-class bar full of drunks and enthusiasm.

He had to admit, though, he’d much rather Christie be interested in what she was than going to poetry readings, snapping her fingers, wearing long flowy dresses and a black beret. He smiled, thinking of her as a sort of beatnik, passionate about some deep cause, saving whales. Christie’d never saved an endangered species in her life, though she might have worn one…

She was cute when she got excited—but manipulative. He often let her have her way, concessions for him being a bastard, and it made her more spoiled than ever.

They’d never had that much in common, trophy wife, trophy husband, but prone to fits of jealousy when the other strayed. Not that Christie strayed, but she did look, and she got looked at enough.

Christie kept trying to get him to connect, to talk to her. Jim just had trouble talking to her, spilling his soul. Christie was too close—if she knew he wasn’t perfect, wasn’t a knight in shining armor… If she knew, would she be able to accept that?

Jim had been shocked when he’d first kissed Anne, couldn’t believe he’d do such a thing, had never consciously contemplated having an affair. But now he wondered if it was because Anne had connected with him in a way Christie never had. He’d married Christie because it seemed right—he was a grown-up, past his bachelor prime, and she was beautiful. With Anne—

He shook his head and missed the ball. Anne had been a mistake.

Hank ran after the ball as it bounced across the room, his paws sliding on the hardwood floors. He preferred playing ball outside because of that, but whatever the human wanted, he’d deal with it. Hank padded back over to Jim and set the slobbery ball in his lap, hoping for another toss, not just a pat on the head.

Jim patted Hank on the head.

“Hey, Dunbar, you should ask the chief about getting a badge for your dog,” Marty’d said yesterday. “Get him a little holster, he can carry his own gun, too. You know, just in case,” Marty’d said snidely.

Jim had figured the conversation would probably turn like that. It always did, though Marty hadn’t been quite so bad lately. Comments Jim could deal with, just something to try his patience, penance. Marty was a jerk, but at least he was professional.

“Hey, Dunbar…”

Marty was just a voice. And a scent. And a feeling. Mostly a feeling. Jim always knew when he was around. But as a memory, he was different from Christie, because as a memory he ended up just a voice, not even a vague jumble of body parts.

Tom, Karen, and Lt. Fisk, they were all voices, too. Though Karen also had a size and shape, a lingering smell from working so closely with her. Women tended to smell more pervasively than men, lotions and shampoos and perfumes. They couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

“Hey, Dunbar…”

He was really going to have to work to get Marty out of his head, except Marty’d said something the other day that had disturbed him, he couldn’t get rid of it. Part of the reason he was so worried about what would happen when Christie finally came home.

“Hey, Dunbar, I know it’s a few months away, but… You doing something special for your wife for Valentine’s Day?”

Marty’d just been looking for ideas for something to do for his own wife, but it had hit Jim that he didn’t know how they were going to spend Valentine’s Day. He used to plan ahead, start thinking of ways to surprise Christie as early as possible. He did all of his holiday planning at once, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day. He liked to keep them coordinated and under control. It was almost Halloween now—

Jim had actually gasped and felt the blood drain from his face. Late October…

He’d missed Christie’s birthday almost three weeks ago.

And she’d never even mentioned it.

* * *

“Tissue paper?” Marty asked.

It had taken Jim three days since he’d finally remembered Christie’s birthday to decide on a present. It wasn’t like he could just go browse the shelves like he used to. He’d wanted something that would seem like it had taken ages to pick out and was very personalized. He’d gone out over his lunch hour to buy Christie the best consolation gift he’d thought of. He’d settled on jewelry and a new nightie, one that felt soft and inviting. He’d hoped to get it wrapped before anyone showed back up at the precinct.

“Yeah, Marty, it’s tissue paper,” Jim said without looking up. He hated folding clothes, but Christie would understand if it wasn’t perfect. Oddly shaped things, women’s night wear.

Sometimes she was too understanding, he thought. She would go out of her way to do things for him, things he knew he should be able to do on his own. If she would only take the time to help him figure out better ways to do things—

“Tissue paper just, you know, it’s like you’re trying too hard.”

“Since when has tissue—“ Jim looked up, annoyed, and cut himself off before he could get into an argument with Marty. Just because Marty liked arguing didn’t mean he had to encourage him.

“What’d you do, forget her birthday?” Marty jibed.

Jim was quiet, he quickly turned back to the wrinkled paper and stuffed the whole thing into the gift bag.

Marty forced a laugh. “Come on, Dunbar, even you’re not that much of an ass.”

Silence.

“Are you?”

Marty’s voice was quiet, far away, seeking confirmation, begging him to argue, say he was wrong. With something like that, Marty probably didn’t want to be right. He’d rib Jim about the job and life, but not about marriage—that was serious, too close to home.

“Tissue paper?” Karen asked, walking up, bringing a waft of freshly brewed coffee. “Must be a really special occasion.”

“Why?” Jim snapped, short tempered, unable to reign it in for once.

“Guys don’t usually use tissue paper. You’re lucky to get real wrapping paper out of most guys. A gift bag, maybe… Usually newspaper and a bit of duct tape…”

“Come on, Karen, guys are a little more classy than that,” Marty said.

“Yeah, Karen,” Jim said, not meaning it, just echoing, thinking hard about pulling the tissue paper out of the bag and trashing it.

“For girlfriends, yeah, maybe,” Karen agreed. “They always try too hard.”

Jim put the bag on the floor under his desk and quickly sat down, determined to ignore them.

“So you’re saying you don’t want a guy trying to treat you right when you’re dating?” Marty asked.

“Sure he has to treat me right,” Karen scoffed. “I’m just saying I don’t want a guy to go out of his way to pretend he’s into that sort of thing at the beginning of a relationship, not if he’s going to stop after two months.”

“You expect it?”

“You expect him to always act like himself, don’t you?”

Marty grunted. Jim busied himself setting up his laptop.

“Marty, you’ve been married too long, that’s your problem.”

“That’s a problem, is it, Karen?” Marty asked, obviously grinning.

“When you were dating, if a girl suddenly started acting weird, you didn’t think, why didn’t she act this way at the beginning?”

“Weird?”

“Like suddenly she wasn’t interested in the same stuff you were anymore?”

There was a pause. Jim could practically hear them staring each other down. Marty shifted in his chair and played with something on his desk. “Are you saying you’re interested in tissue paper?”

“Yeah, Marty,” Karen said sarcastically, “I got a tissue paper collection at home. The gift doesn’t matter as long as I get some real nice tissue paper.”

Something hit Marty’s desk and Jim imagined Karen had just shot a rubber band at him.

“All because of a little tissue paper,” Jim muttered as he put in his earpiece.

“You and Christie have a fight, Jim?” Karen asked.

“Karen? Jim?” Lt. Fisk asked from across the room.

They both looked up.

“DOA, white male, here’s the address.”

Jim shut his laptop and stood up to put his overcoat on. He was almost thankful the guy had died, in a perverse way, getting him out of uncomfortable small-talk in the squad. Even if it was a trivial thing to die for.

[greenbeing]

* * *

Jim still had some pride, and Karen must have realized that because she didn’t bring up Christie again as they drove to the squalid little apartment building.

“It’s hard to tell one season from the next in the city,” Karen observed, “what with no trees. The only way to tell is watching the department stores.”

Jim grinned. They must have been passing Macy’s.

Jim let Hank out the back door when they arrived and followed Karen toward the front door.

“Hmmph,” she said. “Building’s condemned. It’s an old brownstone mansion, converted into apartments.”

Jim followed her inside carefully. “Does it need to be condemned?” He was careful as he set each foot in front of the other.

“It’s old. Not rotting or anything.”

Jim nodded and listened to the bustle of the crime scene, all the uniformed officers milling around, talking and working. They were moving down a narrow hallway from the front entryway and Jim ran his free hand along the wall. His light touch revealed wallpaper so old it was peeling and cracking, probably no longer even sanitary; he pulled his hand back, then felt the hallway open up into a room of sorts where it was less stifling, even if it was crowded with people working the crime scene.

“Right here on the stairs,” Karen said. “White male, late twenties. Shorts and a t-shirt, short dark hair…”

Jim stopped next to her.

“Lying on his back, about halfway up,” she finished.

“Was he going up or down?” Jim asked.

“I dunno. His head is up, he’s not upside down.”

“Shot once in the chest,” an officer said, coming up to them. “Just once, almost doesn’t look fatal.”

Jim raised his eyebrows. He’d have to ask Karen to explain that comment later. …doesn’t look fatal…

“Hey,” Tom said, walking up behind them.

Jim moved closer to the wall to let Tom and Marty pass. Best to let them see what they could.

Jim half listened as Tom spoke with the first officers who had been on the scene. The call had been an anonymous tip—dead body, condemned building, just wanted to let you know. The place had been quiet when the officers arrived.

While he listened he tried to get a feel for the place. The voices of various officers spread around the scene helped put dimensions on the room, more like a small sitting room for an old mansion that was 100 years past its prime. It wasn’t much like a hallway, even though there were stairs leading up. There was must and urine in the air, and something indescribable. It wasn’t food, exactly, but smelled faintly garlicky, like some cab drivers he’d ridden with recently.

The ceiling here was high, maybe fifteen feet, but it felt dark, even though he couldn’t quite explain that feeling without asking Karen if it really was dark. It felt like there were no windows, or like they were covered up with thick blinds. He couldn’t feel the sun, and the only fresh air they had was from the front door, twenty or thirty feet back, but it had been closed again.

“A couple families living upstairs,” one of the officers was saying.

“Homeless?” Jim broke in.

“Probably. They weren’t very talkative, they’re out back right now.”

Tom and Marty excused themselves a minute later to go talk to the two families.

“Seemed like they were in shock when we showed up and told them about the body.”

“Someone they knew?” Karen asked.

Silence. Maybe a shrug. Jim turned toward the officer. “You said this guy’s been dead two days. They didn’t know he was here?”

“Apparently not. If they left, they could have gone out the back staircase. It leads from upstairs down to the courtyard out back.”

“So they didn’t see anyone around? Didn’t even hear a gun shot?”

“No. But the slug passed clean through the body and got lodged in the stair underneath, so he was definitely shot right here. Didn’t come crawling in, and he wasn’t brought in.”

Jim nodded and turned to where Karen had been standing. “Let’s go talk to the families.”

“Okay,” Karen said.

She’d moved closer to the body. Jim corrected the angle of his head.

“Door’s in the kitchen,” the officer said, already moving away.

Jim urged Hank to follow Karen and left the officers pouring over the crime scene for any more evidence.

* * *

Jim stopped Karen in the kitchen. “Can you see them?”

“If I go over to the window.”

“How many? What do they look like?”

“I thought this blind thing was going to give you a new perspective on things,” Karen joked. “You know, no preconceived notions.”

“I still like to know what things look like. Prepare myself.”

“Not much to prepare for. They’re just possible witnesses.”

Jim smiled. “I’m always prepared.”

“Three grown-ups. One male. He’s black. So’s one of the women. The other’s as white as you are. Pale and blonde. The rest are kids. One baby. You wanna take the kids?”

It was no secret that Jim preferred to interview the kids sometimes, mostly because they didn’t get so hung up on the fact that he was blind. They could relax, and he didn’t always have to have his guard up.

Jim shook his head in answer to Karen’s question. “Not yet. We shouldn’t scare the kids until after we know better what’s going on.”

“I don’t know about you, but I usually try not to scare the witnesses,” Karen said as she opened the back door.

Jim followed her out. He felt Hank turn in the direction of the voices. Marty and Tom were already there. One of the women whimpered. Jim blanched; it didn’t seem to be going so well.

“Let’s go upstairs first. There’s supposed to be a back staircase out here. Let Russo and Selway suffer a bit,” Jim said.

“Okay.” Karen scanned the backyard and Jim followed her to the stairs. The place had once had apartments upstairs, and a separate entrance had been added outside. Once upstairs, Karen told Jim there was “nothing up here.” Nothing. No mattresses, no toys or extra clothes for the four kids. One extra reusable diaper that could only be washed at a service station down the street, since the building had no water or electricity.

“It’s really bright. The windows are clean, no curtains. The walls are painted white. The carpet’s old, but clean. Nothing much.”

“Nothing?” he pressed.

“Well, half the ceiling is on the floor. You can see the beams up there, the plaster’s all over the floor.”

“Wouldn’t you have cleaned that up, if it was you and some kids?” Jim queried.

“Let’s go back down,” Karen said. “Russo looks like he’s about to get violent.”

Jim followed, but wished he could have spent more time surveying the rooms. People were living there. There had to more than “nothing.”

“Hey,” Karen said when they got close to the witnesses.

“Hey,” Tom greeted them.

“We thought we could split up, do a little one-on-one.”

“No problem. Marty and I are going to take off. We got another call.”

“You mean we gotta go through all this sh*t again?” an unfamiliar voice asked. Jim tried to size him up as the one male who’d been living upstairs. A big fellow with a deep voice.

“All what?” Marty asked. “You’ve told us nothing. You want to tell them nothing again, you go right ahead.” The two other detectives started walking toward Jim, toward the house, their feet crunching on brittle end-of-season grass.

“Good luck,” Tom said as he passed.

“Kick his ass, Jim, he needs a little working over,” Marty said.

“You’re gonna ask us the same crap, and we still don’t know nothin’,” the guy said.

“You’re Rico Artez?” Karen asked quizzically. Jim moved closer and guessed that Tom and Marty had handed over some notes from their interview. He stood next to Karen, feeling oddly protective. He wasn’t going to let this guy give crap to Karen; they were just doing their jobs.

“Yeah, I’m Rico Artez.”

“You Hispanic?” Karen asked.

“What does it look like?”

“You have any ID?”

“No. I don’t got a lot of things. Thought ID was a little worthless, you know? No bread, no running water, no way to protect my family,” he said, getting a little worked up.

“And which one is your family?”

“That girl, she’s my sister. That one, she’s my girlfriend. That kid, he’s mine, the other three, they’re hers.”

“You mind if I talk to your sister?” Jim asked. He didn’t know where the women were standing, but he didn’t want to just stand around while Karen did most of the interviewing.

“Hey, you keep your hands off my sister.”

“I’m not going to touch your sister. I’m going to talk to her.” Jim beckoned to where he thought the women were standing, motioning for the sister to follow him. Then he signaled to Hank to walk away. He stopped after several yards.

“Yeah?” a small voice asked.

“What’s your name?”

“DeLana.”

“You Hispanic?”

“I, uh, no, I’m—”

Jim waved her explanation off. “You’re Rico’s sister?”

“Yeah.”

“You been his sister your whole life?”

“Uh, no, I’m older than he is…”

Jim was pleasantly surprised at how quick she was, a nimble wit. “You know we just found a dead body in that building?”

“Yeah.”

“You were living in that building?”

“Living?” she asked skeptically. “Staying, yeah.”

“With three kids.”

“Four if you—”

“But you have three.”

“Yeah. I have three.”

DeLana had three kids, one was nine, the oldest, a daughter named Tamika. The next was a daughter who was four, named DeWanda, the last a daughter aged two, named Cindy.

“Cindy?”

“I didn’t name her.”

“Who did?”

“What’s this about, Detective?”

“Okay, okay.” Jim cocked his head to the side and smiled at her. She had spunk, he admired that. She also had three kids and she was only 26. He hadn’t even been married when he was 26, he’d just been getting out of the military then.

“There was a dead guy found in the building you’re staying in. Did you know he was there?”

“No.”

“He wasn’t staying here, too?”

“No.”

“You didn’t hear any gunshots? You didn’t know there was something dead in the building?”

“No. I guess I’m kinda dense, Detective.”

“No, I think you should be a detective, DeLana. You’re very good at evading questions.” He could tell that from her voice. She sounded scared, yet full of fire. He couldn’t guess the origins of her nerves, but he had a feeling she was holding back.

“You done?” Rico asked, walking up.

“I’m done with the girlfriend,” Karen said.

DeLana shrieked. Jim heard a large thump next to him and jumped. Karen gasped.

“What?” Jim asked, trying to remain calm, trying to remind Karen she couldn’t go comatose on him; he needed her.

“He’s having a seizure,” DeLana said, dropping to her knees.

Jim dropped down beside her to help restrain him so he wouldn’t hurt himself, but Rico went limp when Jim touched him. Jim quickly reached up to make sure he was still breathing. DeLana was crying, and so was someone else, probably the girlfriend. Two of the kids were yelling.

“Be quiet!” DeLana yelled over her shoulder. Her hands were moving over Rico’s body, loosening clothes, checking his pulse, running into Jim’s hands as he tried to do the same.

A moment later Rico was weakly clutching Jim’s arm while Karen called for a rescue squad. DeLana rushed over to her.

“No! We can’t afford a doctor. He’s okay. It was a small one.” She continued to argue with Karen.

Rico grabbed a piece of Jim’s jacket and pulled him down. “What if I die?” His voice was slurred and soft.

“I don’t know,” Jim said quietly.

“Look, we got…” he trailed off and Jim was afraid he’d passed out. “Problems.”

Jim tried to help him sit up, but he shook him off, keeping hold of Jim’s coat to keep him close.

“If you put us somewhere safe…” Rico gasped. “They’re gonna think we talked anyway.” He gasped for breath again. He wasn’t going to stay conscious much longer. “DeLana won’t want to tell you. But if you protect us…” His hand slackened and fell to the ground. “Then I’ll tell you. If they’re safe…”

DeLana screamed again.

“It’s okay,” Jim said loudly over the crying of children. “He’s alive.”

DeLana sobbed. Jim wondered what all they knew. It could have been just a clever plan to get room and board in a nice place, or maybe they actually knew something—it was too soon to be sure.

* * *

Jim got home late, but Christie wasn’t there yet. He set the gift on the table by the door where she’d be sure to see it, then changed his clothes and got a beer. Hank followed him around for a few minutes. He didn’t seem to like it when Jim was preoccupied. He settled down by the sofa and Jim eventually stopped pacing and sat by the window, tapping the glass with the knuckle of his index finger.

His first thought was what Christie would say when she found the present. There would probably be a fight. He hadn’t even gotten a card, hated picking them out. Besides, there was nothing a card could say that would make the situation any better. They didn’t exactly make cards for “sorry I forgot your birthday, honey bunch, please don’t hate me.”

The case kept popping into his mind even as he tried to think only of the best thing to say when his wife got home. Her reaction, he would have no control over; he could never predict Christie. But the case, he had a chance where the case was concerned.

Except they had no clues. The only thing they had was a promise that the two families would be moved to a safe location and a doctor would look Artez over, for free. They didn’t even know who the DOA was; he’d had no identification. They’d just have to wait to see if the fingerprints matched anyone or if a missing-person’s report turned out to match.

“Lying on the stairs?” Jim had asked Karen as they went over the crime scene once more before leaving.

“Yeah, lying on the stairs,” Karen said.

“And we’ll just assume for now, despite whatever Artez wanted to say, that the two families upstairs, none of the seven of them have come downstairs in a couple days.”

“Six,” Karen argued. “You can’t count the baby.”

“Okay, okay, none of the six of them. Despite the fact that there’s no food and no running water, they never left down that staircase.” Jim patted the railing. He wanted to get closer, get a better look. Not that he enjoyed touching dead people, but he found his Hands-on-Homicide-Detecting was sometimes more thorough than anything the sighted detectives would notice. “Describe in detail what he’s wearing.”

“Khaki shorts, long ones, to the knee. A t-shirt. It’s pale orange with green letters.”

“What’s it say?”

“”Owls aren’t pussycats.” ‘Owls’ is capitalized.”

“’Pussycats’ isn’t?”

“Nope.”

“Bright green, dark green?”

“Like a dark lime.”

Jim grimaced. “Stylish.”

“And no shoes.”

“In New York?” Jim started. “Does he look homeless?”

“He looks in way better shape than the families upstairs.”

Jim wanted to make sure he had a thorough understanding of the scene. “Barefoot…” he said again. “Are his feet dirty?”

“What?” Karen asked with a short laugh, caught off-guard by the question. He heard her moving around, leaning against the wall, the railing creaked. “Uhhh, no.”

“No. Huh.”

It didn’t make much sense, even after hours of thinking it over. An almost not fatal wounding with minimal blood, no sign of drugs in the vicinity, no wallet. But that could have been stolen, if it was a robbery. Yet, there was no indication of a robbery besides the lack of a wallet on the DOA.

Jim leaned his forehead against the apartment window and tried to clear his head of the case. He was home; he was supposed to have better things to do with his evenings. Jim tried to picture the street below, the brown brick of the buildings. He could hear the elevated train going by.

Christie still wasn’t home.

The new case had come too late in the day for Jim to feel they had a satisfactory feel for it, and it was going to bother him all night.

And where was Christie?

“Hank.” Jim stood up. He had to clear his head. With Hank back in harness the two walked down to the park. He needed to concentrate when walking around the city, and that would help clear his mind of the two things he didn’t yet have control over.

* * *

The sun had set. It was definitely fall. Jim could find every tree in the park just by listening to the loud rustles of dried leaves overhead. He hadn’t grabbed a coat and the wind was waging war on the crewneck shirt he wore.

“Come on, Hank,” he said and changed their destination. He hadn’t seen his wife in two days; a little walk in the park wasn’t likely to clear his head.

Morrissey’s Bar was right where he’d left it. He hadn’t been there in over a year. In fact, he hadn’t gone alone to a bar since he’d been shot, he realized as he reached out for the door. His hand touched the door and he considered for a second pulling back, unsure if he was ready for his first solo bar trip—bars were places full of chaos, and he found it difficult to deal with chaos he couldn’t see—but he rallied and slid his hand down until he felt the handle. He squeezed it and pushed. He wanted a beer. He wanted a bar to call home again.

He used to spend a lot of time at Morrissey’s, unwinding. No one from the 77 had hung out there, but he was there enough it was like having family close by. He knew Morrissey’s. He’d stumbled out of there blind drunk once or twice, he thought grimly; just being blind and not drunk should be a piece of cake.

The early evening crowd was already there, he could tell by the level of conversation. Not yet the boisterous party crowd they’d get later that night.

“Jim! Jimmy-boy!”

Jim’s head snapped up, his concentration broken. For a second the sounds of people and drinking flooded him and overwhelmed him to the point he couldn’t let go of the door. Breathe, Jim. He inhaled cigarette smoke and oxygen.

“Jimmy-boy! Long time no see.”

Jim grinned against his will. “Gray!” He’d finally recognized the bartender’s gravelly voice. Gray was about thirty-five, younger than Jim, an ex-Navy Seal with a sense of mischief that had almost gotten him booted out of the Seals at least once a week, so he claimed. Jim nudged Hank to the right, toward the bar, hoping for an empty barstool so he wouldn’t have to find a table. He’d usually stayed at the bar when he frequented the place before, talking shop and shit with Gray and whoever else was around.

Jim stopped at the bar. “How you been?” he asked before Gray could bring up the past year.

“Can’t complain,” Gray said.

Jim adjusted his gaze so he was facing the bartender more squarely. “Me either,” he said with a grin. He’d kept an ear on the bar, never knowing a silent drunk. He couldn’t hear anyone talking or any mugs hitting the counter. Satisfied that no one was there, he reached out with his right hand and found a barstool to hoist himself onto. Hank settled in the corner out of the way. Jim was relieved to have a spot at the end of the bar.

“You drinking?” Gray asked.

“Yeah, gimme a beer.” Settled, he relaxed, cracked his neck, touched the bar in front of him, claiming his space for the evening. A bottle hit the counter in front of him and he reached out, snagging the beer to situate it where he wanted it. “Thanks.” He took a swig, then set it back. “Hey, Gray…” He trailed off in case the bartender had wandered off to help another patron.

“Yeah?” He hadn’t moved from in front of Jim.

“What are your thoughts on tissue paper?”

Gray guffawed. “Tissue paper?”

“Yeah, the stuff you put in presents.”

“Maybe you put it in your presents; I never use the stuff.” He made it sound as foul as any street drug talked about by a nun.

Jim groaned, but he couldn’t help but smile at the same time. What the hell, it didn’t matter; Christie was already going to be mad about her birthday, it didn’t matter if there was tissue paper or not.

Two hours later, when Jim finally left, he realized Gray had never once brought up the fact that he couldn’t see. Satisfying, that’s what it was. Like he was finally getting his life back.

* * *

He could smell her. It smelled like fresh bubble bath permeating the apartment. “I’m home!” he called as he dropped his keys on the table by the door, surreptitiously moving his hand to sweep over the back of the table where he’d set the gift bag. It was gone.

“I’m headed to bed,” Christie said lightly. She was in the kitchen.

Jim knelt down and took off Hank’s harness. He wanted to say, Well? and get it over with. Well? What about the present? Did you like it? What about me forgetting your birthday? Am I in trouble or are we okay? “Okay. Good night,” he said, not sure if she was still in the room or not.

[greenbeing]

Chapter Two

Jim was sitting at his desk, his hand at his mouth, working out what he’d ask on this interview. It had to be good. He’d hate to have to cut the two families free if they actually knew something, but he wasn’t about to keep them on if they were lying.

“Here’s the address,” Lt. Fisk said.

Jim listened to him tear a piece of paper out of a notebook.

“Jim?”

Jim looked up.

“The address.”

Jim held up his hand and the lieutenant laid the paper there. He could feel his face getting red, something he could usually keep from happening. Karen took care of stuff like that. “Where’s Karen?”

“I don’t know,” Fisk said, already walking away.

Jim hadn’t noticed if Karen was there or not. He was slipping, needed to pay more attention.

He needed to find Karen so they could get going. Something about the case didn’t sit right with him and he just wanted to get it over with.

He heard rustling from Marty’s desk. “Hey, Marty, you seen Karen?”

It was still early, but Karen was usually there by then.

“Yep. She took one look at you and walked back out the door.”

Jim nodded somberly. “Thanks for telling me.” He stood up and headed for the locker room.

“Karen?”

“Nope,” Tom said, “just me.”

Jim turned to where the coffee pots were kept. “You seen her?” he asked.

Tom said, “Mhm,” with what sounded like a mouthful of hot coffee. “Ooh, hot, but good.” He blew out a breath. “Speaking of hot… I saw Karen last night with this friend of hers, and this friend, she’s a piece, Jim, honest. Gorgeous, legs like—”

“Tom!” Jim laughed and held up a hand. “I thought you had a girlfriend.”

“I do.”

“Then what are you doing, talking like that?” Jim felt uncomfortable. He’d been down that road before. He didn’t want to end up the wet blanket, father-figure type at the squad, but…

“A guy’s gotta look.”

“No.” Jim shook his head. Pictures of Anne flashed through his mind. She’d been a work of art herself, not as gorgeous as Christie, but definitely more approachable, softer, smiled more— “No, Tom, don’t even look. Trust me.”

Tom laughed. “Yeah, that’s what my girlfriend said before she stole my car keys and went and sat in the car pouting.”

“Learn that lesson.”

“It’s blackmail. Girls do that to get flowers and stuff. I told her it was just Karen, and Karen’s friend, what’s her name, Anne something—”

Jim’s ears started ringing so loudly he couldn’t hear Tom anymore. Anne. That’s right, Karen had told him they were friends. He’d been nervous at first that Karen would never be able to get over what he’d done, but she’d seemed to put it in his past and he’d nearly forgotten. Anne. Yeah, he’d thought the same things about her as Tom had just said.

He wondered if he’d ever seen Karen when he was out with Anne. They’d kept their relationship discreet—or, at least, he had—but a couple times they’d run into people she’d known. He might have actually met Karen before, but if she hadn’t said anything then so he could recognize her voice now… It was a strange thought. He could meet people now that he’d been seeing for years and not recognize them.

Fleetingly, always the glutton for punishment, he thought of asking Karen if they’d ever met before. Women never forget meeting a guy who’s wronged them or a wronged a friend. She’d be able to tell him when and where and what she was wearing and maybe he’d be able to remember what she looked like.

“She’s into all this artsy stuff, and I don’t do that scene,” Tom was saying about his girlfriend, maybe justifying why he should be looking around to keep his options open.

Jim nodded. “Christie’s like that, too.”

“Does she have all these weird friends who come over looking like they just splatter-painted Times Squares?”

“No. They’re more high class photographers and fashion models. Broadway.”

“Ooh, tough. You gotta hang out with them?”

Jim smiled a little. “One thing these people don’t do, Tom, is “hang out.””

Tom laughed. “Wine tastings. My girl’s into wine tastings. I need a beer just thinking about it.”

“Yeah, Christie did those for a while, too.”

“Does it get any better?” Tom asked confidentially.

Jim blinked. “I don’t know.”

* * *

Karen called his cell a few minutes later to let him know she was almost there and he told her he’d meet her outside so they could get going. He didn’t even ask why she’d been late, afraid he’d hear that she was hung over because she’d gone out last night, and then she’d have to bring up Anne and he’d find Anne still wasn’t over it yet. He’d known Anne well enough during their short relationship to know she was the type to hold a grudge until the grave.

Jim waited right outside the front door until he heard Karen honk. “Right here,” she called out her open window. Jim nudged Hank into the back of the car and climbed in. “Good morning!” she said.

“You’re sure chipper,” he commented.

“I overslept. A good night’s sleep is amazing, you know? Your whole outlook on life gets all rosy—” She yawned, then pulled into traffic. “Where are we going?”

Jim pulled the paper out of his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her.

“Is that an 1875 or an 1825?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He’d thought of having someone read him the address before leaving, but sometimes he took it for granted that, with Karen, he could get out of asking anyone else for help. If only his software could read handwritten notes he’d be in heaven.

“Seven. I think it’s a seven.” Karen mumbled when they got caught up in traffic.

“Sorry. I should have asked.”

“Eh,” she said noncommittally. It sounded like she shrugged, her coat brushing the seatbelt. “The boss has bad handwriting. Now you know.”

Jim nodded. “Now I know.” They drove in silence for a few minutes. Jim turned toward the window, running his fingers lightly over the cold glass. “What else don’t I know?” he asked quietly.

Karen was quiet for a second. He could feel the car pulling into a parking spot. “We’re here,” she said and turned the car off.

“That I knew,” Jim said, getting out. He let Hank out and the two followed Karen to the front door of an old tenement building.

“Looks like apartment 8A.” Jim let the door slam shut behind him. Karen groaned. “That’s gotta be on the eighth floor. No elevator. Come on.”

Karen was huffing when she finally got up the stairs. Jim and Hank had taken the stairs two at a time and reached the top floor first.

“You must be in pretty good shape,” Karen puffed.

Jim shrugged. “My legs are longer than yours.”

“Right, you don’t have to try to make me feel better.” Karen took a deep breath, then knocked on a door.

Jim situated himself behind his panting partner. The door opened and they were ushered in. Hank’s tail was wagging. Someone he recognized was there.

“You’re back,” DeLana said.

Jim could hear arguing from another room, but it was muffled. Door must have been closed. “Yep. Can’t keep us away…”

“Pretty crappy accommodations you got us.”

Jim opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. Crappy? When it was heated, they had free food, weren’t living on the street—

“Just joking, detective. You need to chill sometimes, you know?”

Jim tried to smile. “I guess I’m not very good at chilling.”

The arguing had gotten louder and then the door flew open and words flooded the room. Jim’s head snapped up in that direction.

“You gotta get us out of here!” Rico Artez was yelling.

“Mr. Artez, you need to lie down—”

“I can’t just—my family is in trouble and you don’t care!”

“No one knows where you are, you’re in no danger,” the second voice said reasonably.

“They know where we are. Police custody don’t help. We been here too long, man.”

Jim heard footsteps coming rapidly down a hallway then into the room.

“See? I’m an expert on telling people when they need to relax,” DeLana said quietly as her brother burst into the room.

“See, they know we’re here. There’s people all over here and you say no one knows we’re here.”

“We’re the ones who put you here,” Karen said.

“We can’t talk here,” Rico said, then disappeared into another part of the apartment.

“Doesn’t sound like we’re gonna learn much today,” Karen said quietly to Jim.

“DeLana, could I talk to you for a minute?” Jim asked. He gestured for Hank to move to the right, the opposite direction than Rico had gone. Hank stopped a few feet over and Jim turned.

“What?” DeLana said when he didn’t say anything right away.

Jim turned to her, forcing himself to stop listening as Artez yelled at an officer in another room. “You know, we can help you. I don’t know what’s going on, but—”

“Yeah,” DeLana said, “you and what army?”

Jim faced her somberly and leaned forward a little. “If it’s bad enough, we can get the army involved.”

She laughed loudly. “You’re sweet, detective, but like I told you, we don’t know anything that can help you.”

“If you know anything at all, that’s more than we got.”

“Nothing. Sorry.” She started to move away, but Jim held out a hand.

“I know this is going to sound bad—” He froze as Rico yelled a string of expletives and said he was leaving if they didn’t move his family. Jim closed his eyes a second to compose his thoughts. “Your brother, he’s not paranoid or anything, is he? ‘Cause we need to know.”

“No,” DeLana said, her voice a little icy, “he’s not crazy. Why do people always think that because he’s epileptic—”

Jim waved her off. “I’m not saying anything because he’s epileptic. I’m saying because he’s yelling at an officer to get him out of police custody and claims he may know something, which you say you don’t. So, I want to know if one of you’s been lying, or if one’s just a little paranoid.”

He heard her walk away and a second later Karen was at his side whispering, “That didn’t go over so well, huh?”

“Let me talk to Artez.”

“Let’s just go. They’re not going to tell us anything.”

“I need to know for sure if he actually knows anything. Yesterday… He was a little out of it yesterday. You know, passing out like he did.”

“Right, right. But if you ask me, they don’t know anything.”

“I’m keeping that in mind.”

“Rico’s in the kitchen. Go straight past the front door, doorway’s to the right. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Sister’s with him,” Karen quietly illustrated.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll stay here and talk to the girlfriend—she just came in from the bedroom.”

Jim walked over to the kitchen. He listened briefly as Karen started talking to the girlfriend before turning his attention elsewhere. “Rico, I— DeLana, could we have a minute?” He heard footsteps leave the room. “Rico, I need to know what’s going on. You tell us, we’ll move you. You don’t, I don’t believe anything’s going on, we let you go. We can’t just move you around.”

“Detective…”

Jim realized the man was crying and his mouth nearly dropped. Artez was a big man, prone to anger and yelling. Crying seemed against his nature.

“They’ll kill the girls. We’ve been here too long. You let us go, they’ll think we talked and I wasn’t gonna, yesterday. I just thought it would get us out of there, get them some food. I wasn’t thinking straight. Scrambled brains, that’s what it feels like after an episode.”

“Who’s threatening to kill who, and does this have anything to do with the dead guy we found on the stairs yesterday?”

“No.” He took a breath and sniffled. “I can’t tell you anything. Sorry.”

“You know, we deal with death threats all the time. That’s what the police are for. If it makes you feel any better, that’s usually all they are, threats.”

“Yeah, detective, great, thanks, so much better.” Rico pushed back the chair and it grated against the linoleum. “We’re dealing with someone who’s ever “just threatened.” He’s probably already poisoned the drinking water here.”

“Do you realize how difficult it is to poison the water that comes through the pipes from the city plant? Especially just the water to one apartment?”

“Doesn’t matter how hard it is. Or he’d do something else.”

“Does this have anything to do with the man we found yesterday?”

“You tell me, detective. You ever known someone’s life to be threatened, and you find a dead body at the same place, and it’s just a coincidence?”

“At this point, if you don’t give us some more information, we can’t help you. Then I’ll have to label it a coincidence, yeah.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“I can only have faith if you give us some back.”

“And all I’ve been getting is sh*t, so that’s what I’m giving back.”

Jim turned around and walked back out the door.

“Anything?” Karen asked.

“Nothing.” He paused. “Hey, let’s go talk to the kids.”

“’Kay.”

“Two kids, right? ‘Cause the other two are too young.”

“Yeah, you want them both?”

“Let’s see if we can talk to them at the same time. They might feel more comfortable. Where’s DeLana?”

“I’m standing right behind you, detective. You think I’d let you out of my sight?”

Jim didn’t turn. “Where’s your kids?”

“They don’t know nothin’.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“You probably shouldn’t use that phrase, detective,” DeLana said snottily.

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks. Where’s your kids?”

“Bedroom. You want me to show you?”

“I want you to stay here. Karen?”

Hank and Jim followed Karen to the hallway where the one bedroom was located next to the bathroom.

“They got a playpen for the babies.” Karen led Jim to the one bed so he could sit down and be on the same level with the kids.

“Hi,” Jim said awkwardly. Kids were often quiet around cops, which didn’t help him much. The silence was so thick he was sure they were holding their breath, even the babies.

Something landed near his foot and an evil baby laugh burst out from the playpen near the window.

“Don’t do that,” one of the girls reprimanded. The eldest, the nine-year-old whose name he couldn’t recall. She swooped down and picked up the errant toy.

“What’s your name?” Jim asked while he listened to her bustle around the room.

“Tamika. I’m nine. I take care of the kids while Mom’s busy.”

Jim nodded. “I’m Jim.”

“Momma told us never to call grown-ups by their first names. Makes ya’ll think you’re too close to us kids, like we’re friends or something, and bad things happen then.”

“Oh.”

“I remember you from yesterday.”

“Yeah, about—”

“But you wouldn’t remember me, ‘cause’n I didn’t say nothin’ the whole time.” She sounded a little smug, but clever like her mother.

“About yesterday,” Jim said patiently.

She turned away with a hmmph. “I don’t know nothin’ about yesterday.”

Karen sighed. She’d moved toward the window.

Jim heard something land by his feet again.

“Up! Pick up!” a little voice cried.

Jim leaned forward and ran his hand along the floor, ending up clutching a stuffed animal that rattled when he lifted it.

“Gimme! Gimme!”

“I got it,” Tamika said bossily.

Jim frowned. He didn’t want a nine-year-old feeling superior, thinking he couldn’t even pick up a few toys. “I got it.” He stood up and slowly crossed to the playpen. Karen didn’t give any clues as to if the way was clear, so he proceeded cautiously. “What’s the baby’s name?”

“My baby sister’s name’s Cindy.”

Jim smiled, remembering. “Right, Cindy.”

“Don’t laugh! She can’t help her name.”

“Who named her?” Jim asked nonchalantly, putting his hand into open space, holding the toy above the playpen. It was snatched with a squeal.

“Uncle Josiah.”

“It’s a good name, Cindy.” Something pushed against Jim’s legs.

“DeWanda, stop! Go play!”

“Why’d your uncle name her that?”

Jim listened as she ran around the room, chasing a squealing child who must have been the four-year-old, DeWanda. “He’s not my uncle,” she said as she jumped up on the bed. “That’s just what we call him. Us’ly with grown-ups, we gotta call ‘em Mr. Dunbar, but he’s just Uncle Josiah.”

Jim nodded, turning as the two children brushed in front of him, then ran back toward the door. Something warm and wet and sticky latched on to one of his fingers as his hand passed over the playpen. He squatted down next to the two imprisoned youngsters. “Is Uncle Josiah gonna help your mom?”

“I dunno.” It sounded like Tamika had just wrestled her younger sister to the bed and was sitting on her, contemplating the question while the younger one squealed and whined, the sounds muffled.

Jim blinked and pulled his hand back as his sunglasses were swiped from his face. Another sticky hand had left a smear of something on his temple. He reached up, rubbed his fingers over it, sniffed. “You like grape jelly?” he asked the baby with the evil laugh.

“Yup,” the two-year-old said.

Karen was laughing.

“Is Uncle Josiah nice to you?” Jim asked, trying to stay on track and not get distracted.

“I dunno.” Tamika jumped off the bed and busied herself.

“You don’t?”

“I don’t remember him. I don’t get to see him anymore. But Cindy does still. I gotta stay back and watch DeWanda us’ly.” It sounded like she started picking up around the playpen, bending, straightening up, dropping objects into the pen. “And Clem gets to go, too.”

“Who’s Clem?”

“Short for Clement. We wanted to name him Sharise, but he was a boy. That’s why Uncle Rico can’t marry Sammy.”

“Why?”

“’Cause Clem’s a boy.”

“So? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I don’t know. DeWanda! Sit still.”

Jim felt something brush past him and he sat on the floor so he wouldn’t be knocked over.

“Here,” a little voice said nearby.

“She’s got your sunglasses for you,” Tamika explained.

“Oh.” Jim held his hand out. “Thanks.” They were sticky, so he put them in the inner pocket of his jacket, next to his cane. “You must be DeWanda?”

“Yeah,” the four-year-old said shyly.

“She can’t talk to you,” Tamika said. Jim heard the older sister pull the younger one away.

“Why not?”

“’Cause.”

Jim sighed. “You’re a lot like your mom, you know that?”

“Yep.”

“What’s your dad like?”

“I dunno.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“Nope. I don’t think so… Maybe I did. Maybe Momma just didn’t tell me who he was and I see him all the time and he’s real proud of me. Or maybe he died. Took too many drugs, or died in a car crash and there was lots of fire and it exploded and—”

“Okay, okay, I get the point. Your mom never told you anything about him?”

“Nope.”

“Is he DeWanda’s dad, too?”

“I dunno.”

“What about Cindy? You woulda been about six. Do you remember who your mom was seeing then?”

“I don’t like the guys Momma dates. Don’t tell her that.”

“Was your Momma dating the guy we found on the stairs?”

“Eew!” she squealed. “They said he was dead.”

“He wasn’t always dead. Was she seeing him before?”

“No,” she said belligerently.

“Tamika, you know, I gotta ask you guys about what we found yesterday. And if any of you know anything, then we can help.”

Her little attitude pricked up and Jim imagined Tamika standing there with her hands on her hips. “And what’s a four-year-old gonna know about a dead body? She thought he was just sleeping.”

“What about you? Would you know anything?”

There was a knock on the door. “Detectives?” an officer asked. “The girlfriend just left. She said she had things to do and she just left.”

Jim nearly swore aloud. He hadn’t talked to the girlfriend yet himself. “Is she coming back?” he asked. The stuffed toy hit him in the head when he turned away from the playpen, but he ignored it and stood. “Thanks for talking to us,” he said to Tamika, then called Hank over and left the bedroom.

“I don’t know where she went or if she’s coming back.”

“Maybe we can catch her.”

A hand caught his arm and he stopped without turning.

“I’ll give you a little of that faith you were talking about,” Artez said. The man sounded extremely nervous, like he was looking over his shoulder even in the tiny apartment. “Look into a man named Pipsqueak. Street name, that’s all I can give you. Now get us out of here.”

“Momma!” Tamika yelled from the bedroom. “Clem just dumped the bubble bath on Cindy!”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“She ain’t ever coming back. I didn’t think she’d go, but…”

“And I talked the whole time,” Tamika yelled, “and I didn’t tell him nothin’ and I didn’t let DeWanda talk at all neither!” She sounded proud.

Jim nodded. “We’ll look into it. Karen? Let’s see if we can find the girlfriend. What was her name again?”

“Samantha. That was her name,” Artez said, sounding sad.

Jim and Karen and Hank took the stairs quickly downward. Jim couldn’t hear any footsteps below and knew the chances of them catching Samantha were slim, but he had to try. He nearly stumbled, moving too quickly, and slowed down, taking hold of the railing.

“You’re going to move them?” Karen asked, out of breath when they hit the lobby. “All because of a street name?”

Jim nodded. “Mostly because the kids, at least, knew there was a person on the stairs, even if they did think he was just sleeping.” They left the building and Jim kept a hand on Karen’s shoulder while she surveyed the street up and down, ready to move with her if she saw anything.

“Nothing,” she said after a moment. “Let’s drive up and down a couple blocks. If she’s on foot, we might find her.”

* * *

“I never got to talk to the girlfriend,” Jim said as he settled into the front seat of Karen’s car.

“So think optimistically and maybe we’ll find her.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Five-three, kinda pale—”

“Like, what’d you two talk about?”

“Nothing much.”

“No insight into the case?”

“Like I said, I don’t know what these people know, but I’d be willing to bet it doesn’t have anything to do with our DOA.”

“Except the kids knew he was there. Wouldn’t you guess the parents would, too?”

“Yeah, I would. And I think they didn’t have a phone and they’d found a nice dry place to stay and they didn’t want to screw it up by bring cops all over the place.”

“You’d stay there? With the body?”

“I don’t know. If the door was closed, maybe.”

“Yeah, but, there’s a dead body, Karen.”

“Squeamish, Jim?” Karen laughed. “It’s not a zombie. It might start smelling a little, but it’s just a body. Maybe it was even dead before they got there.”

Jim was stunned. “Karen?” It just didn’t sound like her. Or maybe it did; she was always trying to prove that women were as sick and depraved and homicidal as men.

“As long as I don’t have to see the guy die… And we’re saying I’m cold and hungry and homeless and I can’t get a job.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re just gonna be able to overlook a dead body, though. And you’ve got kids. And this guy died. And if he died, that means the place isn’t all that safe for your kids, right? ‘Cause whoever killed him could come back.”

“You’re babbling, Jim.”

“I’m just trying to figure it out.”

“Is this what your brain sounds like when you’re thinking and go all comatose on us? ‘Cause if it is, it’s probably best you don’t think out loud too often.”

Jim set his lips and looked away. “I just can’t figure out how DeLana could overlook a dead body—I mean, she’s not some stupid drugged-up mom.”

“So maybe she really didn’t know. Maybe Artez knew and was keeping it from everyone else so they wouldn’t freak.”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t see her. Should we head back?”

“Yeah. But Karen, what did you and Samantha talk about?”

Karen made a noise that Jim equated with her blushing. “Today she asked me about birth control and planned parenthood.”

Jim smiled. “Anything else?”

“Geez, Jim, don’t you trust me? I know how to do an interview.”

“I trust you. I just feel like I’m missing something and I wish I knew what it was.”

Karen took a deep breath. “She didn’t want a boy. She said she couldn’t have another one. I thought she meant she didn’t want more kids, but after talking to the girl, I wonder if she’s not looking for a way to just not have any more boys.”

“And yesterday?”

“I asked her about the guy and she started talking about a sale at Bloomingdales and she was all wistful about not being able to go there anymore.”

“No problems with her and Artez? ‘Cause she could always get a job or another boyfriend who has a job…”

“Didn’t seem like it. She was kinda out of it, so I didn’t push.”

“Drugs?”

“Not that I could tell.”

Jim rubbed a hand over his mouth.

“What else?”

“What else? There’s nothing else.”

“Nothing? We have someone who’s just abandoned her baby and wandered off even though her life may be in danger. And you just talked to her.”

“She didn’t say anything about leaving. She wanted me to join her church, even wrote the address in my notebook. And just so you know, the church is right down the street from my apartment, and it’s been closed for years, okay? I think it might be on the city’s condemned list.

“She wanted to know if my cell phone takes pictures, which it doesn’t, by the way. She wanted to know where I got my jacket. If you need to know, I got it on-line. She told me her dad died when she was two. She told me she’s not sure Rico’s the father of her baby. She wanted to name the baby Inclement because he didn’t sleep for the first month. Oh, and she wanted me to know that if the world ended, it was all her fault.”

Jim was silent for a few minutes mulling it all over. “Great.”

“Certifiable.”

“Doubly great.”

Karen parked the car and got out. Jim let Hank out of the car, his hand brushing over the dog. He wrinkled his nose; Hank’s head was covered in what felt suspiciously like grape jelly.

[greenbeing]

* * *

“Hey, Dunbar,” Marty said with a snicker, “what’d you have for breakfast?”

“Jim, you get beaned by Bozo the Clown on the way back?” Tom asked, laughing.

“You know your head’s a funny shape, but your mouth didn’t move.”

“Is that ectoplasm?” Tom started humming the theme song to Ghostbusters. “”Who you gonna call?” Jim Dunbar,” he sang.

“Singing?” Fisk asked, stepping into the squad room. “Jim,” he said, sounding surprised. He stopped walking. “Did you fall in a dumpster?” he asked worriedly.

Jim ignored them and pulled off his coat.

“Uh, Jim, you got something in your hair there,” Marty said, leaning back in his chair so it squeaked.

“Yeah, Marty, I know.” He listened as Karen walked up. No one commented on her appearance, so he wondered how she’d managed to stay jelly-free.

“Karen, how’d the interview go?”

“Eh, interesting, but we didn’t learn much.”

“Interesting?” Marty spat out. “Looking at Dunbar, that must have been one hell of an interview.”

Jim let a hand stray to his head and found he’d missed a huge glob of jelly. He left the glob, not having anything to clean it with and wiped his hand on his pants. He sat on the edge of his desk. “We got a name to check. Pipsqueak.”

Marty snickered.

“I’ll check it out,” Tom said and laughed.

“It’s hard to take you seriously right now, Dunbar,” Marty said.

“Pipsqueak? You’re not making that up, are you? Send me off on a wild goose chase?” Tom asked.

“Guys,” Karen reprimanded.

“Yeah, but what happened?” Fisk asked.

“It was an interview, nothing out of the ordinary,” Jim said with a straight face.

“You got slimed, man,” Tom said.

Jim grabbed his coat. “I’m going to lunch.”

“You’re already a side dish.”

“I’m gonna stop at home and shower, if that’s okay, boss?”

“Please, Jim,” Fisk said.

* * *

Jim was cautious walking back into the squad room after lunch. He let Hank walk off ahead like usual, but lunchtime was often hectic in the squad, people coming and going. People had a tendency to leave things lying around. Just the other day he’d tripped over a box the postal service had left.

It was quiet, as most everyone was still at lunch. Marty wasn’t there, he could just tell. And Tom had driven out to check on the witnesses, wherever they were being moved.

Jim had just turned his back on Karen’s desk when he heard a rustle from over there, then a small shriek. Jim froze, then straightened and turned quickly in a defensive fighting stance.

“Karen?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, breathing a little harder than usual.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. A, uh, spider. It’s kinda big.”

Jim dropped his hands, though his fists were still clenched. He almost smiled, but he knew better from years of dealing with Christie. Christie was spider-phobic, too. He’d learned that everyone was scared of something; it wasn’t something they could help. Involuntary reactions.

“It just surprised me, that’s all,” she said. She was still standing a few feet away from her desk.

“Do you need me to take care of it?” Jim asked.

“Don’t patronize me,” Karen snapped.

“I’m not. Just offering.” Karen was quiet. She didn’t snap, “well, don’t,” like he expected her to.

“I don’t need you to take care of anything,” she finally said.

Jim shrugged. “Okay. I’m just designated Spider Disposer at home.”

“Fine, dispose of it.”

“Just tell me where it is and I’ll squish it.”

“Take it out, okay?”

“Out?”

“Outside.”

“You want me to squish it outside?”

“No, I want you to take it outside.”

“You catch it, I promise I’ll take it outside.”

“You can’t catch it?”

“What’s the matter, Karen, you scared to kill something?” Marty asked, walking up.

“Not likely,” Jim told Karen, ignoring Marty. “It’s a little easier to just kill it.”

“Really, Jim, is it?” Marty asked snidely.

“What’s the matter, Marty, you never kill anything before?” Jim asked.

“I don’t need you to stick up for me, Jim,” Karen said quietly.

“Well, we all know you’ve killed someone before, Jim,” Marty said.

Jim bit his lip. He hadn’t been thinking of the bank.

“So tell me, Jim,” Marty said, sitting down. His chair squeaked and his voice moved lower. Jim moved his gaze down and clenched his fists like he was ready for a fight. “If that was a perp… It’s just easier to kill it, huh? Why bother taking it into custody?”

Jim turned away. “It’s a little different, Marty. Perps make noise, spiders don’t.”

“Do they? Do they really, Jim? What kind of noise does a perp make?”

Jim sat down and ignored the condescending attitude. He wasn’t going to stoop to Marty’s level.

Thud! echoed through the squad, the sound of a high heeled shoe slammed against a desk, then dropped back on the floor.

“There, are you two satisfied now?” Karen asked.

* * *

He’d never told Dr. Galloway specifically what was wrong with his marriage. Heck, he wasn’t sure he knew for sure himself. But the good Doctor was aware that it was less than sunny side up.

“Hey, Doc, can I ask you something confidentially?”

Jim heard the other man shift in his chair before answering. “You know, Jim, everything you say here is confidential.”

Jim couldn’t help but smile. They’d been through that before. “Right, right. I guess I meant something personal. Not job-related.”

“You can ask anything. But you know you might not always get the answer you want.”

“Are you turning Buddhist on me, Doc?”

Dr. Galloway chuckled. “I learned from a lot of different people. What’s your question?”

Jim shifted uncomfortably and grabbed both arms of the chair to keep himself from bolting. It seemed like a huge chair, like the one in the old Memorex commercial where the guy gets blown away. “It’s about my wife…”

“Okay.”

“Her birthday was a couple weeks ago…”

“Okay.”

“And I forgot.”

Silence.

“I got her a present, so everything’s taken care of—bad choice of words.” Jim shook his head. “It’s not all taken care of. Doc, why hasn’t she said anything? What would make a woman just not say anything either way?”

“Did you give it to her personally?”

Jim shifted awkwardly. “Well, no. She wasn’t home…” He didn’t say he was almost glad there hadn’t been a confrontation that night, even if the waiting was killing him.

“So you didn’t say anything to her about forgetting her birthday?”

“No…”

“Why do you think she should say anything?”

“Because it’s her birthday!”

“So it’s her responsibility?”

Jim kept his gaze averted. Even if he couldn’t see, he still couldn’t attempt eye contact when he was under scrutiny. “I just want to know why she hasn’t said anything. I thought you might be able to explain women to me, Doc.”

Doctor Galloway chuckled. “No one can do that, Jim. Not even me.”

Jim’s head snapped up. “Why hasn’t she yelled at me yet?”

“Jim.” It sounded like the doctor was leaning forward. “Is it her responsibility to ruin the very thought of her own birthday with a fight? Do you want her to yell at you?”

“No.”

“Do you think she wants to yell at you?”

Jim had to think about that.

“You’ve put her in an awkward position. If she says anything now, it’s up to her to bring it up, to set the tone of the conversation. If she’s angry, will you get mad at her for sounding angry? If she’s forgiving, will you just forget this and not learn from it?”

Jim hung his head.

“And from what you’ve told me, whatever happened between you two before, she might not want to bring that up. But if she brings this up…”

“She’ll have to bring everything else up.”

“Are you ready for that?”

Jim thought it over and let out a low whistle. “It would be one hell of a fight.”

* * *

“You know what’s strange,” Jim had told Galloway before leaving his appointment, “I’ve started questioning if I’ve ever loved my wife. Ever, even before.”

“Have you ever questioned that—ever, even before?”

Jim was quiet for a moment and rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. He usually didn’t wear the sunglasses around Galloway—he was finding it was better not to try to hide anything from the man. “Yeah, I did, before I got shot…” That had been a rough time, before he got shot—rough for him and Christie, and for guilt over what he had done. Christie was the perfect wife—why question his ability to love her?

“Look at it this way, Jim… Maybe you’re right back where you started from. You’re yourself again.”

Jim had left then, not sure how he felt about that.

He was sure of one thing now—he didn’t want to be the man he had been before. Like he’d told Karen, he’d done a lot of growing up since then, or so he liked to think. And before he saw Christie again, he’d better figure out how he did feel. He headed to Morrissey’s instead of home.

“Hey, Jim! Be with you in a minute,” Gray called when Jim walked in the door.

Jim nudged Hank in the direction of the counter to find an empty barstool. The place sounded like it was hopping with the after-work crowd. The voices wrapped around him, but there were too many for him to pick out a single conversation. The perfect atmosphere for thinking.

Apparently the end stool by the door wasn’t the most popular place to sit because it was empty again. To Jim it was a great place to sit—out of the way, just a place to drink and think. Before, he probably wouldn’t have liked to be so far from all the action, but now…

Yeah, he’d changed. Hopefully for the better. Hopefully he’d grown up. And he loved Christie, right?

“The usual?” he heard muffled nearby, but sometimes he had trouble pulling himself out of his reverie, figuring out if someone was speaking to him or not. “Uh, Jim? The usual?” Gray repeated.

Jim looked up. “Yeah.” He heard a clunk immediately in front of him and thought Gray must have already gotten the beer before thinking he should ask. That was the trouble with no longer being a regular. He reached out and felt the bottle already beginning to sweat. “Thanks.”

There was no reply and Jim figured Gray was off helping someone else. Probably for the best—what he couldn’t confide in Galloway he wasn’t likely to share with the guys at the bar.

He wondered if the guys were still there, same as always. Just maybe too scared to come up and say something. He shook his head a little. He wasn’t going to worry about it. That was their problem; Christie was his.

He didn’t think she wanted to fight with him. She wanted him to talk to her—he’d never been very good at that, she shouldn’t expect him to change. She wanted to help him—he’d never been good at accepting help, he didn’t want to change. It was probably her maternal instinct coming out. But he’d always been the one to take care of her; he couldn’t accept the reverse. He wanted to take care of her like always and feel useful.

Maybe she wants the same thing? a voice in his head asked. The voice sounded suspiciously like Doctor Galloway. They must be spending way too much time together if Jim could predict what he would say to every thought in his head.

What, Doc? She wants me to take care of her like usual? Or she wants to take my role, take care of me and feel useful?

Maybe both.

She can’t have it both ways!

Jim downed his beer and pushed the empty bottle to the end of the bar so Gray could take care of it when he got a chance. There was anger bubbling up with the beer. And Christie wasn’t even there, these weren’t really her thoughts—he was projecting his own feelings about her, as Galloway would have told him.

He heard another beer bottle thunk on the counter and reached out.

Even if Christie did want to take care of him, was that so wrong? He only had a problem with it because he was stubborn and independent to a fault.

He wondered if Karen felt that way about him, if she got frustrated because he hated asking for help. Or maybe if she got frustrated because sometimes he needed more help… Did he take advantage of Karen?

Would it kill him to let Christie help him?

What if he didn’t need help?

Had he been feeling bitter toward her lately because they couldn’t go out and do the things they used to? Is that why he was thinking they’d never had anything in common, thinking he’d never enjoyed going out to the opera and to classy clubs? It was hard for him to mingle now. Like in this bar, he had no idea who was around. Marty could have been there. Or Terry. Or Anne. And even if he’d wandered around saying ‘how’s it going’ to everyone, he’d never know they were there if they didn’t answer. He hated that.

Christie was just trying to bring him up in the world, getting him to go places outside of his comfort zone. He wouldn’t have minded going to the opera with her, broadening his horizons, snuggling close… But if there’d been a party afterward… It was the damn mingling—he needed to rely on her to tell him who was around, interject him into conversations. He didn’t want to have to rely on her just to hang out at a bar with his friends!

Clay Simmon’s party had been plaguing him lately. She thought that was normal. That was one of the things he’d always hated, all those stuffy people, trying to talk to them. Before he’d been blind, he would have relished any excuse to hang back at the side and just watch. But he’d been the dutiful husband and made the rounds, simpering to the people Christie wanted to get in good with.

She couldn’t show him off as well now. He wasn’t perfect anymore. And so she’d just left him instead of taking him with.

Hell, that wasn’t right. He’d never been perfect. Sure, he was probably harder to show off now, yeah, but he hadn’t told her the problem he had socializing, hadn’t asked her to help.

He couldn’t ask her for help. He could ask for help from almost anyone except Christie.

Jim sighed and slumped over the bar.

“Drunk already?” Gray asked good-naturedly.

Jim looked up, surprised that anyone was around. He laughed when he realized he could tune out a whole bar and not even notice.

“You looked kinda scary there for a while.”

“Did I scare away some customers?”

“No more than usual. Anything wrong?”

“Nah, just trying to decide whether or not I hate my wife.”

“Ah,” Gray said wisely. “You know, there’s a little love and hate in every marriage. I think you always hate your wife. Just keep in mind, it’s more fun to concentrate on the nice stuff.”

Jim nodded. “That’s wise. Very wise.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Jim laughed.

“I’ve been standing here for years, listening to people. That’s the best advice I’ve got.”

“You got anything else?”

“Yeah. Don’t step in front of a bus.”

* * *

Jim’s nightmares often included killing the gunman at the bank. At first he’d thought the scene replayed over and over night after night because that had been the last time he’d ever seen anything. Traumatic, yes, but he wasn’t sure the loss of his sight compared with the new theory that had started to plague him.

He’d killed a man. Every night, in his dreams, he killed him again. And again.

It hadn’t been like the Gulf, when they hadn’t been able to see the enemy up close most of the time. This had been a man, standing twenty feet away. And even though the gunman had been shooting at anything that moved, had even shot a couple other cops, Jim found himself shooting straight into the bulletproof vest. Why? Because he hadn’t wanted to kill the guy? Had he believed they’d actually be able to take him alive? It was obvious he didn’t plan to let himself be arrested. The only thing to do was shoot him in the head, not waste all those bullets.

Not cost two other cops their lives while he played at shooting a bulletproof vest. You can’t do that—that’s why they’re bulletproof.

He’d finally killed the gunman, though he barely remembered doing so. He knew he had, he’d taken a life. Even if he’d had to, even if he barely remembered, it didn’t sit well with him.

And maybe it was partly his fault the other officers had died.

Maybe that’s why the nightmares came.

Jim was lying awake in bed. He’d almost been asleep, lying there, replaying the day, trying to add pictures to what he hadn’t been able to see, waiting for Christie to come home from wherever she was. That’s when the conversation about the spider popped back into his head and his eyes had popped back open. He felt guilty now, making Karen kill that spider.

And at the bank, maybe he’d wanted to give the guy a fighting chance. Or maybe he’d just hoped someone else would step up and kill him so Jim wouldn’t have to, wouldn’t have to watch him die, wouldn’t have to feel any guilt.

[greenbeing]

Chapter Three

* * *

Jim sat at the kitchen table, the coffee in front of him already cold, his elbows on the table, hands clasped. He made them into a temple and concentrated through the blindness. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe he could will himself to see. That had been the initial plan when he was in the hospital. It had never worked, but sometimes he still had to test the theory. He felt so locked in, he just wanted to break out. He wanted a change of scene.

“You keep doing that, you’re going to drive yourself crazy.”

Jim let his hands drop so fast he nearly upset his coffee mug. He clenched one fist on either side of the cup. “Morning,” he said. He hadn’t heard Christie get up.

“Morning.” Her smell wafted over and he turned his head. Something expensive and obviously manufactured—no natural smells for his wife. She kissed his cheek.

It was the same every morning. Jim was afraid to break the spell; they were co-existing so peacefully without fighting. Maybe it really wasn’t fair to her to ruin her birthday by bringing up the fact that he’d forgotten it. He could wallow in his own guilt and never say anything, and things could go on just like they were.

“Where were you last night?”

Jim furrowed his brow, following her footsteps as she moved around the kitchen. He leaned back. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I came home after work to let you know we’d been invited out to dinner. So I went without you.”

Jim nodded. She could have called his cell phone, if she’d really wanted him to come. “I stopped by Morrissey’s… I wanted to know if any of the old guys were still going there.”

“Are they?”

Jim shrugged. “I dunno.” There was silence. She was waiting for him to explain, but he couldn’t. In the light of day, even if he couldn’t see it, thoughts of the old group were even more distracting. He didn’t want to admit to Christie that, if they were still around, the only person who would still talk to him was the bartender. He bit his lip; he didn’t want to admit that to himself. “How was dinner?” He got up to dump out his coffee, half listening, half thinking. He definitely wasn’t the same man if he could walk into a bar without people jumping up to come talk to him.


* * *


Guffawing wasn’t a sound you usually heard around a bunch of homicide detectives, but that’s the first thing Jim heard when he got off the elevator. The sound quieted to muffled snickers as he got closer. Marty and Tom, and even a few snorts from Fisk. Someone coughed and someone else laughed harder. Jim ignored them and headed for his desk. They could laugh at him all they wanted. He didn’t even want to know what it was about—he probably wouldn’t like the answer.

He dropped off his laptop then headed for the locker room. Behind him everyone started talking at once.

“Hey, Jim,” Marty said later, leaning over in his chair, “my wife and I are going out of town this weekend—”

“Good for you,” Jim interrupted. He didn’t want to know where this was going. Things had quieted down when he got back from his locker, but maybe that had just been to lull him into a false sense of security.

“We were wondering if you could baby-sit. Play a few games, make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich…”

Tom snorted.

Hank sneezed, but Jim swore even that sounded like a dry laugh. He tried to smile himself. “So you wheedled the story out of Karen, huh?”

“Wheedling wasn’t necessary. She came running in early this morning going, “Guys, guys, I just have to tell you about everything before Dunbar gets here.””

“Sounds just like her,” Jim said.

“Come on, Marty,” Karen said. She sounded embarrassed.

“Karen,” Jim said, spinning his chair toward her, “I’ve been curious, what were you doing the whole time I was getting mauled by toddlers?”

“Laughing,” Karen said with a grin. “And watching the sidewalk,” she said more seriously. “I dunno, but I had a weird feeling.”

“You see anything? Like anyone who might have taken Samantha? Waiting for her?”

“I’m not sure. We were eight floors up, but there were some people just hanging around down there. I wanted to make sure there was no trouble.”

“And leaving Dunbar to deal with some slimy kids on his own was incentive, right?” Tom said.

Karen laughed.

“Guys,” Jim complained.

“Oh, Jim, you should have seen it.” Karen snorted.

“That’s unladylike, Karen,” Jim teased.

Karen snorted again. “I can’t help it. It was like we were walking into an ambush.”

“You ever been in an ambush, Karen?” Jim asked.

“No…”

“I have.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She sounded uncomfortable.

Jim grinned. “Just kidding.”

“You can’t listen to him about anything that happened during the Gulf,” Tom said.

“Got it,” Karen said. But she’d sobered up and Jim could hear her typing at her computer again. It was quiet for a minute before Karen laughed and the mirth returned to the squad.

Jim smiled finally and gave in. “Okay, tell me the story.” He hadn’t wanted to hear her version; he’d been there himself. It worried him to think of just how ignorant he might be, finding out how little he could actually observe, how much he was missing. He didn’t want to know.

“Jim, the little girl that took your sunglasses—first she stuck her hand in the jar of jelly, like she knew what she was doing. She took off your glasses and while she smeared your face, she dropped a big glop on your head.”

Jim wrinkled his nose and found one hand traveling to the top of his head to make sure all the jelly was gone. “Yeah, Karen, I was there.”

“She was throwing jelly at Hank, too. He kept eating it.”

Jim groaned. “Hank,” he admonished. “So much for being well-behaved.”

Hank licked his lips. He didn’t often get treats—he was on a strict diet to keep him fit for duty. But oh, he sure liked that Cindy kid. And that jelly. Hank found he was drooling like a dog.

“And she put your glasses in the jelly jar.”

“Good to know.” He reached up and straightened his sunglasses. It had taken a good soaking before they’d been safe to wear again. He’d felt naked the day before, coming back to work without his sunglasses.

“I guess it wasn’t as funny when you lived it?” Karen asked.

“Karen, I’ve been beaten by perps. I’ve been shot. I’ve been threatened and pushed around. And nothing compares to being accosted by four sticky children while your partner daydreams out the window.”

“Sorry.”

Jim grinned. “You’re supposed to be watching my back.”

“I did! Trust me, they didn’t get any on your back.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Stop smirking.”

“I’m not,” Karen protested.

“You are, too,” Marty said.

“He doesn’t need to know that,” Karen whispered.

Jim grinned. He already knew.


* * *


“Hey, Marty,” Jim asked suddenly.

“Just a second,” Marty mumbled.

Jim waited patiently. He vaguely wondered what the other detectives were doing. It was part of his nature as a cop to be observant. Marty and Karen were both quiet, but the squad room was loud enough with other people talking that it masked the quiet tell-tale noises of pens scribbling on paper and mouse buttons clicking. Tom had been on the phone for an hour trying to dig up information about someone named Pipsqueak. Jim could tell by the sound of his voice and the questions he was asking that he was getting exasperated. He was tapping a pen on the desk, getting louder and more staccato with every phone call.

Hank was snoring. He slept a lot during the day and had extra energy at night, more energy to play havoc on the apartment and drive Christie crazy.

Hank was dreaming. He was with a dog he’d met back during school for guide dog training. Her name was Sonja. Woof.

“Hank.” Jim touched the sleeping dog.

Hank felt a hand on his side, heard his master’s voice and struggled out of sleep. He sat up, ready for battle.

“You have to sleep more quietly, bud,” Jim said and scratched Hank between the ears.

Hank bit back angry thoughts. This was Jim, the dog food guy. He didn’t deserve to lose a few fingers. But it had been such a nice dream.

He whined, trapped by indecision. Killer instinct or good dog?

“It’s okay,” Jim said. He scratched Hank’s head.

Yeah, you’d think that, Hank thought, lying back down. But if you’d ever met a girl like Sonja instead of the one you did…

Tom was wheedling, cajoling, swearing intermittently. The phone call wasn’t going well. It sounded like Karen threw something at him because he pulled the phone away after a clattering sound and explained how this was the best way to get information.

“Yeah?” Marty asked, spinning his chair around.

Jim blinked and pulled himself out of observation mode. “You’re a pretty good judge of character…”

“Don’t flatter me so much, Jim.”

“What’d you think about those two families?”

Marty made a noncommittal noise. “They weren’t much help, if you ask me.”

Jim nodded. “Karen said the same thing.”

“But you got some info out of them.”

“I got lucky. Did they tell you anything at all? Or talk about anything out of the ordinary?”

Marty was quiet for a minute.

“Careful, Marty,” Karen warned, “he’s in brain-picking mode.”

“What’d you think of Rico Artez?” Jim asked.

“I thought he was a pain in the ass.”

“Do you think he knows anything?”

“About our DOA? I don’t think he knew the guy and I don’t think he knew who killed him, either. Just scared. I bet he knew the guy was there, but that’s about it. Not enough for you to be taking care of his family.”

“What about the sister and the girlfriend?”

“They didn’t say much.”

“Jim,” Karen warned, “stop giving us that ‘you’re no help’ look.”

Jim turned away and frowned. “Sorry.”

“Look, Jim,” Marty leaned forward, “sometimes you just have to accept that there are no clues.”

“I’m not giving up, Marty,” Jim said without turning to face him.

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just saying you might need to stop digging here and start looking somewhere else.”

Jim nodded. Those were always the tough calls. When to give up, when to look elsewhere, and where to look when they did. If Artez and his sister didn’t pan out, then what? If they never found out who the DOA was, they’d never have any other clues.

“Karen, maybe we should check into Uncle Josiah.”

“What, you think he might know something?”

“Nah, let’s check just for fun,” Jim said with a grin. “If nothing else, maybe he can help. Maybe he can take the kids in while Artez finds a job. It would give them someplace to sleep.”

“Hey,” Fisk said from his doorway. “Coroner just called. Unconfirmed substance in our DOA’s blood.”

“Unconfirmed?” Karen asked, beating Jim to the question.

“Yeah. They found a trace of something early on, but wanted to be sure. They can’t lock it down.”

“So it’s not alcohol or a common street drug?” Marty asked.

“Doesn’t look like it. Could be a combination of things, but they can’t isolate enough of it to be sure.”

“So if it’s not something normally found in the body, they think it was ingested?” Jim asked.

“Yeah.”

“Purposefully or accidentally? Or maybe someone slipped him something?”

“Can’t tell.”

“But they’ve ruled out the gunshot wound as cause of death?”

“Pretty much. It could have exacerbated the condition of the drug. But they said the wound looked more like it was just for show.”

[greenbeing]

* * *


It was Karen’s idea to go back to the crime scene. Jim had been surprised because she usually didn’t ask for a re-canvas.

“You’re rubbing off on me,” Karen said as she slammed her car door. “I just think we may have missed something.”

“I hope so,” Jim said. He settled into the passenger seat. If they hadn’t missed anything, they were getting to that point where they’d just have to close the case for insufficient evidence. Those cases always hurt. He at least wanted to identify the DOA so it wouldn’t just end up a John Doe with no family, hopefully the family could be notified and move on with their lives.

“I don’t know,” Karen said as they pulled up to the old mansion. “You and I looked it over so thoroughly before…”

“Now there’s no one around. Maybe we’ll be able to see something without tripping over anyone.” Jim let Hank out of the back seat and followed Karen.

“I’m just glad I’m not the blind one, having to rely on someone else to describe everything. Having to be the one with all the ideas.”

Jim shrugged. He missed being able to pour over a crime scene, but he didn’t want to think about it. He just had to find ways to compensate. “Let’s start upstairs and work our way down.”

“I can’t believe anyone’s lived here at all,” Karen grumbled after searching the upstairs rooms. “Jim, I’m even looking at the baseboards, trying to find a trapdoor or something. Maybe the fireplace swings out and there’s a secret passageway.”

Jim smiled and ran through everything she’d described. He could practically see the rooms, she’d been so thorough. Bits of wallpaper still stuck in the corners of the closet. Places the carpet was more worn than others. The way the windowsills had warped so the windows didn’t fit right.

“Four completely empty rooms, if you can believe it.”

“If it wasn’t you looking around, I wouldn’t believe it. But I trust you.” Jim had searched one closet while Karen did the rest of the rooms. He’d even let Hank sniff around and play police dog, but Hank hadn’t found anything out of the ordinary.

The stairs were clear, too. Nothing. Ballistics had taken the bullet out of the stair it had been lodged in.

“This is the cleanest house I’ve ever seen waiting to be torn down.”

Jim chewed on his lip. “A house that doesn’t need to be condemned, and a body that really shouldn’t have died.”

“Let’s search the basement.” Karen led the way out back where the only entrance to the old cellar was set into the ground. Jim lifted the old door for her and slowly descended the dank cold stairs.

“I can’t find a light switch,” Karen said after a minute. “Probably they never got any electricity down here. Just the old boiler, not even a furnace. Dirt floors. Cobwebs.” She shuddered. “I can hardly see anything.”

“Smells like they’ve had a lot of water damage.”

“I’m standing in a mud puddle. That tell you anything?”

Jim smiled and took her arm. “That it? Nothing else?”

“Nothing.”

“Then let’s go.” Jim made sure she made it out of the mud puddle without slipping, then he turned and led the way upstairs. His shoulders slumped as he reached the fresh cold fall air. He couldn’t feel the sun, probably cloudy and overcast, a perfect day to die, perfect for a funeral, for pouring over a crime scene. He just needed a ray of hope.

“You okay? Sorry we didn’t find anything. I thought we might.”

“We can’t solve them all. I just wish we knew something. Anything. That’s what bugs me. This place is too clean. You said it was freshly painted. Why would someone paint a place they were going to tear down?” Jim paced back and forth in the small back courtyard.

Hank watched, ready to jump in at any time. Karen stood next to him, also watching Jim.

“Jimmy…” Karen said slowly. “We’ll find something.”

Jim smiled grimly. “You don’t need to try to cheer me up, Karen.”

Karen sighed audibly.

Hank nudged her hand. He liked Karen. She was a good human, always ready to help. And she kept an eye on Jim whenever Jim left him in the car. Hank was grateful to her for that. He nudged her hand again.

“You have a cold nose, Hank,” she said, but she reached down to pet him.

Jim stopped pacing. “It’s cold.”

“Yeah.” Karen shivered. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“Even Hank’s cold.”

“Hank, are you cold?” Karen leaned down to his level and he licked her face. “He says he’s freezing and can we go get some coffee.”

Jim turned back to the house. “The house wasn’t cold.” He paused, staring through the fog. “But you wouldn’t really notice because a radiator doesn’t make a lot of noise.”

“So?”

“So what’s the boiler doing on?”

Karen moved next to Jim and put a hand on his arm. “And,” she said, “why’s the electricity still on?”

“Who’s paying the bills?”


* * *


“Nothing,” Tom said, hanging up the phone.

“I called Sonny,” Jim offered.

“Ooh, calling in the big guns,” Marty said.

“You find anything, Marty?” Jim asked, leaning back in his chair to face the other detective.

“I think the guy’s playing with you.”

“Thanks for the opinion,” Karen said.

“Pipsqueak doesn’t seem like much of a street name,” Tom said.

“Yeah, I know…” Jim trailed off, trying to think, but nothing new came to mind. Even if there was a good chance they were getting played, Jim wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Some church is paying the bills on the old house. They probably forgot to get the utilities turned off. What’d we find out about Artez, DeLana, and their creepy uncle?” Jim asked Karen.

“They don’t exist,” she replied. “IRS doesn’t even have anything on them.”

“Great,” Marty said.

“And still no word on the autopsy or the identity of the DOA,” Tom supplied. “It’s like none of these people existed, and when they die, all they’ll leave is a corpse.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine today, Tom,” Karen said.

“Anytime. Hey, Karen, if I break up with Nikki, you think that friend of yours would go out with me?”

Jim held his breath. He could almost feel the look he was sure Karen had shot in his direction.

“Nah. She doesn’t date cops.”


* * *


Jim let Karen guide him. They’d gotten a call about another DOA and had hurried out, hoping for an easy case they could clear in a day or two, something to give them a reprieve from this mess with Artez and the Owl kid, as Jim had started calling him because of his t-shirt. They walked into an old shop that seemed muffled and stifling to Jim. He kept close to Karen. The room was small and filled with other cops.

“Caucasian, female, blonde,” an officer said, meeting them in the room. “About 23 or 24.”

Karen stopped walking and Jim stayed at her side, waiting for her description of the new DOA. Karen was shaking her head and reached up to pat Jim’s hand on her arm.

“Well, Jim, it looks like you’ll never get to talk to her now,” Karen said.

“Who?” He set his jaw. He had a hunch, that awful sick feeling he got during cases where everything went wrong.

“Samantha.”

Jim let go of Karen’s arm and stepped back. Yeah, everything was bound to go wrong in this case. If only the officers had stopped Samantha from leaving the day before. Or if he and Karen had been able to find her. Why’d she ever leave in the first place? Artez had said he knew she wasn’t coming back, was surprised she’d actually left, like he knew she wouldn’t live. But if she’d known she was going to die, why would she have gone? And who would have wanted to kill her? Artez had to know. He’d said several times that Samantha and his sister were in trouble. He’d have to talk now.

“She doesn’t have any ID,” an officer said. “Did you know her?”

“From another case,” Karen said and filled the officer in on what they did know about the elusive Samantha.

“You okay, Jim?” Karen asked when she was done.

He turned toward her. “Yeah.” Actually, he wanted to hit someone. If Artez had told them before whatever it was he knew, they could have saved her. She didn’t have to die. “How’d she die?” he asked, trying to stay calm and impartial.

“Shot in the shoulder,” the officer said.

“In the shoulder?” Jim asked incredulously. “They hit a massive artery or something?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. She was shot.”

“Once?”

“Yeah.”

Jim turned away from the officer and straightened his sunglasses. “Karen?”

“Doesn’t look fatal,” she confirmed.

Jim took a couple steps away from the body. They’d found Samantha on the floor of an old grocery that was being converted into some shop or other. No sign of forced entry. No witnesses. One of the contractors had found her.

“Face down.”

“How’s she look?”

“Not bad. Considering.” Karen looked her over more closely. “Looks like she was a chocolate fanatic—it’s all under her fingernails.”

“What’s she wearing?”

“A green t-shirt. Brown pants.”

“Shoes?”

“Yeah. Cross trainers like she was wearing the last two times.”

Jim felt Karen push against his shoulder.

“They’re bringing the stretcher.”

Jim moved until Karen stopped pushing. He could feel a half-finished wall behind his back—beams and insulation.

Karen swore under her breath. “Green t-shirt, orange letters. It says, “meow,” not capitalized.”

Jim turned to face where they were moving the body, as if he could see and confirm what Karen had just said.

“Won’t hold up in a court of law, but we have a connection.”

Jim reached for his phone. “We better have them move Artez and the others.” Move them, and then go over and beat the piss out of Artez. Jim wasn’t going to let anyone else die just so Artez could pretend he didn’t know anything.


* * *


Jim paced impatiently behind Karen while she talked to the coroner on the phone.

“Jim,” Karen said, annoyed.

He stopped. “What?”

“I’m on hold. And if you don’t stop pacing right behind me, I’m liable to scoot my chair back and run over your foot.”

“Violent today, Karen?” Marty asked.

Jim couldn’t sit down. He felt confined. He moved away from Karen and stood facing the window to give her some space. He could go pace in the locker room. Or he could take Hank out and wander the streets aimlessly, but nothing much was going to get rid of this excess energy. It was frustrating, being frustrated. He still hadn’t talked to Christie, the case wasn’t getting anywhere, and he felt like he needed a new hobby. Hanging out at a bar without anyone to talk to wasn’t working. It used to be, the past several months, that by the end of the day he’d be exhausted and he’d just want to go home. But as he got more comfortable with the job and the people and even with being blind, he found he had energy to spare. He really was starting to feel like his old self again—impatient and needing to multitask.

Karen was uh-huhing into the phone again. Jim spun around, ready for any information to twist around in his mind. He almost started pacing again, but caught the back of his chair and held on.

Karen set the phone down quietly, more quietly than usual. She didn’t say anything right away. Jim sat down and spun his chair to face her. “Okay, tell us.”

“She was pregnant. It was a boy.”

Jim stared incredulously at the blankness that would have been Karen. “Did she look pregnant?” he finally asked.

“I guess. I just thought it was left over from the other baby. Some women have trouble losing that weight, you know.”

“Can we tell who the father was?”

“I asked them to run that test. We’ll get a blood sample from Artez when we bring him in, but I have a feeling it’s not his kid.”

“Sounds like you’re working on a soap opera,” Marty said.

“And getting more complicated all the time,” Karen replied.


* * *


DeLana and the kids were left to stay safe at the new apartment, but Artez was pulled to identify the body. Jim was so anxious for answers he wanted to intercept Rico Artez before he could get to the morgue.

“Jim, you have to be patient. We’ll give him a few minutes, then we’ll go down and talk to him, okay?” Karen said calmly.

Jim was standing behind his desk chair, unable even to sit down. He shook his head. “Let’s bring him up here. I want to talk to him in private.”

“You’ll stay calm, right? You’re not going to do anything rash?”

“Karen, don’t you know me by now?”

“That’s why I’m asking.”

“Karen, if he’d told us something before, there’d be one less dead body in New York, did you ever think of that? If he’d just come clean, one less person had to die.”

“Maybe he thinks if he’d come clean, his sister and the kids would have been killed, too. Did you ever think of that?”

“I just want some answers. That’s all. And we’re keeping him here until we get them.”

“Okay,” Karen agreed. “Just keep your head. I’ll bring him up and we’ll meet you in room 2, okay?”

Jim tried to wait patiently, but he was staring at the window of the interview room when Karen finally showed up. He listened to the door open and his fists clenched.

“Detective,” Rico Artez greeted him with a sniff.

Jim’s eyes narrowed. Crying again, but he wasn’t going to get any sympathy this time. He had to reign in the desire to order the other man to pull himself together. He had to be calm; the man’s girlfriend had just been found dead.

“How’s it going, Rico?” he said without turning.

“You know,” Rico said.

“You feel responsible for her death?”

“I didn’t kill her!”

“I didn’t say you did.” Jim finally turned around. “I just said you should feel responsible. I can’t help but wonder, if you’d been honest with us from the start, would she still be alive?”

The room was quiet and Jim moved forward and pulled out a chair. “Have a seat and tell me. What do you think about that?”

There was silence for a minute, then Jim heard Artez and Karen both sit. Jim leaned back to wait. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Getting information could take all day.

“They know I’m here,” Artez whispered. He sounded scared.

Jim pressed his lips together. “Tell us, who knows you’re here?”

“The ones who killed Samantha.”

Jim nodded. They were finally getting somewhere.

“I don’t know who they are or how to find them. Samantha did. But if you take me back to DeLana, they’ll know. They’ll follow me and they’ll kill her. I won’t ever be able to see her again. Don’t take me back,” he pleaded.

“Give us some straight answers and we’ll take care of it.”

“I told you! I don’t know! Samantha knew, that’s why they killed her.”

“Rico,” Karen said, leaning across the table to take his hand, “why’d she leave yesterday? Where’d she go?”

“She didn’t know where she was going or why she was leaving. All she knew was she had to go. She said she’d seen a sign, like a biblical prophesy or something. They were calling her back.”

Jim sighed. “Can you start at the beginning?”

“If I do, they’ll kill DeLana, too. I can’t.”

“So what are we supposed to do with you?” Karen asked. “Obviously you know something. You just won’t tell us. We can just sit here all day and wait, you know.” There was silence. A minute passed, two minutes. Rico Artez was shifting in his chair. He’d started sniffling again.

Jim waited. He hoped Karen had one of those looks that could make a person speak. Jim had prided himself on the way he could look at someone and they would just break down, but now he had to let Karen take care of the non-verbal communication. He hoped she looked scary, yet sympathetic, no-nonsense, but someone a person could open up to. It was asking an awful lot, but Jim knew Karen could handle it. He really did trust her.

“Accessory to murder,” Karen finally said. “We’ll book you.”

Jim blinked, surprised at first. “Sounds good to me.” He stood.

“Don’t I get a say in this?”

“We don’t even need a statement from you. You withheld information. If you don’t talk, you’re arrested,” Karen said.

“I guess I don’t have a choice,” Artez said quietly.

Jim swore under his breath. But at least Artez would be safe, and maybe a night in jail would help soften him up.


* * *


Jim realized he must have had that spaced out look the other detectives liked to tease him about because Karen put a hand on his shoulder as she passed behind him on the way to her desk.

“Jim, you can’t prevent every murder,” she said quietly.

He listened to her sit, but didn’t turn toward her as he shrugged. “Wish I could.”

“If you could have prevented any crime in New York, which one would you pick?”

Jim thought about it for only a moment before tossing her a smile. “I’d save John Lennon.”

It was odd, he realized a minute later. He hadn’t picked the bank robbery. He could have saved himself. He could have saved Terry. He could have saved all those cops.

Yet he really wanted to give peace a chance.

He’d had a dream the night before that was still making him shudder. It was the same as always, but opposite. He hadn’t been the hero, he hadn’t been the one to shoot the gunman at the bank. He’d been crouched where Terry usually was, already blind. As helpless and as handicapped as Terry had been. He couldn’t see and he didn’t have a gun. He couldn’t help, even if he’d wanted to.

That scared him for Karen’s sake. He was her partner now. Against a gun, he was helpless. Up close, he could pummel a guy, but from far away all he could do would be to stumble in the general direction and pray he made it in time. Or stay out of the way.


* * *


They went to another sports bar, but all the TVs had been muted and the juke box turned up. The place sounded packed and Jim remembered how uncomfortable he’d been the only other time he’d been out alone with Tom and Marty. It just wasn’t the same, watching a game on TV that he couldn’t see. The TV announcers weren’t as in-depth as the ones on the radio and it had hit Jim that he’d lost another thing that had been such a big part of his life. He hadn’t stayed very long that time.

And now there were people everywhere. The bass was blasting and Jim couldn’t imagine how anyone could hold a conversation. He held tightly to Hank’s harness as they walked through the bar, looking for an open table. It seemed like a lot of tables had been moved from the front of the bar to make room for dancing. Jim’s muscles were tense by the time he’d pushed his way through the crowd. Already he wanted to leave, but he didn’t want to have to get to the door.

They found a table at the side of a small back room, far enough away from the juke box that they didn’t have to shout. Jim found the back of a chair and pulled it out. Tom sat on his left and Marty leaned over the table, talking loudly. “I’ll get the first round. What d’you want?”

“Just a beer,” Jim said.

“Come on, Jim, live a little.”

“Really, I’d love a beer.”

Marty disappeared.

The place was hot. Jim shrugged out of his trench coat, then his suit jacket. He waited a moment, still sweating, then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and loosened his tie.

“Didn’t know we were coming to a sauna,” Tom said.

Jim nodded. “How’s your girlfriend?”

“Good. Real good. I surprised her with a single rose over lunch and we’ve never been better. Did you know that one long-stemmed rose is more effective than a full dozen?”

Jim grinned. “It depends on the situation.”

“I guess, but I’m going to keep this in mind.”

“Never works twice.” A bottle plunked on the table and Jim reached for it. “Thanks.” He took a long swig, closing his eyes for a second like he could shut out the chaos of the room. He took a deep breath as he set his beer back down and realized it really wasn’t so loud back here. He and Tom hadn’t had to yell, he’d easily heard Marty set down the beer and pull out the chair across the table. He could even hear Hank lying half under the table scratching at his collar and making the dog tags jingle.

“So, Jim…” Marty started.

Jim opened his eyes and looked across the table.

“You and Karen find anything new?”

Jim shook his head. “It’s really bugging me, too. I just don’t know what we’re missing.”

“I told you Artez was a pain in the ass.”

Jim grinned. “See? I wasn’t just flattering you about being a good judge of character.”

“You gotta be careful, Jim. Marty lets the smallest things go to his head,” Tom said.

“I’m always careful, Tom.”

“Sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind,” Marty advised. “Let things get out of control.”

Jim grinned. “I’m a control freak, Marty, what can I say?”

The other detectives laughed and Jim joined in. Jim’s life was so regimented, so controlled, just so he could get around the city and live as normally as possible. It probably drove the other people in the squad crazy, keeping to Jim’s standard.

“If crimes were controllable, we’d be out of a job,” Marty said. “But I can’t say I mind having you working out all the nitty gritty details for us.”

Jim took a drink, pondering the case.

“Don’t go all comatose on us,” Tom said.

Jim tried to smile. “It just bugs me. I met this girl yesterday. You guys all talked to her and now she’s dead. Why? It’s gotta be related, right? Who would want to kill her?”

“Everyone needs an enemy, Dunbar,” Marty said. “Keeps you humble, always wondering what you did wrong and trying your best to make a friend out of that enemy.”

Tom laughed. “Sounds like he’s offering to be your enemy, Jim.”

“I’m flattered, Marty, really, I am.”

“Jim-my,” a female voice sing-songed while a finger ran down the back of his neck.

Jim shivered and froze, his smile falling as quickly as it had come. He stared straight ahead, not blinking, waiting with a foreign hand playing through the back of his hair. The girl leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

“It’s been a while,” she said.

Jim’s heart skipped ahead, pounding. Marty and Tom had to be staring; they knew he was married. Christie—he couldn’t let anything jeopardize what they had. But who was this girl? Which bar had they gone to? Franco’s or something like that. The name hadn’t sounded familiar, but bars around here changed ownership so often there was no telling if maybe this was one of his old haunts revamped. And this girl—why didn’t she take her hand away?

He turned his head up toward her with his eyebrows knitting together. He tried to fix her with the no-nonsense look he used to give perps, but the confusion was making him feel stupid.

Her hand withdrew. “You don’t remember me,” she accused.

Jim just shook his head. She definitely didn’t fit into his ordered world.

“You never called.”

Geez! She’d been waiting over a year for him to call? Going on two years now, it had to be, ‘cause he’d stopped flirting with other girls when he met Anne. Before her, though, he had to admit he’d been a bit of a dog.

He lowered his gaze down toward the floor and Hank. Hank was much more well-behaved than Jim had been.

Anne had been his only real affair. He’d spent evenings with various girls flirting in bars, but that had been it. He’d never pursued actual relationships with anyone else.

“Simone,” she said. She pulled out the chair to his right and sat down.

“Simone, I’m married.”

“I know that,” she said in a teasing voice.

“I’m married,” he said again, more emphatically.

“Didn’t stop you before.”

She leaned over and he found her lips tugging at his, but he pulled back and turned his head away.

“You still don’t remember me? Or your wife found out you had a flirtatious side and you got in trouble?”

“Simone—” he said firmly.

She interrupted. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Jim could almost hear her eyelashes batting together.

“I’m married, too,” Marty said.

“I’m not,” Tom put in.

Jim sighed. “Tom, this is Simone. Simone, Tom.”

“You wanna dance?” Tom asked.

“Sure.” She giggled.

Jim’s head snapped over. He remembered the giggle, though he couldn’t pick out a face for her. He really had been bad, if he couldn’t even remember all the girls he’d flirted with. But promising to call her, that really threw him. He didn’t usually make promises he had no intention of keeping.

He felt Tom and Simone grab hands over his head as they stood.

“See you later, Jimmy,” she said and kissed his cheek again.

Jim reached out and snagged Tom’s jacket before he could get away.

“Tom, don’t forget you have a girlfriend.”

“No problem. Sounds like you might be a hypocrite, though.” Tom patted his shoulder and headed for the dance floor.

“Well?” Marty said after they were gone.

Jim put his head in his hands. He didn’t want Marty to know everything he’d done. That wasn’t the best way to gain respect.

“I’m surprised you could forget a girl like that. Blonde, midriff, belly button ring, real ornate, too. Tight pants, pastel.”

Jim shook his head.

“But you never called her?”

“No, Marty, I never called. I flirted, but I never called her.” Wasn’t entirely honest, but he couldn’t pretend to be totally innocent. “Christie and I were fighting…”

“So you made a mistake. Whoever said Dunbar was perfect, right?”

“Right.” He sighed.

“We could get Tom in big trouble, though.

Jim couldn’t even smile back. “I think we need to keep an eye on Tom so he doesn’t get into big trouble.”

“Meaning me.”

“Yeah, Marty, you happen to be the one facing the dance floor, right?”

[greenbeing]

Chapter Four

Jim woke up at five-thirty Saturday morning. Christie was asleep next to him, but there seemed to be an invisible line down the center of the bed. She was safely sleeping on her half and Jim didn’t dare cross the line. He got up and dressed without making coffee. He’d spend the morning at the gym, hiding from a confrontation with his wife. He wasn’t sure what project she was working on for the magazine, but he figured that as soon as it was over, he’d have to contend with her missed birthday. He wasn’t ready yet, couldn’t defend himself. Especially not when he could still taste Simone on his lips, feel her lipstick on his cheek, smell her on his shirt mixed with bar smoke. He was sure Christie would see it all, especially the finger strokes in his hair.

After wearing himself out physically his mind was still whirring out of control. Jim headed for the 8. He could review the files they’d made on the case, see if they’d overlooked something.

The floor was quiet except for the dinging of the elevator closing behind him. Jim let Hank go with a smile. He seldom got time alone to think anymore. Used to be, at the 77, he’d spend a lot of Saturday afternoons lazing around at his desk, sometimes working on a case, sometimes just enjoying the quiet. He’d been able to just stare into space and think without anyone bothering him, without any pressing issues cropping up. He even enjoyed the weekend homicide investigations; they always seemed so laid back.

“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s Saturday?” Marty asked from his desk.

Jim froze in the mouth of the hallway and tried to smile. Marty was the last person he’d expected to be spending a Saturday with, but he headed for his desk as planned.

“What is that, Armani?” Marty asked.

Jim paused in shrugging out of his overcoat and raised a hand to his chest, unable to remember what he was wearing. He grinned as he sank into his chair. “It’s a t-shirt, Marty. Latest style.” He slid his laptop out of his bag as Hank flopped into his usual spot on the floor. “You forget something here?” he asked, wondering how long he would be graced with company.

“Nah. You?”

“Nope.” Jim settled into work, playing back file after file, listening to the stilted speech of the computer. He was surprised to find Marty quietly working at his own desk, that they worked together quite comfortably. Jim leaned back in his chair as far as his earpiece would allow, committing every fact and fiction to memory.

“Hey, Dunbar.”

Jim paused the tinny voice and looked over at Marty.

“Lunchtime. You coming?”

Jim frowned, thinking he’d misheard somehow.

“No ulterior motive. Honest.”

“Sure. I mean, I didn’t think you had one, just—sure, I’ll come.” Jim shut the top of his laptop and pulled out his earpiece. Hours had passed and he felt good, like he’d accomplished something.

They ended up at a deli a few blocks away, quiet but companionable. Usually around the people in the squad Jim found himself too busy being defensive and skeptical to be hungry, but this time he was starving.

“So that girl yesterday…” Marty said while they waited in line.

Jim groaned. He should have known. “There was nothing between us.”

“You were married, though, right?”

“Yeah. I was married. Can we talk about something else?”

“Yeah, didn’t realize you were so touchy.”

“I’m always touchy about something I did wrong. Especially when it keeps coming back to haunt me.”

“Your wife know?”

“Marty…”

“Sorry.” Marty moved up to the counter and ordered, then Jim followed suit. “I’ll get the tray,” Marty offered.

“Thanks.”

They picked a table dead center. Well, Marty picked the table and Jim sat. He could feel people moving all around him, hear them every which way to the point of distraction. Used to be he liked to sit at the back at restaurants, a wall behind his back, always keeping an eye on the situation, not being at the center of everything. He felt the same way now.

Jim grabbed the plate Marty slid across the table. He loved sandwiches. He always had, but ever since he’d lost his sight, he found their appeal a hundred times greater. He didn’t have to worry about eating, nor about embarrassing himself or anyone with him. Christie’d never been a big fan of finger foods—he’d only gotten her to eat ribs once, juicy and hot and doused in BBQ sauce, and she’d eaten them with a fork and knife. That, he’d found embarrassing. He was just glad they hadn’t been out with his friends, he hadn’t had to explain Christie’s meticulous eating habits, hadn’t needed to apologize to anyone when she came away from the dinner not even needing a wet nap.

“So… Why’d you become a cop?” Jim asked halfway through his sandwich when he’d satiated his immediate hunger.

Marty swallowed and took a drink of his coffee before answering. Jim munched on a pickle while he waited.

“It was back in high school, middle of a football game. I was flat on my back ‘cause the other guy was off-sides. He was so mad at the call, he jumped up and went after one of my teammates. I mean, the guy was taunting him, so he was provoked, but still. Before I even thought about it, I was on my feet and I jumped the guy—twice my size. He plays professional football now, I just found out last week. But I wasn’t going to let him hurt anyone else.

“And while I was lying there, I realized there was more to life than high school football and maybe I’d just saved Josh’s butt—I mean, the week before this kid from another school had been killed, neck just snapped after almost the same thing. He hadn’t been expecting the hit, and pow.

“I guess I thought it was a good idea, fighting to save peoples’ lives, trying to keep the world safe.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. You must like it, I don’t even have to ask.”

Jim smiled. “I do. Worthwhile, right?”

“Doesn’t hurt to get to beat people up once in a while, right?”

“Careful, Marty, sounds like police brutality.”

Marty laughed. “So why’d you? Become a cop, I mean?”

“I’d just gotten my discharge from the military. I guess I liked the idea of continuing the fight for justice on a smaller scale, one person at a time. Being a cop wasn’t that different from what I was used to.”

“Just ‘cause you’re used to it… That doesn’t mean there’s not another job out there for you somewhere,” Marty said awkwardly.

Jim shook his head.

“Can’t blame a guy for asking. I mean, I know you’re good at your job, don’t get me wrong. I just wanted to...”

“Make sure I’d explored all my options? Don’t worry, I think I was pretty thorough. I had almost a year to think about it.”

Marty was quiet across the table and Jim didn’t expound. Jim wasn’t ready to look back over the time since he’d been shot and Marty probably wasn’t ready to hear it yet, either.

Jim polished off his sandwich and the coffee, trying to think only of the future, of the case. But the food was a far cry from what he’d had to eat in the Gulf. And being a homicide detective wasn’t nearly as gory as clean-up duty had been. It was more satisfying mentally, being able to find the answer, instead of just knowing how all those people had died during the war. Being a detective was downright cushy compared. But he couldn’t decide whether or not he’d go back, if it meant being able to see again. Maybe it was a toss-up.

“More coffee?” Marty asked.

“Sure.” Jim grabbed his cup and handed it across the table. He tried to follow Marty’s movements back to the counter where the coffee was sitting, but he lost him when someone walked between them, loud bangle bracelets and chunky boots, a windbreaker that scratched when the fabric rubbed together.

Jim turned on his observant side, picking out individual people sitting around him and trying to describe them to himself from their movements. The place was loud with people talking and laughing and cell phones playing various tunes competing for spotlight over a piped-in radio station. But nothing could hide the person sitting directly behind him whose dentures clacked dangerously with every bit. Or the way two kids were playing Chinese Fire Drill at the back of the deli, switching chairs, running around the table on command every few seconds.

“Here.”

Jim whipped his head around. He hadn’t been listening for Marty to come back and he hadn’t heard Marty set the mug down on the table. Just quiet as he stood there holding the cup and waiting for Jim to take it. It felt like he was back that first day on the squad, waiting for Marty to try to take his gun. Only now the tables were turned, like Marty was challenging him to try to take the mug.

Jim felt his jaw tighten. He reached up a hand, Marty hadn’t made another move, wasn’t even breathing loud enough to give Jim a clue as to the whereabouts of the coffee mug.

The mug slid into his outstretched hand after a moment. Jim quickly set it on the table, facing Marty’s chair, waiting. He listened as Marty sat down, and he waited. He finally picked up the coffee and took a sip, still waiting.

Hank yawned and batted at something under the table. Jim hoped briefly that it would be a rat, that someone would jump up screaming and in the chaos, between calls to the city health inspectors, the awkwardness of the moment would be forgotten.

Jim started to wonder what time it was. He could be at home with Christie, pretending everything was okay between them. They could be cooking dinner together like they used to do and she could feed him half-cooked pasta and vegetables to see if they were seasoned right, how much longer they needed to cook. He could be popping open a bottle of champagne—or red wine, Christie was going through a phase where she preferred red wine. They could go back to the couch while dinner simmered and profess how much they loved each other—they’d always been masters of the sweet nothing, though they could barely scrape the surface of the deep conversation.

Anne had been good at that. She would argue with him and try to make him a better man, where Christie just tried to take him better places to be with better people and left the better man part up to him. It had been Anne’s obsession with talking over deep life prospects and morals that had convinced him to come clean with both the women in his life. If it hadn’t been for that, he probably would have eventually just broken it off with Anne and hoped Christie never found out so things wouldn’t change between them. Not that things had been going so great between them when he had confessed, but that was what he was most ashamed of in his life. Seeking forgiveness, he’d had to watch Christie’s heart break, watch the betrayal pierce her eyes, watch the tears and hatred.

She’d never been able to forgive him. He didn’t blame her.

“So at a crime scene, without Karen, you’re helpless, right?” Marty asked.

Jim’s teeth were clenched and he found he couldn’t lift his gaze from the table where it had fallen when he thought of how much Christie must truly hate him, and how he wasn’t making it any easier for her to forgive him.

“I prefer to think of it as a team effort, Marty,” Jim said and finally wrenched his gaze upward. He wasn’t going to let Marty think he was ashamed of being blind. Shame had nothing to do with it.

“But without Karen…?”

“I’d make do. I admit, it helps to have her there describing some things. But I hope I manage to give something back to her, too.”

“Does she feel the same way?”

Jim shrugged and lifted his chin defiantly. “Solving a crime is always a team effort. One cop doesn’t document everything, comb the place for clues, interview everyone, and make an arrest.”

“So if you stumbled onto a crime scene first—”

Jim stood up so quickly Marty bit off the rest of his sentence. Stumbled, is that what Marty thought he did all day? Normally he wasn’t so touchy about a choice of words, but it was Marty and chances were he’d chosen deliberately. It didn’t help that Marty’d been asking about Simone, got him thinking about Anne.

“Didn’t mean to insinuate anything.”

“I thought we’d taken care of all this.”

Silence, maybe a shrug.

“Anything else?” Jim picked up Hank’s harness.

“I’m not trying to offend you. I just want to make sure you can do your job and no one’s going to get hurt, okay?”

“You’ve seen firsthand for months, Marty. What more do you want?”

“Just making sure you’re not slacking,” Marty justified.

Slacking. Jim wondered briefly, if he’d given Terry hell, if he’d have managed to keep him on the job. Maybe they all needed someone to ride them, someone to prove themselves to. Like Marty’d said, they all need an enemy. Jim nodded. “You’d be the first to notice if I was.”

Marty stood up with the tray. “I really wasn’t trying to offend you…”

“Then stop questioning my ability to do my job!” Jim said, but quietly, deadly quiet. He wasn’t going to make a scene.

Marty headed for the door, dropping off the tray. Jim followed. Once they were back on the sidewalk he felt Marty’s hand on his arm and stopped. Marty pulled away and jammed his hands in his jacket pockets. “It was just…”

“The coffee,” Jim supplied.

“Yeah. I thought I’d just stand there until you noticed—”

“I wasn’t paying attention. Don’t tell me you’ve never not seen someone walk up. And if you ever bring me something again, just set it down. I’ll find it a lot easier than if you’re waving it in the air.” Jim nudged Hank toward the precinct.

“I forget you’re blind sometimes,” Marty said quietly after a block. It sounded like he’d just noticed that himself.

Jim almost stopped as surely as if he’d run into a solid object. He willed his feet to keep walking as he mulled that over, though it felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. Was that even possible, for someone to forget he was blind, when they worked with him every day, sat right across from him and stared him in the eye, obsessed the way Marty had at first?

How, he wanted to ask, but couldn’t get the word out.

He wondered if Christie ever forgot. They usually spent so much time together. She’d been with him since the beginning.

Christie wouldn’t forget, Jim decided. She wouldn’t let herself. His blindness was probably the only reason she was still with him.

One of these days, he’d get up the courage to ask her about it. Right after he got up the courage to apologize.

Jim reached the door of the precinct first. It wasn’t until he’d pulled the door open that he realized Marty wasn’t right next to him anymore. His footsteps were still twenty feet away and Jim stood outside holding the door, waiting.

“Trying to escape?” Marty asked, walking past Jim through the door. “We were headed to the same place.”

He hadn’t realized he’d picked up his pace. He used to walk really fast when he was thinking. Used to be he thought best when he was out running.

“Truce, okay? Sorry I brought it up.”

“Yeah.” Jim nodded and pushed the elevator button. “You really forget I’m blind?”

“Sometimes. It’s not that hard to do—don’t give me that look.”

Jim smiled.

“You ever forget?” Marty asked.

Jim thought it over. “Sometimes,” he answered. He hadn’t even realized it, but he did. He found he was long past the point where every waking moment was spent thinking about how he used to be able to see.

He sat at his desk and powered his computer back up while Marty shrugged out of his jacket. Jim opened the top of his watch, wondering how long he had before he should make an obligatory appearance at home.

“What time is it?” Marty asked.

“Almost three.”

“Game starts at three. Nebraska/Oklahoma. I was gonna catch it at home, unless you don’t mind me turning on the radio.”

Jim shook his head. “Should be a helluva game.” He listened as Marty reached for the radio and flipped it on. He leaned back in his chair, trying to review the case. “Before lunch I faxed the hospitals. Assuming, of course, that Samantha gave birth at a hospital. I asked them to pull the birth records for the day her son was born. Tamika gladly supplied that over the phone, along with a whole slew of unrelated data. She loves talking about that baby.”

“So if she went to the hospital, maybe we can find out a last name?”

“And next of kin.”

“Is that who you were on the phone with for an hour this morning?”

Jim grinned. “An hour and a half.”

“Persistent, aren’t you?”

Jim laughed.

“Before, were you always so…”

“Intense?” Jim supplied.

“Obsessive,” Marty corrected.

“Yeah, I was.” He couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. Not only did it seem like things were back to normal between him and Marty, the tension long-gone, but Jim could tell he really hadn’t changed all that much. He’d been so worried he’d lose himself. Now he knew there was no danger of that.

[greenbeing]

* * *


“I was starting to get worried.” Christie’s voice was quiet.

Jim dropped his keys on the table by the door, then reached in his coat pocket and held up his cell phone. “If anything would have happened, I’m prepared.” He laid the phone next to the keys and knelt to take off Hank’s harness.

“You were gone when I got up.”

Jim nodded. “I went to the gym, then the squad.”

“Case giving you grief?”

She was still being so quiet Jim found it worrying. She was worried about him, she wasn’t giving him the third degree about where he’d been all day. “Yeah. Lack of evidence.”

“That’s always bugged you.”

“There’s evidence somewhere, we just can’t find it, that’s what bugs me.”

“Especially now? Since you can’t go look for it yourself?”

Jim pressed his lips together and headed for the kitchen. He’d been right—Christie would never forget he was blind.

Then again, none of the people at the squad had known him before. Christie couldn’t help but look at him and realize he’d changed, that he wasn’t the same man. Compare him.

Not all the changes had been for the worst. He wanted to sit her down and tell her all the good things he was noticing about this new man he’d become.

“I thought we could spend the evening together?” Christie asked when Jim didn’t answer. “We haven’t spent a lot of time together lately.”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” It would be awkward, be honest with yourself, Dunbar, he thought.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately. We haven’t gotten to spend much time together.”

We’ve been avoiding each other, he thought. There’s a reason for that. “I’ve missed you,” he found himself saying.

She followed him to the refrigerator and kissed him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Are you hungry?” She pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and handed it to him.

“Not yet.”

She tugged his hand. “Let’s sit on the couch and catch up. I really wanted to spend a quiet evening alone, just the two of us.”

Jim followed her to the couch, staring at what would have been the back of her head, wondering, do I love you anymore?


* * *


Jim wasn’t satisfied. He’d spent the whole evening with Christie. It had been pleasant. What an awful word for an evening with his wife.

Then again, it wasn’t unpleasant, not like some nights he’d seen pass between his own parents.

And how about his grandparents? Those were two people who could cohabitate. There’d been no passion, no fireworks, more like a business partnership. Things got done that needed doing—and it was pleasant. When he was younger, spending time with them, that’s what he’d hoped for in a relationship.

Until he’d met Christie. That had shown him how much more there was to love than just existing side by side. Gorgeous, smart, he couldn’t spend enough time with her.

Then the fighting.

His mom had always said she’d loved his dad, that’s why she never left. Maybe it was the same with him and Christie—earth shattering love and hate, both waiting to destroy them with their power.

Pleasant had started to look better, and now he’d had it. A quiet night with this wife, talking about work. Christie told him about having lunch with an old friend. Jim avoided talking about spending the day with Russo because he didn’t want to know what she thought about people forgetting he couldn’t see. She probably would have said, ‘oh, Jimmy, I wish they could,’ then played her fingers through his hair to try to comfort him for spoiling his delusions.

By early Sunday evening Jim had had enough of hanging around the apartment. Christie had her computer out and was working on some article or other. Not sure if he was just a glutton for punishment, he headed to Morrissey’s. A couple hours drinking beer and thinking never hurt anyone.

Someone leaned up against the bar next to Jim. “Another round, Gray, and make it snappy this time, huh?”

Jim looked over. “Cal?”

“Yeah.” There was a pause. “Jim? Sh*t! Jimmy! I didn’t recognize you there.”

“How’s it going?” Jim asked awkwardly. If Cal was there, that probably meant the other guys were, too. Maybe no one had noticed him—though he thought the guide dog sort of attracted attention.

“Good, good. You?”

“Yeah, good.”

“The guys are here, come on over, I’ll buy you a beer.”

Jim took a swig of the beer he had. “Who’s all there?”

“Just Steve and Foster. Bobby might come up later, but you know how it is.”

Jim nodded, though he’d never known what was up with Bobby, just that he often couldn’t make it. “Yeah, I’ll join you, that’d be great.” He finished the beer and stood up while Gray plunked a few bottles on the counter. He picked up Hank’s harness, hoping there would be enough room for Hank wherever the guys were sitting.

“I’ll get the beers—” Call stopped and cleared his throat. “Uh, you get the dog…”

Jim tried to smile. “I got the dog.” Jim realized he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses and felt the need to pull them out. But he didn’t; they were just old friends.

“Jimmy, you—”

Jim raised his eyebrows.

“Uh…”

He sighed. “Yeah, I can’t see. Problem?”

“Just checking. How are you gonna, you know? Can you make it to our table okay?”

“Hank will follow you. It’s not that crowded. Just let me know where a chair is once we get there.”

“Right.”

Jim couldn’t read silence. Silence could mean so many different things that he couldn’t usually speculate the origins. Were people uncomfortable? Were they so comfortable they didn’t feel the need to make small talk? Was there a problem? Were they preoccupied?

If the silence happened after he’d been there a while, he usually knew what it was for. But walking into a silence was like walking into an ambush.

Foster, Steve, and Cal. They were bar friends, people Jim hung out with at the bar, but didn’t make plans with outside just a beer or two after work. Foster sold insurance, Steve was a mechanic, Cal an accountant. They lived separate lives, had disparate desires, the only thing they’d ever had in common was enjoying each other’s company as drinking buddies.

Fos came from an upper-class family—his ambition had always been to be the prodigal son, but he’d found that once he fell low enough, he had no desire to return home to a huge parade, so he made his own way in life. Cal and Steve were both middle-class, hardworking guys, didn’t talk about their parents other than to rib Fos about how easy he’d had it and they didn’t. All three had been married and divorced, Cal was the only one who had remarried, Jim was the only one still on his first wife and they used to give him heck about chucking her and joining them because divorce was the happiest time in a man’s life, right up there with getting his driver’s license the first time.

Steve was the quiet one, Fos the one with the most irreverent sense of humor, Cal the laid-back one. Jim had been the loud and outgoing one, the one with the most adventuresome stories, the one who could entice girls over so the other guys could practice flirting.

“Here’s a chair,” Cal said, pulling it out so it scraped on the floor. “I’ll go get another.”

Jim suddenly felt like he was putting them out, forcing himself on them. No one had said anything besides Cal, and even he sounded tense. “Hey, guys,” Jim said and slid into the chair Cal had vacated.

It took a moment.

“Hey, Jim,” Fos said.

“Jim…” Steve said slowly, like he wasn’t sure what Jim was doing there.

“How’s it going?” Keep them talking, that had become Jim’s motto. The best way to deal with perps, maybe even the best way to deal with old friends.

“Eh,” a noncommittal reply from Foster.

“You know,” Steve said.

It’s been over a year, Jim wanted to say. Of course he didn’t know.

But it had been over a year—maybe he had no place here anymore.

“We were talking about the World Series. Astros or White Sox, what’s your bet, Jim?”

“Astros, I guess. I’ve been a little too busy to pay much attention this season.”

Cal grunted. “Right. Gotta be hard to get used to, I guess.”

“Not that. Work. We’ve been kinda busy.”

Silence.

“Right,” Cal finally said. “You went back. You were famous there for a while. People kept asking us how you were doing.”

Jim just nodded. He didn’t want to talk about the bank, or after the bank.

Steve coughed.

“Leave it,” Cal said in a low voice.

Jim cocked his head toward Steve, waiting. When Steve did have something to say, he usually didn’t hold back.

“Well if he thinks I’m going to jump on the Jim-bandwagon and praise him, he’s wrong,” Steve told Cal.

Jim’s head snapped back, trying to follow. It was obviously something they’d talked about a lot over the past year.

“Is that why you went back to work, Jim? You wanna be a hero again? You pretty proud of yourself?”

“Come on, this is Jim,” Cal said, playing mediator.

“Yeah, and he always liked honesty. Right, Jim? You always thought you were pretty tough shit. You were always pretty full of yourself, all those criminals you got to beat up and put away.”

“Steve,” Fos said.

“You killed a man, Jim, you proud of that? Looking for another medal of honor? ‘Cause you aren’t gonna get one from me.”

Jim realized his mouth was hanging open and he shut it.

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t think it was ‘cause you’re blind,” Steve said. “I’ve seen you in here a couple times, but it wasn’t ‘cause you’re blind I didn’t say hi.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you saw—” Cal started.

“’Cause.”

Jim nodded slowly. “I get it.” He stood, tried to smile. “Thanks for the beer.”

“Jim.” Cal grabbed his arm.

He heard Fos stand up, but Steve just sat there. “I’m not proud of it. But I did kill a man.”

“Come on, Steve, he’s always said no comment, won’t interview about it, right, Jim?” Cal’s grip tightened.

“If I hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t be here right now. Maybe there was a way around it, but…”

“So you got what you deserve, right?” Foster asked. “You can’t shoot anyone anymore, right?”

Jim furrowed his brow.

“I’m joking, but… right?”

Jim pulled back his coat. “No gun.” He gestured at his eyes. “Can’t see.” He tried to smile. “As for whether or not I deserved this… maybe I did, but the world doesn’t work that way.” The good didn’t get rewarded, the bad didn’t get smote. For a while, when it first happened, he’d played around with that idea, that he’d been punished, but he couldn’t make it stick. He’d seen enough bad guys get off free and clear.

“Sit,” Cal ordered, tugging on Jim’s arm.

“Sit,” Fos echoed.

Jim turned toward Steve. There was a pause.

“He can’t see you shrug,” Cal said.

“Sit,” Steve said finally.


* * *


“Hey, you okay?” Gray asked.

“Yeah.” Jim frowned. “No problems here.”

“I’ve just never seen you here ‘til close.”

Jim had stayed behind when the other three guys had taken off two hours before. He hadn’t even gotten up to get another beer, just sat there, staring into space and thinking.

It was all just so wrong. He’d earned his place with these guys years ago. And now he could barely talk to them?

“Some things change, Gray.” He listened as the bartender overturned the chairs and set them on the tables as he cleaned them. It had been a familiar ritual when he’d been in the military, staying until the chair he was sitting on needed to be turned. With the advent of Christie his party days had pretty much been passé. Maybe he should have been grateful—it would have been a greater shock to lose that with his sight.

“Everything changes,” Gray countered.

Jim laughed. “You sound like my shrink.”

“That’s what a bartender is, right?”

Jim stood up, still grinning. “Absolutely. Have a good night.”

Hank shook himself when Jim tried to take his harness. He could feel ground-up peanut shells stuck to the fur on his belly and a coat of ashes had settled on his fur. He shook again. Hank knew what this meant—bath time. He sighed. He’d need fewer baths if he could keep Jim out of places like these. Christie was going to be upset—he was sure he smelled like dog and stale smoke.

Jim quickly ran his hands through Hank’s thick fur, dislodging a few peanut shells and a wad of gum. “Sorry about that, Hank.” He flicked off another peanut shell from Hank’s tail.

“Looks like I need to sweep under the tables a little better,” Gray said.

Hank sneezed on Gray for good measure. Dutiful guide dog, yes, but he had his opinions.

“Night, Jim.”

“Night, Gray.”

“Night, Hank, and sorry about the peanuts.”

Jim ordered Hank to take him to the door and followed the dog as they wove between tables.

The cold in the air was enough to snap Jim out of his reverie. If he’d been drunk, it would have been enough to make him realize he needed a cab. New York nights could be very sobering.

“Hey.”

Jim didn’t stop, expecting a bum asking for money or cigarettes.

“Uh… Jim…”

He stopped Hank and turned. It was all Jim could do to keep his face impassive as he waited for Steve to say something of consequence.

“Look, I wanted to apologize. It wasn’t your fault you had to shoot that guy. Someone had to do it, right? And like Fos said, you paid the price.”

“I don’t believe in divine retribution.” Jim turned Hank back and signaled him to go.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“It’s late,” Jim said as he started walking.

Steve fell into step with them. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you, and you didn’t deserve me being such a jerk. It’s just—”

Hank stopped at the end of the block and Jim felt for the curb with his foot, listened a moment for traffic, then stepped into the street.

“It’s just…” Steve trailed off. “Seeing you in there the past couple days just pissed me off, you know. All I could think was if I said anything, you’d be off to the races. You’d be gloating and making it sound like some glamorous thrill ride.”

“But you’re apologizing because I didn’t.”

“Yeah. I was wrong about you. You’ve changed, I know that.”

Jim pulled Hank up short and turned toward Steve. “No, you have no idea.” He nudged Hank to go again. “And I know I was a different guy back then, and I wasn’t the best guy, but if that’s what you thought about me—” He cut himself off with a shake of the head.

“I didn’t like you, Jimmy,” Steve said from behind him, not having joined him again.

Jim stopped Hank, but didn’t turn.

It’s late, Hank thought bitterly and yawned. If you stop me one more time, I’ll walk you in front of a bus.

So what’d changed? Was he supposed to just let Steve like hanging out with the new Jim? He really hadn’t changed that much, same old guy. Was it just pity? Thinking he’d got what he deserved and now everything was okay? Jim thought it over, then laughed. He turned with a grin. “I didn’t like the old me much, either.”

A gust of wind showered him with dried leaves. Jim pulled his coat tighter as Steve caught up to them.

“So we’ll try again? Next time you stop by?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s late.”

Exactly, Hank thought.

“Night,” Jim said with a nod. He let Hank lead him down the street.

“See you,” Steve said, then walked away.


* * *


“Jimmy,” Christie mumbled from the bed, “it’s the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, I was… out with the guys,” he said quietly. It sounded strange and he could barely believe it had happened.

“How’d it go?”

“I don’t know.” Jim rubbed a hand over his face, exhausted.

Christie sat up.

Jim paused in unbuttoning his shirt. “It was strange, Christie.” He shook his head and sat on the side of the bed with his back to her. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fists, trying to explain. “It didn’t go so well at first. It’s hard being resented for who you were.” He shuddered when the words escaped his mouth. He hadn’t even been thinking of how Christie resented him.

“Were you really out with the guys?” She slid over and put a hand on his back.

“Smell me,” he said and held an arm out to her. “And smell Hank.” He turned to her with a smile. “The three of us could take a shower together tomorrow.”

She pulled away, but he could tell she was smiling when she turned down his proposition. “Hank is all yours.”

Hank gave an offended whine and changed position on his doggie bed.

“Goodnight,” Jim said and leaned back for a goodnight kiss.

Jim stared at the ceiling for another hour after sliding into bed before he’d finally replayed the evening enough in his head to sleep.

[greenbeing]

Chapter five

“Hey, Jim,” Marty said as Jim walked in bright and early Monday morning.

“You live here, Marty?” Jim asked with a smile.

“Fax.”

Jim changed course. He abandoned his trip to the locker room. “From the hospital?”

“Looks like a match. Can you read it?”

Jim pulled out his laptop. “If I scan it into my computer.” He hooked the scanner up.

“Here.”

Jim heard the papers slide across his desk. “Thanks.” He quickly started scanning the pages. “What’s the name on this?”

“Samantha Wilkins.”

“Hey, guys,” Karen said.

“Hey,” Jim said.

“Dunbar got a match,” Marty said.

“There’s nothing you can’t learn if you talk to Tamika long enough.” Jim heard Karen slide up next to his desk and take the papers he’d already scanned. She picked up each one as he finished.

Jim couldn’t help but feel jealous. Karen and Marty already knew more than he did, while it would probably take an hour for his computer to regurgitate everything to him.

“I thought your computer couldn’t read handwritten things?” Karen murmured.

Jim froze as he pulled the last page from his scanner. “It can’t.”

Karen snatched the page out of his hand.

“Is it all handwritten?”

“Only half.”

Karen pulled up her desk chair. Jim sighed and sat. He listened as Marty scooted up in his chair. “I didn’t get to finish,” Marty explained when Jim looked over at him.

“I’m skipping the labs, unless one of you went to med school and cares to translate,” Karen said.

“Not me,” Marty said.

Jim heard Karen sifting through the papers.

“Looks like she had thorough prenatal care.”

Jim tossed her a look as skeptical as her voice sounded. “Maybe it’s not the same person?”

“Maybe…”

Marty slid his chair back to his desk. “I was running her name. I’ll finish that while you two look the records over.”

Jim waited patiently, but he had to grip the arms of his chair tightly to gain that patience. Karen was reading the reports silently to herself, picking out bits of information to share. He just had to wait for her to find something she deemed important enough to share.

“Can we have the coroner compare this to Samantha’s record? Maybe they can match the blood type or something,” Jim suggested.

“Yeah, I’ll send a copy,” Karen said.

“The coroner already faxed her report,” Marty said. “Here.”

Karen reached out for the papers, then slid back to her desk. “I’ll see what I can compare.”

Jim stood and gathered his coat and bag to head to the locker room.

“Where are you going?” Karen asked.

“Be right back.”

“’Kay.”

Jim sighed. Maybe after he got a look at what he’d scanned into his computer he’d feel better.

“There’s no such person as Samantha Wilkins. Insurance company’s never heard of her,” Marty said when Jim got back. “The insurance number goes back to a Josiah Wilkins. Says in the record that he’s her husband. Nothing was ever official legally, though. Not that I can find.”

Jim settled into his chair. “Josiah, huh?”

“Tom’s looking into him. I’m still digging on Samantha.” Marty leaned back in his chair until it creaked. “If that doesn’t pan out, we’ll have you call that kid again, see what she knows.”

“Hey.” Karen’s chair slid across the floor so quickly she had to grab Jim’s desk to stop it. She slid a paper onto his desk and tapped it with her fingernail. “She was diabetic.” She snatched the paper back and waited.

“So?” Jim finally asked.

Fisk walked out of his office. “ME just called. The girl wasn’t just pregnant. She had a strange substance in her blood, possibly the same as the other DOA, but they can’t get a complete match. They’re thinking it reacted differently, being different people. Or maybe it had been messed with a little.” Fisk stood and waited for someone to pipe up with a theory.

“New street drug?” Marty suggested.

“Boss,” Karen said. “If this really is Samantha,” she waved the pages of the medical record, “she was diabetic.”

“So?” Fisk asked, echoing Jim’s comment.

“When Dunbar and I checked her out, I thought it was just chocolate under her fingernails. But if she was diabetic, it shouldn’t have been.”

“Maybe she was cheating on her diet?” Tom asked. “All women do.”

“I don’t think so.” Karen shook her head. “Can ME run a test on whatever was under her nails?”

“I’ll give ‘em a call,” Fisk said.

“Hey, Karen,” Tom said. “You’re starting to sound like Dunbar and all his whacked out theories.”

Jim found himself grinning.

Karen turned to him. “I don’t think that was a compliment,” she said quietly.


* * *


“So what’s your theory?” Jim asked as they walked down to the ME’s office to ask her about the substance in their DOAs’ blood samples.

“I know how you must feel now,” Karen said. “Everyone giving you crap all the time.”

Jim laughed. Tom had bought a bar of chocolate and left it on Karen’s desk. Marty kept making comments about manicures and getting things under his fingernails. “You get used to it.”

“I am not obsessed with fingernails, okay?”

“I know.” Jim smiled down at her. “What’s your theory?”

“Samantha’s not that messy of an eater. Do you know how hard it is to get chocolate under your fingernails?”

Jim gave an indecisive frown. “I’ve never been that much of a chocolate fan.”

“It looked more like when people get into a fight and scrape off skin under their nails. I don’t know about you, but how many people do you know who—”

“Fight tooth and nail with their dessert?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe she was really hungry.”

“Jim,” Karen complained.

He grinned. “Karen, relax. I’m with you on this one.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Really. But you don’t need my approval.”

“Here we are.” She knocked on the office door.

“My intern has a theory he wants to run by you,” the ME said as Jim and Karen gathered around the body.

Jim crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. Karen elbowed him and he glanced at her.

“Don’t look so skeptical,” she whispered.

Jim made his face blank. He hadn’t realized his feelings were showing, but interns had never been his favorite staff members. They were always trying to show off their brilliance, but had no field experience to back it up. He had to give it up to them for enthusiasm, but other than that he could live without them.

“So here’s my theory,” the kid said. He sounded young, probably still in medical school, which didn’t do anything for Jim’s confidence. “My brilliant colleague here surmised that whatever the substance is, it starts to dissolve immediately on contact with human body fluid. The stuff under her fingernails? It was half dissolved. Meaning, it came out of her body.”

Karen gave a disgusted grunt. Jim almost laughed, but he had to admit, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more.

“So here’s what I’m thinking. Someone jammed this substance in her mouth—it’s still in her teeth, a little—and she scraped it off her tongue, trying to save herself. But it dissolved so quickly, she was a goner.”

“Astutely put, thank you,” the ME said.

The intern moved away.

“But I do concur,” she said. “It’s the most plausible explanation I can think of. Whatever it is, it looks homemade. Someone with a background in chemistry or pharmaceutics. Someone who knows what they’re doing when it comes to poisons. And would have access to the chemicals needed to make them.”

“So it’s a poison?” Karen asked.

“Looks like it. I still can’t isolate enough of it to trace anything. We’re sending the rest of it to an expert, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up. It’s unlikely, given the nature of the material, that we’ll be able to learn anything substantial.”

Jim took Karen’s arm and they headed back upstairs. Karen was quiet while they walked.

“So?” Jim asked. “Your theory panned out.”

“I don’t know how much good it’s going to do us.”

“It’s something. It tells us we’re going in the right direction.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”


* * *


“Josiah Wilkins,” Tom said as Jim and Karen walked back into the squad. “There’s a chance he’s the infamous Uncle Josiah. Age 34. Disbarred. Went to med school for a while, but dropped out. Rumor is he’s a kind of genius. Jack of all trades. Good at business and persuasion.”

“What’s the relation to Artez?”

“None.”

“Any other connection to Samantha besides the medical record?”

“Nope. Supposedly he doesn’t have any family. Dad died when Josiah was seventeen, mom kicked the bucket the same year, suicide. Both of them. But—” Tom leaned back in his chair. Jim sat on the edge of Marty’s desk, waiting. “Only reason I know that is looking up the parents from his birth record. There’s no mention of Josiah or any children in either of the obituaries. Can’t find any school records after he was fourteen…”

“Doesn’t exist?” Karen asked.

“No employment record, nothing until he opened a law practice five years ago.”

“What about law school?” Jim asked.

“Apparently he never went. That’s why he was disbarred.”

“Can you get disbarred if you don’t have a degree?” Karen asked.

“Picky, picky. He filed a counter lawsuit, said he home schooled. But he dropped it after a week.”

“Then he went to med school,” Jim prompted.

“Apparently he’s not much for formal educations, but word is, he knows where it’s all at. Smart guy.”

“And his records at medical school?”

“Faked. None of the info leads anywhere. Addresses never existed. How he even got in without a degree or taking the MCAT, we’re still looking into that.”

“Does he have any friends?”

“Not that I can find. Never held a job, no co-workers. Family all died. But he’s something of a legend in some circles.”

“Which ones?”

“Depends. Legal consultant to the rich and the poor. Medical consultant to the poor. Unconfirmed, he’s trying to get someone elected mayor, working the background from the underground.”

“Where can you find this guy?” Karen asked.

“Can’t. No permanent address, no phone number, no cell phone, no FBI file, no driver’s license, no hits on his social security number…”

“Nothing,” Jim said.

“Precisely.”

The more nothing they got, the more it was starting to feel like something.


* * *


Jim was tapping a pencil on his desk, trying to think. Finding Samantha dead, realizing he’d never get to talk to her, finding out she was pregnant, poisoned, and shot, he was having trouble thinking.

“Now what?” Marty asked.

Jim stopped tapping the pencil and looked up.

“Well?” Marty said.

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“Nothing, Marty. It’s when you can’t put anything together. When nothing makes sense.” He sighed and rubbed his lip, thinking. “I want to talk to Artez again. Maybe he knew something about this other guy Samantha was seeing.”

“Maybe. Maybe there was some jealousy between ‘em.”

“Or maybe this phantom uncle doesn’t even exist. Maybe they just found a way to scam insurance companies with this name. Maybe lots of people have used this name. One went to med school. One set up a law practice… Tamika didn’t remember him.”

“But,” Karen said, “Tamika said the other kids still go see him.”

“If he is real, he’s been a busy guy,” Marty said.

“Let’s pull Artez, see what he knows.”


* * *


“Well?” Artez asked.

Jim motioned for him to sit. He leaned up against the ledge by the window in the interview room, his arms crossed, his shades in place, his face impassive. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see this one coming,” he said.

“What?”

“Your girlfriend, Samantha. Did you know she was pregnant again?”

Silence filled the room.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Jim said and nodded for Karen to continue.

From the other side of the room Karen asked, “Tell us, who was the father? Clem’s father, and the new baby.”

“Me,” Artez said.

“I don’t think so. You want us to run a DNA test?”

“Clem’s my son.”

“Are you really sure of that, or is that just what you’re going to tell us?”

“Clem is my son. And this baby woulda been, too.” He sounded dejected, knowing about the dead baby.

“You raised him, so he’s yours?” Jim asked. “But he’s not your flesh and blood.”

“Why d’you think I’m lyin’ about this?”

“Because according to the birth record, you’re not the father,” Karen said.

“What birth record?”

“The one at the hospital Samantha went to. The medical record, the birth certificate, the insurance record.”

“Insurance? We don’t have—”

“She was a high risk pregnancy, did you know that? Because she was diabetic.”

“She was diabetic, but the pregnancy went fine. She didn’t need no doctors. She didn’t go once.”

“Are you sure?” Jim asked.

“We didn’t have insurance! How could she ‘ave gone? Doctors don’t do charity.
If they did, we’d be fine. I’d be able to hold a job. I wouldn’t have any episodes.”

“So where was Samantha getting her medication?” Karen asked. “Diabetes is life-threatening without daily medication.”

“I don’t know,” Artez said in almost a whisper.

Jim moved to sit on the table next to Artez and leaned over close to his face. “Tell us what you know about Josiah.”

Artez shied away. “I can’t.”

“’Cause he’ll kill you if you do?” Karen asked.

“No one knows anything about him.”

“We know plenty about him,” Jim said. “What do you know?”

“He was helping Samantha. He’d get stuff she needed. He’s the pastor of her church, for crissakes.”

“And the father of her children?” Karen asked skeptically.

“They’re my kids!”

“And his name’s on the birth certificate because…?” she asked.

“Because maybe he’s more respectable than me? Maybe he helped her with the insurance you said she had. He’s a good man. A man of God. He wouldn’t want her to suffer, so maybe it was all he could do.”

Jim stood up and walked away, back to the window.

“We’re still going to run that DNA test,” Karen said. “Did you know your girlfriend was poisoned?”

“I thought she was shot.”

“That little bullet hole?” Jim said. “That wasn’t fatal.”

“You know anyone who specializes in poisons?” Karen asked as she got the swab kit ready for his DNA sample.

“The only people I know who’ve killed, they’re not smart enough to bother with poison. They’re more the type for a knife in the back.”

“My kind of people,” Karen said.

“Mine, too,” Jim said with a grin.

“Open up,” Karen ordered.

“Careful where you stick that thing,” Artez said.

“Hold still.” Artez moved his seat back so it scraped the floor. “You want the blind guy to do it?”

“No.”

“Then hold still.”


* * *


He’s right,” Jim said as they left the interview room. His kind of people wouldn’t bother with poison.”

“Should we drag in her pastor?”

“Right,” Jim said sarcastically. “Hey, Reverend, when’s the last time you killed someone? And while we’re at it, sir, how many people have you impregnated?”

Karen snorted. “One of these days, I’d love to get a preacher in here and ask him that. But not today.”

“Jim,” Tom said, “I’ve seen you beat up suspects. I’ve seen you lie to them, yell at them. I just never thought I’d hear you plan to abuse a man of the cloth.”

“We have to plan ahead, Tom,” Jim said. “You never know who you’ll get in here.”


* * *


Jim stopped when he got back to his desk. Marty and Tom had been talking when he walked into the room with his bag, but they started whispering when they saw him. Jim listened a minute, then shook his head. He grabbed Hank’s harness and turned toward them, keeping his face as blank as possible. “Guys,” he said, “you need to learn to whisper quieter. I can still hear you.”

Tom started to protest.

Jim nudged Hank to go. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Jim,” Marty said.

“Just how much did you hear?” Tom asked.

Jim stopped and turned back. “You got Simone’s phone number. You haven’t asked her out yet, though.”

“I just… Since you warned me about her and all…”

Jim shook his head. “I warned you to keep you hands to yourself while you have a girlfriend. I don’t even remember Simone.”

“Look, but don’t touch,” Marty said. “Guess that leaves you out of the game, huh, Jim?”

“Guess so.” Jim turned away. “And for future reference, I can’t read lips.”


* * *


It wasn’t often Jim came home early from work, but there’d been nothing else to learn—he wanted to change and get to the gym, work off some of this excess energy that was building up. He wrinkled his nose when he walked through the door of the apartment, the stench of nail polish hovering in the air.

“Christie?” he called, then waited. No answer.

He left Hank in harness, just going to drop off his bag and the box the doorman had given him that had been delivered for Christie, then change and leave. The box was heavy, only about two feet by one foot, but it could have held a solid block of silver, or maybe a bunch of old issues of Christie’s magazine with her by-line. He decided to put it on the coffee table where she’d be sure to see it and he wouldn’t trip over it.

He dropped the box on the table and slid it over a little. It sounded like something small fell over, but the table was often littered with tiny candles and other decorative items Christie got from her interviewees as thank you tokens. He just left it. He hated knick-knacks. He always had—useless and meaningless, he wasn’t the most sentimental guy when it came to things like that. Pictures, souvenirs, sometimes they were okay, but decorations he could do without. And pictures now had also lost their allure, he had to admit.

“Hi,” Christie said when Jim walked into the bedroom. “Is it that late already?”

Jim froze. Sounded like she hadn’t been expecting him. “Nah,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m a little early. Thought I’d stop by the gym.”

“Okay, have fun.”

Jim nodded. “The doorman gave me a package for you.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket and laid it out on the bed, then started on his tie.

“Oh, good!” She brushed past him on the way out of the room. “I was just about to run down to pick it up.” Jim followed slowly as she talked so she wouldn’t have to yell across the apartment. “I was on the phone when you got home. We’re having problems scheduling a client.” She gasped. “Jimmy!”

He jumped forward and hurried across the room.

“Can’t you be more careful? Didn’t you notice you—” she cut herself off.

Jim wracked his brain, but it didn’t take much of a genius to realize the smell of nail polish had gotten stronger. He was getting light headed from the fumes at this close of a proximity. The small clatter—he must have knocked over a bottle of nail polish. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll get it.” He hurried for the kitchen as Christie moved things off the table.

“Paper towels!” she yelled when he grabbed the hand towel.

Must be nice to be able to see what someone else is doing from across the room, he thought bitterly and tossed the towel on the counter. He reached under the sink for the roll of paper towels. It took a minute—he didn’t have much use for the cleaners under the sink so Christie didn’t try to keep a consistent order.

Her anger was contagious. He’d had to touch everything in the cupboard, carefully so he wouldn’t knock anything over, because she didn’t keep things in order. He’d spilled something—but she was the one who’d left it out. It couldn’t all be his fault and he hated it when people got mad at him because he couldn’t see and they’d been negligent. It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t he punished enough just by being blind that he didn’t need people yelling at him? Besides—“Wasn’t the lid on?” he snapped.

“The phone rang,” she said, flustered. “I set it and left. I wasn’t expecting you home so early.”

“I’ll call before I come home,” he said coldly. “That way you know.” He knelt next to the coffee table with a few towels in hand.

“Jimmy!” she warned.

But he already knew. His knee slid in something wet.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He wasn’t going to get angry. But no oxygen was reaching his brain untainted by the smell of nail polish, no thoughts untainted by the anger in Christie’s voice. It wasn’t fair. She could see and he was the one kneeling in wet nail polish and getting reamed.

He ignored the polish on the floor and gently touched the table, feeling for the spill.

“Let me help,” Christie said after a moment, her voice quiet and soft.

He didn’t want her feeling sorry for him. Maybe the anger had been better. He didn’t know what it was like for her, standing up there watching someone carefully trying to clean up a mess he couldn’t see. But he did know how it was for him, his knees wet and ruined, his lungs burning with the smell of chemicals, having to struggle to clean up a mess that wasn’t all his fault, of a substance that didn’t want to come up and was probably leaving behind a thick residue, and having his wife standing over him feeling nothing but pity. “It was my mess,” he said. “I’ll get it.” He swept his hand over the table. The box was gone. “Go ahead and open your package.”

“But—”

“Go!”

“Jimmy, I’ll help—”

“Because you know I won’t be able to get it all up on my own? You’re afraid it’ll ruin the table?”

“No,” she said in almost a whisper. He hadn’t heard her move, still standing there in whatever designer clothes she’d worn to work, and her fancy high heels. “Because there’s two of us.”


* * *


Christie was perfect. Christie was infallible. He scrubbed the floor over and over until he felt no residue of polish. Christie had left him alone when he insisted. Now he wouldn’t be able to yell at her for leaving an open bottle of nail polish on the table in the first place, because she had offered to help clean up. It was his fault. It had taken the two of them to make the mess, but he’d refused her help in cleaning up.

Because he didn’t want her standing there watching him. Because he didn’t want her pity. Because he was angry at himself for knocking it over and not checking to see what it was right away, before the mess could spread.

Oh, poor Christie, how do you handle it? He’d heard her friends and co-workers asking how she put up with him, with his blindness. They, at least, didn’t feel an ounce of pity for him. But they didn’t help anything by making Christie into a martyr.

Just how bad could it be? He was the one who actually was blind, after all. How bad could it really be for Christie? All she had to do was stand back and watch, while he lived it, day after day after day. She could go out and do the same things as always, talk to the same people without problem. He, on the other hand, had a different job, he was on modified assignment pretty much, he couldn’t even find his friends, didn’t know who they were anymore. He couldn’t walk around without Hank.

He paused in the scrubbing. He couldn’t resent Hank. Hank was there for him, helped him more than anyone, listened, kept him from getting run over by buses. No person had ever saved Jim’s life, yet Hank did it repeatedly, pushing his furry body against Jim’s legs to keep him out of harm’s way. Jim had no doubt that if Hank had been at the bank, he would have sacrificed himself, throwing himself into the hail of bullets.

But Jim could resent having to rely on Hank like he did.

Maybe he didn’t want to need Christie’s help and wouldn’t accept it so he wouldn’t have to resent her. He wished he could tell her that, how he felt about her and him and Hank, might make her feel better. But these feelings, he couldn’t put them into words, just a momentary anger at the dog who tried to make his life easier, then remorse, and feelings of pity for his wife for having to put up with him. He’d never been an easy man to live with.

Christie was no saint. She was still Miss Perfect, the lady guys stared at and drooled over when they realized her husband couldn’t see. He wondered how often she flirted back.

He missed himself. He used to be as outwardly perfect as she still was. Crowds of friends, though none exceptionally close—Terry’d been the closest he’d had to a best friend since he’d been a kid. He still didn’t know how Terry had managed to wheedle his way past Jim’s normal defenses. They’d been partners for three years, not very long it seemed, and suddenly Jim was a godfather. He had a buddy to watch the games with and go out with after work.

Yet he’d never opened up to Terry. Christie and Terry were the two closest people in his life, yet they were also the two he kept most at an arm’s length, never talking about his feelings or problems. They’d been drawn to him, to his strength, they’d come into his life and he barely knew how they got there.

Jim stuffed the soiled towels in the garbage, along with the mostly empty bottle of nail polish. He didn’t bother to change, because that would have meant going into the bedroom, where Christie had taken refuge. She was probably in there, crying about him yelling at her to leave him be. He left the top two buttons of his shirt undone and slung on his coat. “Hank,” he said quietly and tapped his thigh. He grabbed the harness and left, thinking of slamming the door on the way out, but caught it at the last second. He shut it quietly; let her cry and wonder if he was still out there, too scared to come out and check.

[greenbeing]

Chapter Six

He’d always hated treadmills. Always. But it really was a good way to work off frustration. He’d lost again today, couldn’t concentrate. Same sparring partner as last time, he should have been more prepared, better able to read the guy’s moves.

Jim hadn’t taken up karate until after he’d gone blind, but he was usually proud of the skill he’d picked up in such a short time. He was learning a lot—private instruction—and the instructor often threw in moves from other disciplines that he thought Jim could use or enjoy: tae kwon do, jujitsu, and hapkido. His balance was getting better—he’d had a terrible time when he first lost his sight, tripping over the smallest thing would send him sprawling. Even now he occasionally had problems with that, if he wasn’t totally in tune with the environment and his movements. Karate was teaching him to focus better. He was also getting a lot better at hand-to-hand combat.

Which he might need, he chided himself. He was his only weapon now and needed to concentrate during the lessons.

Christie hadn’t known Jim back in his fighting days, back when his hands were hard and calloused and his face usually sported some bruise or cut. She barely knew about that time in his life and how sport fighting had helped keep him sane enough that he didn’t get into fights outside the ring. That was how he’d always worked off his frustrations, dropping by the gym and putting on a pair of gloves.

He’d felt that same freedom from frustration the day he and Karen had gone to interview the manager at the Amsterdam and he’d pummeled the speed bag for a minute. He hadn’t been showing off, though he knew Karen was oddly impressed and intrigued. He’d really only wanted to know if he could still do it. He wouldn’t be much up against another boxer in a ring, but going up against a bag was a piece of cake.

He’d inquired at the gym he usually went to, found out they had bags. The kid at the desk, Jim had heard him laugh, heard in his voice how he was humoring the blind guy, showing him where the punching bags were. Instead of getting mad, Jim made himself think back—if he wasn’t the blind guy in question, wouldn’t he have chuckled? He and Terry would have made jokes about it all day.

That was sometimes the only way to deal with people, to force himself to realize he was no better, then to make the jokes himself and cut them to the chase so he wouldn’t be caught off-guard. “Hey, Terry,” the old Dunbar would have said, “let’s get front row tickets to fight night, see if this blind guy shows up.” They would have snickered and made all sorts of crude jokes, then they probably would have bought tickets to the next big fight—any excuse to go. Christie wouldn’t have understood. At first he used to tell her all the stupid reasons he and the guys had for going out—there was this guy at the gym, we wanna see if he’s a real fighter, can’t see his opponent, should be interesting—and Christie would have shaken her head. She might have even reprimanded him, said she was ashamed, they were grown-ups, couldn’t they act like it? So Jim had stopped telling her why he was going out, just going out with the guys, that’s all the more he’d say.

Now that the tables were turned, Jim wondered if Christie’d been right. He’d just needed to grow up.

He wondered if, now, he’d make jokes like that. Not about a blind guy boxing, but about anything else he’d have joked about with Terry. Where did he draw the line?

Before, he and Terry would have gone to the fight. The seed would have been planted—the is the fight to watch for—so they’d have watched for this guy to show up, making cracks all night: that fighter must not have seen that one coming; good thing he can’t see the blood, what with all the blood in his eyes; you think they’ll let his dog fight tag-team? The whole time he would have been thinking the blind fighter was some has-been, got hurt during a fight, knocked his lights out—permanently—and he just didn’t know when to quit.

Jim found the parallel to himself shocking, but he wasn’t a has-been, not yet. It hurt to realize what he’d have thought about any other guy in this situation—Terry included; he would have been just like Marty, probably worse.

He’d been using the bags a lot lately. It wasn’t exactly the same as going up against an opponent who could beat him back, but it felt good. Slowly the pent-up frustrations he’d had for over a year were beginning to leak out and, like Galloway had said, he was beginning to feel like himself again.

But he thought as he stepped off the treadmill to head for the bags, he would never let himself go all the way back to that guy. Why couldn’t Christie see that he had changed?


* * *


Jimmy’d been different for a long time. Christie couldn’t quite put a finger on when it had started. They’d been married five years and for a while everything had been great. They’d been so in love. Or so they’d thought. She wondered now if it had been just a passing infatuation, like the high school quarterback and the head cheerleader. They’d fulfilled their time together, but now maybe it was time to move on.

She’d been thinking that for a couple years, wondering just what this marriage was built on.

Jim had been able to see for the first four years of their marriage. She considered that the normal part of their life. He’d been the bad boy and she had to admit she’d found that irresistible, even if she really didn’t like it when he started fights. She couldn’t curb that part of him. She wanted the bad boy image with the choir boy mind. She knew that now. Hindsight being 20/20.

Christie knew after a couple years Jim had begun to feel stifled. Or something. He really wasn’t comfortable in her world, nor she in his. He didn’t like to go to the upper crust parties with the stuffy people she wanted to make a good impression on. They’d look at him and sort of approve, but he had these rough edges. He’d never fit in.

She fit in better with his crowd. She could mingle and talk and his friends could appreciate her stories of all the people she’d gotten to meet through her job. She just normally didn’t have time to spend—she had things to do. Her life was going somewhere.

Maybe being married was holding her back, even though it looked good on her resume; people respected a married woman more than a single girl.

Christie had known right away when Jim met someone else. She wasn’t stupid. She knew her husband. She just didn’t know what to do about it. Get a divorce? Forgive him?

She knew because he’d started comparing her. Her, the one he’d always said was incomparable. But suddenly he’d look at her oddly, closely, stare, like he was appraising her value and looking for imperfections. She’d seen it in his eyes, that there was someone he found better in so many ways.

But he never left her, tried to keep it a secret. She didn’t know why, but guessed there was a part of him that was still in love with her, and another part that was held in check by the marriage vows. His parents had never divorced, though she knew they hadn’t had a happy marriage. Jim had probably never even thought of divorcing her.

Christie didn’t know what to do—they’d only fought about it once and she’d tried to leave. He talked her into staying, so sincere. He’d broken it off with… Anne. The girl even had a name. Anne, so clean-cut and wholesome sounding. Christie’d wanted to know just what was so great about Anne, so much better than her—

“I can’t talk about that,” Jim had said, perplexed, given her this look he had. He often couldn’t talk about things with her, and even though she’d realized how wrong, how perverse, she’d pushed. “Christie, it’s not your fault,” he’d said instead of answering.

“Then why?” she’d yelled, tears on her cheeks.

“I don’t know!” he’d yelled back. “Because it’s wrong! I was wrong, it’s wrong.”

They’d dropped it—weeks passed, then a couple months. Christie had started to look at Jim differently. They weren’t spending time together, he was throwing himself into work—she knew the fight wasn’t over.

Then he’d been shot. Of all the things to hear to put perspective on all the shallow things that make up a life. Your husband’s been shot. The shock was so great she’d burst into tears. Her thoughts hadn’t been about how distant he’d been, or how he’d had an affair. They weren’t even thoughts of how she’d been wondering if she even loved him anymore.

Jimmy, that had been her first thought. The Jimmy she’d fallen in love with, the one who was always there to protect her and take care of her. The one who could look into her soul.

The one she’d tried to change. Couldn’t she just accept him? Wasn’t that what a marriage was? It wasn’t about finding a guy who was just good enough and trying to tame him. Jimmy had always been such a good guy—why’d she try to change him? She’d made him run.

Jimmy. If he died now…

But he hadn’t. She’d felt like fate had given them a second chance. She’d be better. And he would be, too.

Until she saw him lying there, unconscious. For days she’d cried. Whatever relief she’d felt had disappeared and she felt scared, really scared, for the first time in her life.

The fear deepened when the doctors explained about the damage and the possibilities of injuries he could have sustained.

She wasn’t getting her husband back. It wasn’t a new lease on life. It was like a horror movie, never knowing what was going to crop up next. How would they survive if he never regained consciousness? If he did, would he be the same man? And would she be able to forgive him?

Yes!—Theoretically. Oh, she wanted to, wanted to beg God, promise she would forgive Jimmy. When it was a question of him living or dying, how could she even think of not forgiving him?

But she couldn’t. She promised herself she’d just wait and see, make sure he was okay. Maybe when he re-evaluated his life—how could he not when he’d almost died—he’d find no place for her. She’d wait and see what he thought.

He couldn’t see her. She was standing in the doorway and he was sitting up in bed staring at the hallway. The doctors had warned her before she went in, which was why she’d stopped at the door. She hadn’t expected him to be awake, wasn’t sure what she would say.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

She hadn’t been able to answer. The anger in his face terrified her. He looked like he’d kill the first person he got his hands on. He looked like he already had and it hadn’t helped.

He looked vulnerable. Jimmy, vulnerable?

“It’s you, Christie, isn’t it?” he guessed. “I heard you walking down the hall.”

She’d nodded, not realizing. She could hardly believe he couldn’t see; he was staring right at her.

“Answer me!”

Her Jim almost never yelled. When he was angry he got quiet. He was always calm. Yelling meant fear. That scared her. Jimmy wasn’t the type to be afraid.

He’d lashed out with the arm not hooked to an IV and he’d reached for something on the nightstand, spilling water, knocking over a vase of flowers. His hand had finally managed to wrap around a plastic cup and he lobbed it at the door.

She stood there another moment in fear as he stared at her. His eyes were wide, like he wasn’t sure what he’d thrown or where it had landed. Like he was having second thoughts about who he’d thrown it at.

She looked at the dripping nightstand and realized every container within his reach was plastic and unbreakable.

If this was how he reacted to someone standing in the doorway, she couldn’t imagine how bad it must have been when he first found out he couldn’t see.

She’d slipped out of her high heels, picked them up, and walked away. They couldn’t do anything for each other that day.

It had been difficult, sitting at home, clearing away knick-knacks and breakables while he was rehab. She’d been to the hospital several times to see him while they waited to make sure he was okay. Neither of them had ever mentioned her first visit when she hadn’t said anything. She hated it because she knew that Jimmy was probably torn deep down between knowing she was there, and the doubts he must have felt about being sure someone was there when he couldn’t see them. She knew he wouldn’t bring it up and risk being wrong. He also wouldn’t bring it up in case he was right. All the implications of his wife just standing there staring at him when he couldn’t see.

He’d come back from rehab quieter, more reserved. He’d made a decision, he said, he was going to beat this thing and go back to work. Sure there were things he couldn’t do anymore, but he had a new perspective on the world.

It amazed her, the way he’d come home and could walk around the apartment without bumping into anything. The way he could feed himself. Get dressed in the morning.

She’d gone downstairs and cried in the stairwell. She wasn’t supposed to feel proud that he could feed himself. And relieved. Relieved that he wouldn’t be helpless. She couldn’t handle him being helpless.

But could he really go back to work? She’d nearly lost him to that job once, and now he had a handicap, even if he wouldn’t admit it. If something were to happen to him again…

They’d stopped talking then. He wouldn’t talk about rehab any more than he’d bring up his time in the Gulf. He was learning Braille, learning his way around New York, buying gadgets to make him self-sufficient. He never let on whether or not it was hard for him to get through the day—he just went ahead and did things. All she could do was stand back and watch him struggle—if he didn’t do it himself, he’d never learn. Things had slowly gotten back to normal. He’d always been reluctant to share what he’d learned that day—ashamed maybe? To let her know he’d relearned to brush his teeth and tie a tie?

Hank had come into their lives right before he’d gone back to work. Christie’d always been scared of dogs and Hank was huge. Lying there on his pillow in the corner of their bedroom like he was master of their lives. Hank knew she was scared and she and the dog had never been able to come to terms with each other. He followed Jimmy around. If he found himself alone in a room with her, he’d leave.

And she was jealous. Hank knew how to help her husband. She’d always had to stand by while Jim struggled, but if Hank helped, he’d get a pat on the head and a thank you. If she tried to help, she’d get yelled at.

Slowly things had been getting back to normal. Jimmy was working and putting himself to use. He was busy, something he had needed so terribly. He was home more often, the apartment being a haven where everything was always in place. She was busy at work. She had a vague premonition that if she could forgive him straying that once, their relationship would be more normal than it had been in years. He really had changed—he would be around, he’d learn to love her again. He talked sometimes, listened, humored her. It was like he’d regained the Jim he’d been before Anne, when they first met.

Sometimes Christie could close her eyes and lie in his arms and be five years younger. He was as strong as always and she felt safe. She missed the carefree side of him. That’s what he’d really lost, the ability to just kick back.

It had been six years since she’d met him. He’d been so outgoing, his own man, liked to go out with the guys for a beer after work, liked to be the center of attention around people he knew, but to blend into the woodwork around people he didn’t. She’d always admired how he’d come in one night and tell her this horror of a case, and then a couple days later he’d be working it around in his head, letting all the pieces fall in place, and then he’d just know. It had been awe inspiring and she’d respected the way he could help people. Her own superhero.

It was the rough edges she couldn’t handle. A bar fight here, a bout of temper there. Christie wondered how many women married a man they loved, felt safe with, admired, but couldn’t understand.

It was as much her stubbornness as his that made it difficult to work through.

They just couldn’t communicate. That hadn’t changed.

And with Jimmy back at work, even though it was a new squad, they were the same old cases, all those dead people, and he was right back out there like he’d always been. It was almost the same Jim she’d first met… He just held her even further away to prove he could take care of her and of himself, while all she wanted was to get closer.

She was till awed, still in love. But she wanted something else. She’d changed, too. They were headed in different directions and she was afraid they were getting too far away.

[greenbeing]

Jim felt for the next button that would send the treadmill up to a run. He’d pummeled the bags until his knuckles bled, but he still had this knot in his stomach. Too much energy, too much anger. He was Jim Dunbar, and Jim Dunbar didn’t make mistakes, didn’t spend an hour on his knees cleaning up nail polish.

Back to the treadmill, a vain attempt to wear himself down to the point where he could reason with himself.

Galloway would have had a good explanation about why Jim had always tried to hold Christie and Terry at arm’s length. Probably something to do with how he’d grown up, how his parents had been. He wasn’t sure Galloway was much of a follower of Freud, but to Jim this sounded fairly plausible. His parents hadn’t been much for deep conversation—how could Christie expect it of Jim, of the boy who’d grown up keeping everything safely inside?

Especially now. Before, he’d just been a man. He’d had problems, he’d had strengths, but he’d just been a normal man. He hadn’t had anything to keep inside that any other man didn’t have.

But now he felt he did. Looking back, there’d been times he could have let Christie in. Cases were just cases, safe to talk about, though he’d kept how they made him feel to himself. Now, it wasn’t just about cases and how they made him feel. Now it was how they equalized him as a man, or how they showed him he wasn’t the same. Now everything he did he was trying to prove he was the same as before, even as everything he did proved to him how his life had changed.

He couldn’t share that with Christie.

Terry’d been a friend, but he’d made one mistake which Jim couldn’t forgive him for.

Christie was his wife, and Jim had made one mistake she couldn’t forgive him for.

It was all the same, it didn’t matter who was right. Jim couldn’t imagine Terry ever again being the old Terry he’d been partners with for three years.

That old Terry had been exuberant the day he’d brought his son home for them hospital. He’d been so proud, strutting around, showing off pictures, buying cigars and beers. That’s the way Jim would always see the old Terry, the man who no longer existed. Jim couldn’t imagine the hell Terry’s wife must be having trying to reconcile the old Terry with the new one.

Terry had just gotten married when Jim first met him. The boss had called them both in at the 77. Terry was the rookie detective, just out of uniform. Jim had already been there almost seven years as a detective. The boss had pulled Jim aside, said, “Give him hell, he’s a little wet behind the ears.” Jim had happily obliged. When he’d joined, he hadn’t had an easy time, had to make his way, prove his worth. If he hadn’t, he’d have never learned. But always having to prove himself, watching his superiors and learning, he’d caught on quickly.

It took him six months before he eased up on Terry. Terry was a nice guy, honest, enthusiastic, a peacemaker, worshipped his wife. Terry would always be a family man. Jim always had thought of him as a big teddy bear. “How does a teddy bear hold his own on the scene of a homicide?” Jim had always asked. Terry’d get so serious at the crime scenes. Each one would hit him differently, it was like he took it as a personal offense when people were killed.

Jim had known Terry had trouble detaching himself from the crimes. He was great at interviews, so personable. But the crime itself would tear him apart, put a haunted look in his eye.

Three years later, Terry’d seen enough dead bodies, but he’d never seen anyone killed. Jim had known that would affect him more than other cops he’d worked with, just because that’s who Terry was. But Jim had faith, watched Terry out there with him, helping other cops to safety. Jim saw the look on Terry’s face when the one cop he’d been helping was shot—willed Terry to keep going. There’d been nothing Jim could have done for him then. Just had to trust Terry to take a moment, reconcile, stand up, do his job, and analyze the meaning of life later.

“Take the shot, Terry!”

The thought of stepping out there, killing someone himself… Terry hadn’t had time yet to process watching someone die. He couldn’t step up and commit the same act.

Jim had known that deep down for three years. He’d hoped Terry could handle it, but he’d been wrong.

He should have been harder on him. He should have made Terry handle it instead of appealing to his better nature. He shouldn’t have trusted him to come through when the time came. Terry’d been a good man. Jim never should have let up, though. He’d been too soft.

Jim had always gotten things backwards. He’d always been too hard on his wife. He expected her to be able to handle this. To just stand back and let him be. Even though he’d known for six years that wasn’t the way she worked; he needed to ease up on her.

Christie’d always been a little soft. Hell, she was soft as Charmin. She’d grown up privileged. Jim had met her at a gathering, she’d come with a friend of a friend to this little shindig of 100 or so people at the little crappy apartment Jim had shared with another guy on the squad. He’d been infatuated at first sight, but he knew she was out of his league. She planned to work her way up to editor of this fashion magazine she kept talking about. She had aspirations.

Immediately he’d shown her what a hard-ass he was, trying to impress her with how different they were, how manly he was. Talking cop stuff. Collaring perps, using the lingo. He’d kept constant eye contact and she hadn’t looked away. He’d be talking to someone else, but he’d be staring into her eyes.

He grinned at her during one gruesome tale and said, “What, you can’t handle it?” Devilishly charming, that’s what he’d been going for. She bought it.

Anytime she’d grimace at one of his stories, he’d say the same thing.

Right after he’d gotten home from rehab, he’d broken something, a plate or a glass. Had shown he’d become clumsy, wasn’t the same self-assured man as before, right when he’d been trying to prove to her he was back to normal.

He had felt her shrink back, but he’d brushed it off, told her coolly that he’d handle it, no problem. He’d cut himself cleaning up and she’d cried, fought him to let her help. He’d argued. Grabbed her hands to keep them away from the glass, deliberately stared over her head. If he couldn’t prove he was the same, he’d show her what it was really like, see if she was strong enough to handle the truth.

He knew blood from the gash on his hand was dripping onto her hands, which had never been stained with someone else’s blood. He’d been able to feel her gaze falling to their entwined hands, rising up to his face, searching his eyes. Again he said, more spitefully than playful, “What, you can’t handle it?”

She’d already been crying, but then she started sobbing. He refused to let go of her hands, wouldn’t hold her and comfort her. She’d sunk to the floor and he’d knelt in front of her. “Look at me,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”

“I don’t know,” she said, gasping for breath, trying to pull away.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Yes!”

At the time he’d thought it was the blindness she’d been talking about, but later, when he’d cooled down and forgiven himself for being clumsy, he realized she’d meant the cruelness, how he hadn’t been the same person she’d fallen in love with. She couldn’t have answered what she was seeing, knowing it wasn’t the same man. Quietly he’d gone to her and asked if he was right, she confirmed. He’d apologized, promised never to do it again.

He’d told her it wasn’t going to be the only time he was going to make a mess of things—in the apartment or in their relationship. He’d told her he could handle being blind and he’d take care of that, but she’d need to forgive him herself, he couldn’t take care of that for her. She hadn’t answered. He thought Anne was too fresh in her memory.

He had handled the blindness, mostly alone. Looking back on that afternoon, though, he wondered which of them had broken their promise—if she hadn’t let him handle the blindness, or if he’d just been cruel again.

When a relationship boiled down to that, it didn’t matter whether or not they loved each other.


* * *


The closer he got the apartment, the worse he felt. For yelling at Christie, for not letting her help, for being imperfect in the first place. How could he explain that to her? All he ever wanted for Christie was for her not to have to deal with the blindness. If it was up to him, she’d never see any of it.

“Jim?” Her voice was quiet.

Jim froze in the doorway. He’d debated not coming home at all, but the way they’d left things, he’d been half sure Christie wouldn’t be there when he got home. He didn’t think she’d leave, just thought she’d be back at work, burying herself. First her birthday, now this. She’d already been spending more time at work than home, and now, with him adding up all the fights… Jim recognized the symptoms—he’d worked longer and harder on cases before, when he’d wanted to avoid Christie for any reason. Yet, there she was, as soon as the door opened, still speaking to him.

“It’s okay. I didn’t booby trap the apartment,” she said when he didn’t move.

Jim stayed where he was. Christie didn’t have a very good sense of humor. It didn’t help.

“Are you coming in?” she asked, starting to sound worried.

He finally stepped in and shut the door, pressing himself against it.

“I’m sorry I yelled earlier,” she said. “You couldn’t help—”

He was suddenly disgusted with himself, making her worry, having her apologize first. She shouldn’t—not when it was his fault. “I knew I knocked something over,” he spat out. “I should have checked.”

“How come I’m the one who never gets to apologize?” she asked.

Women—Christie especially—had ways to make themselves blameless. If you asked Christie about anything, she could always explain it away, turn it around on him. She could even make it sound plausible that guys weren’t flirting with her. But this time, when it wasn’t her fault, what was she doing?

Jim wasn’t much for laying blame. He didn’t like being dragged into arguments only to find at the end that of course it was his fault. Jim was good at apologizing. He was good at sitting there and taking it. Now she wanted to apologize?

“I can see you have an answer,” Christie said lightly. “Would you care to share?”

Jim moved forward, dropped off his keys and sunglasses, turned to hang his coat on the coat rack. “I don’t have an answer,” he said. He didn’t have an answer that would withstand any sort of scrutiny. Women just always had an explanation for anything. Jim thought the next time he got into deep thinking mode, he should come up with a rebuttal, save the whole male species. It wouldn’t last long—a woman would take one look and find a loophole, making everything once again the fault of man. So why was she apologizing?

“Jim, come sit.” She patted the couch.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“We can’t just keep not talking,” she said.

“Sure we can. We’ve been doing it for five years.” Why’d she have to apologize first? And for him being blind, no less. He headed for the bedroom. He needed aspirin.

“About this afternoon—”

“Christie!” Jim spun around. “If it pertains to this—” he gestured at his eyes— “I don’t want to talk about it. You want to yell at me for forgetting your birthday, go ahead, I deserve it. But this, why can’t you just forget it for five minutes? Why does it always come back to me being blind? I don’t want any help. I wish you could look at me and see the man I was when we first met. I know I screwed that up—” He cut himself off with a shake of the head. “It’s always my fault. I made a mess, I cleaned it up, I wish you’d forgive me.”

“If I do, then what?”

Galloway’d been right. No matter what started it, it would have to come down to Anne. Anne, his blindness, every mistake he’d ever made. They couldn’t avoid them forever.

“If I forgive you—”

“Why is it so hard to do that?”

“Because I don’t know who you are right now!”

Jim stalked across the bedroom. He’d been wanting to tell Christie for so long who he was—but at that moment, he wasn’t sure either. The apartment still reeked of nail polish. He could feel the blindness tightening around him to the point he had to grope for the bed and sit down. Anne kept floating through his head, images, words, her smell, the feeling of comfort he’d had around her that he’d never had with Christie. If he’d still been with Anne, or, heaven forbid, actually left Christie for her, how would she have dealt with all this? “Has it ever occurred to you that I don’t know either? That I’m trying to figure it out myself? All I know for sure—” He paused. “I never loved Anne.”

“Great,” Christie said sarcastically.

“You’re so damn unapproachable!” he said and stood up. He crossed to the doorway, felt her move back, but he stood his ground. “I’m finally telling you how I feel, Christie. I didn’t love her. She may have had a lot of things you don’t, but she wasn’t you.” He paused, wondering if he’d said too much. But if he didn’t, they’d never get it out in the open, never close that chapter on their lives. “Christie, I may never know why I did it, but I know why I stopped.”

“You’re going to stand there and tell me you loved me?” she asked aghast.

“What else am I supposed to say?” He waited, but she didn’t say anything. “Exactly. Now you tell me—why don’t you forgive me? You think I’m going to do it again?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you don’t forgive me, we’ll never find out, will we? I told you I’d never do it again, and I won’t. I promised you that before I got shot. I know that screwed up a lot, we never had time to learn to trust each other again… But at least you know I was trying to change before, it didn’t have anything to do with this.” He gestured at his eyes again. “But how are we supposed to live together if you don’t trust me?” He knew he was asking a lot of her. Christie’d never let him down. Terry had. He’d tried to forgive Terry, but it wasn’t until Terry’d shot himself, amidst the pity he felt, that he’d finally understood and forgiven. “What you see is what you get, Christie, it doesn’t get any better than this. I messed up, but I won’t do it again.

“And today—” He knew he’d have to bring it up eventually. As much as he wanted to forget it. “I’m blind, Christie.” He held his ground, waiting. As much as they’d danced around it, he’d never told her. Like he didn’t have to admit it because she knew. But that was like saying he didn’t have to admit he’d had an affair because she knew. “But I’m not asking you to forgive me for that.” Jim walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

He stood inside, shaking. The fights he’d had with Christie recently, they’d never lasted long. And he really never had told her—the doctors had told her. She’d come to him in the hospital, and she’d already known. He didn’t remember much about that time—it was all a blur, if he could even use that term. He hadn’t been used to not seeing, and the doctors had kept him pretty drugged for the pain. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what had actually happened, what he may have dreamed. He’d found, sitting in the hospital, a few times the drugs had made him hallucinate—he’d been sure he could see, the doctors had been wrong. Then they’d regulate his dosage, and things would get blurry again, then go away. He’d been blind a while before he was coherent enough to tell anyone, and by then, he hadn’t needed to; they’d already known. By the time he’d actually used the word, he’d pretty much accepted the fact of the blindness. Except around Christie. He didn’t ever want to be blind for her.

The anger was surging in him again. She’d made him admit that he couldn’t see. To her. How was she ever supposed to look at him and accept that?

“Jim?” Christie knocked on the bathroom door.

Jim kept his back pressed against it to keep her from coming in. He felt like he had at the hospital, disoriented. Even his brain felt like he was back there, hadn’t accepted it yet. Couldn’t take it in stride that he wasn’t always in control of his environment, couldn’t yet accept that accidents happened.

She knocked louder. “Okay! I’ll try!” she yelled. “I promise I’ll try if you do.”


* * *


He was awake at four. Thinking too much, as usual, he couldn’t shut himself off. He got up, left her in bed, alone as usual.

Jim had always prided himself on being a man. Even before he’d reached the age where boys are normally considered men—his dad had always ordered him to “take it like a man,” so he had.

And mostly he’d been a good man. He’d taken his share of lumps when his father was drinking, he’d taken care of his mother, he’d played high school football and ran with the jocks. He’d boxed. He’d joined the army, become a police officer, then a detective. He’d married a woman many men were envious of. Even having an affair had once upon a time been considered a manly pastime. He’d drink a brewski and watch the games with the guys.

Christie said he was still her man, but he found that almost condescending. She’d liked dating the ex-jock with the gun who could beat up perps on a regular basis and fight for justice for all. The man with the gun. It was all about the gun.

Which he didn’t have anymore.

It was after giving up the gun that he’d decided to go back to Galloway for a while. Giving it up had brought up more issues than he’d ever imagined.

The cop without a gun. It made him feel like an invalid. Really brought home Marty’s comment about being on modified assignment.

Even though Galloway said he was on his way to being the man he had been before, he couldn’t quite see it. Dance lessons, a new precinct, a new partner, trying to play the sensitive husband and woo back his injured wife. She would be right to leave him, but then where would he be?

More modified assignment. Christie did more than he cared to admit. She’d always done the womanly things, like grocery shopping, but now she was in charge of paying the bills he could no longer read. He’d find ways to deal with it all if she wasn’t there, but…

Once he’d stupidly charged a hotel room to his credit card. The room had been for him and Anne. It had been right after a tough case, he’d been drained and Anne helped him celebrate. They drank a little and she’d wanted to go back to his place. He’d talked her into a ritzy hotel nearby instead. He used to pay the bills, so Christie never saw the hotel on the credit card.

Even if he’d wanted to cheat on her now, it’d be more difficult—he couldn’t rely on luck like that. He didn’t want to cheat on her, but he felt like the blindness was holding him in check—not entirely a bad thing, but he would have liked to rely on his own morals instead.

He’d been thinking about Anne more often lately. Missing her conversations and her insights.

Christie was beautiful, but that meant nothing for him anymore. He’d loved her, but for a while he’d thought he loved Anne, too. A man with too much love and not enough commitment. Anne had always teased him about being fickle with his cases. They’d come and he’d dive in like it was the best thing ever, but once it was solved, he could move on like it had never existed.

Christie’d almost left him several times, but she’d always stayed. As much as she could hate him, there was something else. He just wished he knew how she really felt.

He wished he knew how he felt himself, too. He’d never been prone to indecision, but now he was always forced to work out his next move in his head before he made it, reason it out, weigh the consequences.

He couldn’t hate Christie. He did need her. He’d lost his independence.

It struck him that maybe he was fighting against her to prove his independence, like a teenager fighting his parents. He was a grown-up, he didn’t need anyone, and he was sabotaging himself.

As much as it scared him, as much as it would hurt, he needed to apologize to Christie for everything and take his lumps like a man. He would survive either way, but the manly thing to do would be to admit he was wrong.

Going to war seemed easier than the prospect of apologizing to his wife. He needed to work it out first, before he saw her again.

He headed to the precinct to make himself useful.

[greenbeing]

(Insert Intermission Music Here)

Chapter Seven—Interlude

The Swan Lake was a dive just off Broadway. Going in, you’d think they’d forgotten to pay their electric bill. The place was usually lit by candles and a fireplace at the far end, even in the summer. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to hear wailing coming from the bathrooms, and the roof was almost notorious as a fabulous spot to throw oneself off. Would-be actors were the most frequent customers, and the bartenders were known to throw in a little Shakespeare every now and then. That was the only class the Swan Lake had.

Karen was settled into a grimy chair across the room from the bar, trying to ignore her friend.

“Karen? Karen?” Anne Donnelly waved a hand in front of Karen’s face.

Karen finally looked back.

“Are you ignoring me for a reason?”

“I just, you know.” Karen hesitated before laying it out. “It’s hard to listen to you numbering off rotten things about a guy I have to work with everyday.”

“I just want to make sure you don’t ever forget where he came from.”

“Don’t worry, I can’t,” Karen said, though she meant, she couldn’t forget with Anne constantly reminding her.

“But you keep—”

“I respect him as a cop. I never said I respected him as a human being.”

“Do you?” Anne asked.

Karen looked away and watched a man wearing a pink tutu downing shots at the bar. “He doesn’t seem like a bad guy…”

“Yeah, that’s the Dunbar charm. Trust me, there’s nothing underneath, just the charm.”

“Okay.”

“Why are you so distracted tonight?”

“Can we change the subject?” Karen said, a little harsher than she’d planned.

“I just did,” Anne said. “I asked why you’re so distracted. But if you want to keep talking about Jim Dunbar—”

“I see him all day, I don’t need to talk about him all night. Jim’s a cop, we work together. I wish I knew how he figures some of these cases out… Anne, it’s driving me crazy. Ever since he’s been there, being partnered up with him, sometimes it’s like I don’t exist. I’m not as experienced. I don’t always know what I’m looking for. They give me crap for being female.”

“You knew it was a “man’s job.””

“So? That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t accept me. Sometimes I think, even though I’ve worked with them longer, that Marty and Tom, they respect a blind cop more than me. And yeah, he’s good at his job, but—”

Anne grinned. “Good. As long as you resent him, I don’t have to worry about you falling for him.”

“Anne!”

“Sorry.”

“I just feel like now I’m the one with something to prove, not him.”

Anne’s eyes wandered and Karen quickly followed her gaze. She tried to cover her face, but she knew it was too late.

“Hey, Karen,” the guy slurred. “I thought that was my favorite detective.” He tried to lean over her chair while nonchalantly running a hand through his dark hair. He’d shaved right before coming out, like he’d tried to impress Karen with once before, and he reeked of after-shave cologne. He licked his lips, bringing her attention to the one tooth in front that had been discolored after years of smoking.

Karen stood up. “I’m leaving.”

“Great, I’ll come,” he said. He stood up, shrugging his shoulders like he needed to reposition his shirt to make it more comfortable.

“Matt, get lost.”

“But I thought we had something.” He always had been whiny.

“One date, that’s all we had.” Karen grabbed her coat. He tried to help her on with it, but she wrenched it out of his grasp. She put a hand up to his chest and he grinned lasciviously, but she pushed him backwards out of her way with her best don’t-mess-with-the-cop attitude. He moved where she pushed, but when she moved past, he grabbed her hand and kissed it, trying to pull her close. Karen shot him a disgusted look. “Drunken misconduct—I’ll book you if you don’t let go.”

“Be still my heart,” he said with a grin, but he let go.

Anne was laughing.

“That’s what I was trying to avoid, thanks, Anne,” Karen said on the way out.

“You keep up this string of bad dates, we won’t be able to go anywhere anymore.”

“New York is just not big enough,” Karen grumbled.


* * *


Marty remembered how horrified he’d been the day the lieutenant had briefed them about the new detective being assigned. Jim Dunbar, blind as a bat. Marty’d followed the bank robbery. He was a cop; they’d all been obsessed with the bank. It had been one of those days every cop dreams he’ll never see.

And Dunbar, he’d never see a day like that again. He’d been lucky to live. He’d been a poster boy for the media, but that just made him an ass to the cops he was trying to work with again, the butt of some cruel jokes passed around the squads. The blind cop.

Until he actually got reinstated, then he’d become a hero again. No cop would make fun of him while he was on the job.

And Marty’d be forced to work with him? Put his life on the line to save this guy if it came down to it? He’d have rather dragged his senile, wheelchair-bound grandmother out in the line of fire—at least she could see to duck.

Past his prime, too injured to return to work, but too stupid to know better. Get over it, that’s what Marty wanted to tell the guy.

And he’d walked in with a dog. Not with a dog in tow, but with one in the lead. And a gun to boot—but that was passé now. Marty didn’t have to worry about the gun anymore.

Lately, he hadn’t felt the need to worry about Dunbar anymore, either. Or to worry about Karen partnered with him. Jim had proved himself and Marty had to admit, he was glad to see some of it rubbing off on Karen. She was lucky to have him as a role model.

Some things still bugged him, though. Jim was like this flawless icon they were all supposed to bow before. And Marty found himself trying to hold his own, not be overshadowed by this blind guy.

It was harder to resent Jim now. They were coming together as a squad. Experience, expertise, imagination. Marty had to smile, some of the things Dunbar came up with were at once ingenious and insane. Marty wasn’t sure he’d be able to stick to his guns with some of those crack-pot theories Dunbar came up with. He respected Dunbar for sticking to them.

The thing with the coffee was still bugging him a little, though. He’d spent most of the day with the guy. As soon as he’d let the dog go, taken off his sunglasses and settled in at his desk, he was just another cop. Lunch had been a little awkward at first, sitting right across the table, holding a conversation. Marty’d always found eye contact to be important. He’d just been getting comfortable again, hadn’t even offered to get coffee because Jim couldn’t get it himself, had just been offering because he was going. He’d come back to find Jim in classic Dunbar-thinking mode, held up the coffee—nothing.

Not a movement, not a flicker, no acknowledgement.

It was Jim, the guy who’d saved their butts on the Tongue Collector case. And Marty felt he was right back there, hoping to God this man could hold his own like he’d promised.


* * *


Tom was an easygoing guy. He thought it was funny, that girl coming up and kissing Jim. Jim had gotten it on with this girl once, but he was playing it all saintly, like it was another life, warning Tom the bad things that could happen. Tom would just go with the flow.

Life at the squad had sure been more interesting since Dunbar had come around. Awkward, sometimes, yeah, but it wasn’t as much of a pain as he’d thought it would be. When Jim relaxed, he could be a great guy. And on the job, Tom was taking the opportunity to learn from him. The brass never would have reinstated him if he wasn’t good. And Tom had seen it firsthand. New blood, that’s what they’d needed.

And to see Dunbar rubbing off on Karen, it made him proud. Karen was really coming into her own finally. Tom was finally getting over the woman stigma enough to joke around with her, too. Yeah, everything was coming around.

And Tom had a date with Simone. Hot, tall, long legs, he was surprised Jim had never called her, but he guessed being married, Jim was right to keep back. Shouldn’t do that when you gotta go home to the same woman every night. But when you were just playing the field…

“You work with Jimmy?” Simone asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s cool.” She scooted her chair a little closer. “I kinda like detectives. You’re always trying to save the world, one person at a time. I like that.”

Tom smiled.

“I always hoped Jimmy’d call me, even though he was married. He always had the best stories, could keep us rolling for hours, even though he was usually so serious, you know.”

Tom gave a half nod, watching her closely while she talked about Jim, how he had been. Before. Tom hadn’t thought about it too often—just that once when that guy’d come up to thank Jim for helping his blind nephew.

Jim before, that had to be a sight.

“Was he… like he was the other night?”

“I’m surprised he pushed me away, never thought Jimmy was much of one for restraint,” Simone said dryly.

“That’s it?”

“It’s been a year or so since I’ve seen him. But you cops, you always disappear for a while. Never want to stay in one place too long.” She ran a hand across Tom’s chest and Tom grinned down at her. “But you cops never change.”

Tom snagged her hand. “Are we gonna talk about Jim all night?”

“Let’s dance.”

Simone took his hand and pulled him out to the dance floor, cuddling up close. Tom looked down on her, but all he could think about was Jim. Maybe he hadn’t changed all that much, maybe he just wasn’t comfortable around him and Marty yet—or maybe just not that comfortable being blind, always trying to compensate. Tom never really thought about Jim being blind anymore. Thinking of it now, how difficult it might be for him, thinking about whether or not Jim was the same guy he used to be—Tom shook his head to clear it, pushing the thoughts aside. Jim was Jim.

And Jim was usually right about most things. Tom felt he shouldn’t be there on that dance floor with some girl wrapped around him that wasn’t Nikki. Damn Jim, Tom would have to take it up with him the next day. He didn’t need a conscience outside the one he already had. But the damage was done. After that dance, he’d go home. But for the moment, he held Simone close.

[greenbeing]

Chapter Eight

“Jim? Everything okay?”

Fisk’s voice sounded far away.

Jim knew he was dreaming, but to have the lieutenant make an appearance? That had never happened before. He never dreamt about the people he worked with now. He wasn’t sure if that was because he hadn’t spent much time with them yet, or because he’d never seen them. He liked dreaming in pictures. He didn’t even mind dreaming about mundane things, like sitting on the couch and watching TV.

“Jim?”

Jim tried to roll over, then realized he was sitting up, his head back, partially slumped in a chair. His work chair, that’s what it felt like. Which would explain why Fisk was there.

“Hey, Dunbar!”

Jim’s eyes flew open. He was definitely in the squad. It smelled like the squad, like stale coffee, cleaning fluids, and the odd perp. He sat up quickly, almost bolting out of his chair, and sat on the very edge of the seat. He wasn’t sure which direction the voice had come from, so he just faced forward. “Yeah?” he asked, like he was back in the military at attention.

“You sleep here?” Fisk asked.

Jim turned his head to the left. “Nah. No, I… got here early. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Looks to me like you were doing a pretty good job.”

Jim tried to smile.

“Your wife didn’t throw you out, did she? ‘Cause if she did, you should get a hotel room. More comfortable. I want you alert, not walking in front of a cab.”

“No, she didn’t. It’s okay.” Jim turned away. “A small fight last night, but—” he frowned a second— “should blow over by tonight.” He gave a dismissive wave with his hand.

Fisk was silent a second. “I’m not going to find out you murdered your wife, am I?” he asked quietly.

Jim looked over at him, bewildered, then remembered the wounds on his hands from his boxing bout. He grinned at the boss. “If I ever do, I’ll let you know first so it doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass.”

“You’ve been telling me a lot of stuff lately that’s liable to do that.”

Jim held up his hands. “I was letting off steam at the punching bags. I let off a little too much.”

“You’re sure everything’s okay?”

“I spent all night thinking and I was at fault. The guy’s always wrong, right?” Jim smiled up at the lieutenant.

“If he wants to stay married, he is.” The phone rang in Fisk’s office and he hurried away to answer it.

Even though he knew deep down that it was his fault, that what he’d told Fisk was true: if he apologized, it would all blow over: even deeper down a little spark of anger was boiling, growing, surprising him by its presence. Really, why should he apologize? It had been her fault as much as his own. Jim opened the top of his laptop, the anger niggling in the pit of his stomach.


* * *


“Well?” Fisk called from his office, sounding impatient.

Jim and Hank followed Tom into the lieutenant’s office. Fisk had sent them immediately down to the morgue that morning to meet a woman named Melanie Bartlett. Fisk rushed out from the early morning phone call that had interrupted his and Jim’s conversation, agitated and impatient. As soon as Tom had walked in the door, Jim and Tom been deployed with instructions not to come back until they had pertinent information that would finally move the case along.

“We’ve all been waiting,” Fisk said.

Jim could hear the other two detectives waiting as patiently as Fisk was. He nodded at the lieutenant. “She was positive,” he said. “DOA’s her son, Glenn Bartlett.” Jim was still trying to fit the new information into his head, work it in with what little he knew about the first DOA in the ‘Owls’ shirt, found with a non-fatal gunshot wound and possible poison in his system. It was a relief to finally have him ID’d, to be able to get down and research a real person with a past and find friends who might have known him. Then again—

“How’d we find her?” Marty asked.

Marty was on top of things as usual. That little tidbit of information had been plaguing Jim the whole time they’d interviewed Mrs. Bartlett. “We didn’t. She found us. Anonymous tip.”

“So who knows more than we do?”

Jim shook his head. “I dunno. We need to find out.” Someone had to have known where the kid was, that he was dead. Someone had to have known who the kid was and where to contact his family. There was a good chance the only person who would know all that information was the DOA’s killer. That meaning, there was a very good chance Mrs. Bartlett had personally talked to the killer, but she hadn’t been able to tell them anything useful.

“She thought it was just a prank—didn’t even know her son was missing, so she called up his work,” Tom said, explaining the story they’d gotten from Mrs. Bartlett only minutes before. “Found out he hadn’t worked there in a year, just stopped showing up one day.” Tom paused dramatically, stretching the time before he would get to the real kicker.

“Tom, there’s a reason you’re my partner,” Marty said plaintively.

“Oh?”

“’Cause you enjoy the suspense too much. If I’d gone with you, I’d already know everything and you wouldn’t be standing there, dragging it out.”

Tom laughed gleefully. “So she ID’d the body. Definitely her son, who she hadn’t known was missing—”

“Tom,” Marty growled.

Jim smiled and picked up the story. “They’re not from New York. Story is he came up here for work a few years ago and was staying with his cousin—Samantha Whittleton.”


* * *


“You okay, Jim?”

Jim’s head snapped up. He hadn’t even heard Marty walk up. “Yeah, no problem.”

“It was just a different look on your face.”

Jim frowned, thinking. “Nope.”

“Not related to the case?”

“Nah. I do have a life outside the squad, you know.”

“Ah, problems at home. She still pissed about her birthday?”

“I dunno.” Jim bit his lip. He had to look away to the other side of the squad, remembering the night before. It wasn’t like things like that had never happened before, it’s just that he never was able to handle them very well. It made him feel clumsy and awkward, less in control of himself and his environment. Most of the times Christie didn’t even know about things he spilled or ran into; he’d get them cleaned up before she came home.

It was the worst when she was in the room watching. He could just feel the horror in her gaze sometimes, thinking things would never get back to normal. And they wouldn’t. Jim liked to think he’d accepted that, but obviously he hadn’t, or he’d have just gone with the flow last night, explained to Christie that these things happened—

When she’d yelled at him, asked him if he’d noticed—

Then she’d probably looked over at him and seen that difference in him that only she would know about. Looked into his eyes, not looking at whatever they were supposed to be looking at.

It probably killed her to see that.

She wasn’t married to the same man by a long shot. So why’d she stay?

Pity, that was the only thing Jim could think of. Because she’d look over at him and see that little difference and she’d think, no matter what had happened between them, if she ever left, he’d be all alone in the dark. He shook his head a little, it was such a shallow statement to encompass everything that had happened between them.

But still, as much as he told himself he didn’t care if she left, told himself he didn’t love her anymore, might be easier on them both to be alone, easier on him to not worry constantly about what she thought, he wasn’t going to ask her to leave. He was comfortable with her. He really didn’t relish the idea of suddenly being a bachelor, having people thinking he needed a woman to take care of him and complete him. Again, shallow.

“That bad, huh?” Marty asked.

“Marty, some things aren’t any of your business,” Jim said.

“I know. I just thought, since I’m married…”

“Yeah, but you’re not married to my wife.”

“Well, if you ever want to run something by us, I’m married and Tom’s an idiot—roll us together and we’re probably pretty qualified to comment on your life.”

“Excuse me?” Tom asked, walking up from the men’s room.

“And Karen’s a girl—you got an inside track on the enemy right there.”

“Hey,” Tom said, “women aren’t enemies. They’re beautiful, fragile, interesting creatures that make the world a better place. The more of them on the planet, the better.”

“Like I said, an idiot.”


* * *


Jim had spent most of his lunch hour thinking about Marty’s comment. He had been an idiot, Marty’d sure nailed that one. Christie and he just had so little time to spend together; out of sight, out of mind, so to speak. They just spent so much time living their own lives, they’d never even tried to connect; they’d never had to.

He spent the rest of lunch, tired and having barely eaten, just wiped from the mostly sleepless night, wondering if he and Christie could learn to connect, and if they would have married now, had they just met each other. He and Christie had a difficult relationship. Why was it up to him to always be wrong? Why did Christie always get her questions answered? Wasn’t he allowed to have questions of his own?

Yeah, so he was a jerk. He’d screwed around, lied a lot. He’d been wrong.

But there were reasons he’d strayed. Christie wasn’t the blameless saint. She couldn’t just expect him to always answer for his actions and never answer for her own.

It was small things with Christie that used to drive him crazy. She could think she wasn’t enough for him, but it hadn’t been that. More like she’d been too much for him to handle. Like a sports car and he was the inexperienced driver. But that made her sound too exquisite—she had her foibles. Those little quirks that drive people crazy and make them trade up for a different model.

They hadn’t been ready to marry, had known each other less than a year. She didn’t like the dangerous parts of his job, the anger that often simmered just beneath his surface. He didn’t like how she was pretentious, everything always so organized and pristine—he wondered briefly if the nail polish had actually come off of the floor. She’d always been a spoiled brat, had to have things her way. Made him talk when he didn’t want to. How was he supposed to protect her emotionally from things he knew she couldn’t handle if she kept asking him to tell her about them? He didn’t tell her about certain cases because if she knew everything that went on crime-wise in this city, she’d never leave the apartment. He hated the people she wanted to be friends with. He hated the way she dressed him up and took him out on parade, her arm tightly wrapped through his, dragging him around.

He stewed.

There were more things that bothered him now, relative to his blindness. Her gasping horror at little things, always trying to compromise his independence by helping. The way she’d put away most of her breakables and tried to help him around the apartment when he got back from rehab, just to make sure he didn’t break anything. The way she questioned his ability to go back to work. How she questioned others when he told her they treated him normally. The way, at dance class, when he’d tripped and fallen, how she’d cried out and rushed to his side like he was a child.

And always those interminable parties. Before and since.

“Jim, are you ready?” Christie’d asked impatiently.

He’d only walked in the door minutes before, wiped from a long day and a tough case. He wanted a beer, wanted to relax. But Christie was always on 24 hours a day, ready to go, ready to make contacts and charm everyone.

“Almost.”

“Jim, come on!” She tossed his coat at him and he snatched it out of the air.

He looked her up and down as she stood in the doorway of the bedroom, all made up, tight skirt, low-cut red blouse, high heels, lipstick, perfect hair falling over her shoulders, hands on her hips, lips set in a line, eyes narrowed, chin tilted up.

“I just got home. Give me a second.” He crossed over to her with a smile, his jacket over one arm. He reached out, ran a finger down her cheek, and leaned in for a kiss, but she pushed him back, averting her lips.

“We have to go.” She took his jacket, spun him, helped him into it, straightened his collar.

Jim sighed. “Can we come home early? I had a long day today and it’s going to be long tomorrow, too.”

“I don’t know how long we’ll be. This dinner is important for my career.”

They always were. Every dinner that popped up was of the utmost importance and it was always impossible for her to miss a second of it. They were always early and stayed pretty late. Jim followed her dutifully, drove to the hotel the dinner was at, escorted her to the banquet room. He helped her out of her coat and checked their jackets, returning to her side to find her no longer scowling. She smiled brightly and waved at someone, slid her arm through his and led him across the room.

“Lila! How good to see you!” she said.

“Ah, Christine, darling.” Lila, perfectly coiffed, a woman of sixty with hair colored and treated to show no gray, turned to Jim, spangles on her dress glittering in the overhead lights. “And your handsome husband.” She held out her hand, palm down. Jim grasped it awkwardly, never sure how to take that kind of handshake. He was probably supposed to kiss it, but he’d reserve that for the Pope or the Queen of England. Normal people didn’t need that sort of old-fashioned chivalry. His lips were for his wife. “What was your name again?” She glanced at her hand and laughed at his hold.

“Jim,” Christie supplied.

Jim smiled dumbly, wishing he were anywhere else.

“Yes,” Lila said. “The detective.” She batted her eyelashes.

Jim kept his expression placid, let his gaze wander up as if someone had just caught his eye. “Darling, isn’t that…?” he asked, pointing, releasing Lila’s hand. “We should go say hello.” He smiled at Lila, declined his head in a polite nod, took Christie’s arm and propelled her into the crowd.

“Jim.” Christie wriggled in his grasp. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. Lila’s an important client and—”

“And I always get an earful on the way home about what a bitch she is,” Jim said quietly, leaning down to her ear so no one else could overhear or even see his lips.

She sighed. “She’ll just find us later.” She patted his arm and changed direction. “Come on.”

She introduced him around all night, making sure everyone knew what a perfect man she’d married, quiet, respectable, handsome, like a show pony.

Occasionally she would leave him in the capable hands of one social psychopath or other, leave him to suck up for her, to mingle on his own. He would excuse himself and eventually find himself joking with a few other husbands in a corner about what a sh*tty party it was, making fun of everyone there.

Sometimes he would turn to find Christie, scan the crowd until he found her hair falling over her shoulders, her most prominent feature, the best way to find her, and she’d be laughing, rubbing her hand down the arm of some handsome guy, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. His stomach would turn, but he’d let her be. It was just business, she’d told him the first time he’d made a fuss.

But if he’d ever found himself laughing with a woman alone, a second later her hand would be on his arm, around his waist, giving a squeeze, laying her head on his shoulder, sizing up the woman to make sure there was no threat.

Inevitably, she would always complain the whole way home about the people she was forced to work with. Jim always asked why she didn’t drop the act and just tell them what she really felt.

“I’m too refined for that. This is part of my job.”

He always dropped it, never consciously connecting it to how pretentious she was, just like all these people he was paraded around party after party. He was sure they all went back home and complained about Christie and him, but he never brought it up. She seemed so sure her façade couldn’t be seen through.

And really, she was good at what she did, networking, sucking up. So sweet. Beautiful didn’t hurt. She played a lot off that feature.

Then there was Clay’s party. She’d left him by that wall with a beer and excused herself. Teased him for checking his watch. Yeah, that was the Christie he knew. Instead of leading him around …

He wondered what would have happened later if he’d reigned his impulses, bucked up his patience, hadn’t spilled his beer: dinner, dessert, smiling pleasantly at anyone who felt sorry enough for him to come up and ask how he was doing. Christie didn’t want to explain that he was blind, or that he’d gone back to work as a detective. Neither were things she could be really proud of. It wouldn’t go so well with her image.

He’d gotten sick and tired of it all before the shooting. That’s why he’d started looking. Inexcusable, stupid reasons, but he’d felt better flirting with other women than asking Christie to change.

But now? Now he wanted answers from her. Why should she be the only one allowed to question him? If Christie thought she was the same woman from before, he wanted her to finally answer a few questions, see if he was also the same man from before when it came to her. He needed to make sure he was never going to feel the need to seek solace in the arms of someone like Simone again.

Jim fought a yawn as Hank led him back into the squad. He’d pretty much decided he and Christie never would have married now—he couldn’t see her and she’d mostly been attracted to the tough cop side of him.

“Hey, Dunbar,” Sonny greeted him.

Jim frowned. “Get out of my chair, Sonny.”

Sonny stood up. “I don’t know how you do it—”

“Don’t finish that thought.”

“You’re sure bossy today.”

“Did you bring me good news?” Jim asked. He let Hank go.

He took a deep breath and cleared his thoughts of Christie. He wouldn’t think about her again until he got home, when he could do something besides brood. Jim was back in cop mode. He’d always prided himself on his ability to keep different aspects of his life separate.

“I can’t talk at your desk,” Sonny said, suddenly sounding nervous, like he was looking around.

“But you can sit at it?”

“I was looking for the Dunbar family photograph.”

“Come on.” Jim crooked his finger and led the way to an interview room. “You can talk in here, right?” Sonny was always careful not to be seen giving away criminal secrets to cops; he would have ruined his career as a professional snitch.

“I don’t know… Last time I was in here, you tried to strangle me.”

“Start talking, or I’ll do it again. What have you got on Pipsqueak?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Spill.” Jim pulled out a chair and sat, waiting, but prepared for the worst. The way this case was going, he wasn’t overly hopeful that Sonny’d be able to find anything useful.

“I started asking around at all my usual places, my usual sources, I got nothing. So, playing a hunch maybe he dealt in weapons, I asked about that. ‘I’m looking to buy an AK-47, I heard I need to talk to Pipsqueak,’ you know. Nothing. So I switched up, started asking about buying drugs. Finally found this old guy in a dive, took me aside, told me he didn’t know where I got my information, but I got it mixed up. Pipsqueak don’t sell drugs to you unless you’re suicidal and he warned me to stop asking questions. So I stopped.”

Jim bit his lip, mulling that over in his mind. “…unless you’re suicidal.” “What if you are suicidal?”

“I’m not, so don’t ask me. I’m not going back. I value my life—don’t laugh.”

Jim wiped the smile off his face to humor Sonny, then headed back to his desk with the information on the only guy Sonny’d found who’d even heard of Pipsqueak—not even a name, just a location and a description. He’d roll it over with the other detectives, see what they thought about casing the joint and trying to find the guy.


* * *

[greenbeing]

* * *


“Let’s run it by Jim,” Tom was saying as Jim walked back to his desk late that afternoon.

“No,” Marty said emphatically. “I’m sick of “running things by Jim” first. We don’t need his help.” Marty sounded angry, bitter.

“Run what by me?” Jim couldn’t help asking. According to his and Marty’s agreement, he should have just let it go and backed off, but if he could help…

“No,” Marty snapped.

“Why not?” Jim sat carefully, confused. He and Marty’d actually been getting along, he thought. He’d been wrong about people before, but… this was different. He’d just talked to Marty and there’d been nothing wrong then.

“Because I’m sick of watching you take things we’ve been working on for hours and you work it in that steel trap of a head for five minutes and you got it.”

“Marty—”

“Marty, I’m gonna run it anyway,” Tom interrupted.

Marty grunted.

Tom came over and sat on the corner of Karen’s desk. Jim sat back to listen.

“So these two suspects walk into a bar. They’re sitting at the counter, drinking some cheap beer, ragging on each other. One of ‘em says, “If I got in my car in Des Moines and drove at 93 mph, and you got in your car in Florida and drove at 50 mph, which one of us is the old granny?””

Jim stared at Tom blankly. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.

Marty just sat back and laughed.

“You’re no fun, Jim,” Tom said.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Marty said.

“You had me going there for a second. I thought it was actually about the case.”

“Yeah, right. You don’t need to make me feel better.”

Fisk walked up, followed by Karen. “Give me a rundown. What’s going on?”

“One DOA down, one to go,” Tom said. “Samantha Whittleton, DOA like her cousin. No criminal record. I notified her family to contact us, but haven’t heard back yet. Mrs. Bartlett said she’d try to get a hold of her sister, but they had a falling out a couple years ago and don’t really talk. All she knew for sure was Samantha had left home when she turned 18.”

“I got her high school transcripts,” Karen said. “I’ve been looking into who her friends were when she left home ‘cause I can’t find she had any friends in New York.”

“I’ve been looking into Glenn Bartlett,” Marty said. “Also no criminal record. Medical records have him with a history of depression, which his mom confirmed. She said Samantha had always been the wild child of the family, but didn’t think she had a history of drug use. She’s getting us all the information she can think of, addresses, friends, family. I faxed Samantha’s regular doctor for her records, but I haven’t got them yet.”

There was a pause.

“Jim?” Fisk prompted.

“Pipsqueak. Seems like he deals in homemade poisons. I’ve been calling all the local chemists and drug suppliers, looking into private purchases, but unless ME can isolate any of the chemicals, it’s going to be hard to narrow it down. The other scenarios are he’s buying black market, or just stealing the chemicals, which would make it untraceable.”

“Jim and I are trying to work up a way to contact the guy Sonny talked to. If we can get him in here on charges, he’ll be more likely to talk,” Marty said.

“We’re gonna set Sonny up as a stakeout tonight. He’ll call me if he sees the guy, but he’s going to keep his distance,” Jim added.

“I’m gonna stay a little late here. Just in case.”

“If he calls, Marty will go down, they’ll take a picture of the guy with the telephoto lens, run his photo, see who comes up, try to come up with a name, ask around a little—”

“And I’m sure we’ll find something on him. Get him in custody within a couple days. Question him, see what he knows. I’ll let Jim do that part, since I get to do the fun stuff.”

“And if the guy doesn’t show tonight, Sonny’s gonna keep an eye out. And he’s asking around about anyone who does a business in poison, going at Pipsqueak from the opposite end.”

“Do we know,” Fisk asked, “who notified Mrs. Bartlett yet?”

“Payphone,” Tom said. “Whoever it was used a payphone.”

“Did the Whittleton girl have a job?”

“She worked at Bloomingdale’s for a grand total of two weeks,” Tom said. “Cosmetics section.”

“I talked to her boss and a couple old co-workers who were still around,” Karen said. “They thought she was pleasant enough, but she never got personal with them. When she found out she was pregnant, she quit. They didn’t know who the father was. They’d never even heard of Rico Artez.”

“Samantha and Artez knew each other at least a few years, right?” Jim asked.

“Seems like it.”

“So when did she get this Bloomingdale’s job?”

“About three years ago.”

“Clem’s only, what six months? Maybe a year?”

Karen made an uncertain noise. “So she had another kid before?”

“You wanna go talk to DeLana?” Jim asked.

Karen groaned. “That girl’s the Fort Knox of secrets. But I’ll keep her busy while you wheedle the information out of her kids.”

The phone in Fisk’s office rang and he grabbed the extension on Tom’s desk. “Hold off on that,” he said when he hung up. “The brother’s down in the Tombs freaking out. He had another seizure and when he woke up…”

“Karen?” Jim asked and stood.

“I don’t know how comforting we’ll be to him, but okay.”

Jim headed for the elevator. “We’ll be gentle.”

He took Karen’s arm and followed her down to the cell Artez was being kept in. He was in such a state they didn’t want to bring him out to an interview room. Jim heard sobbing and yelling, several officers yelling back.

“Hey!” Karen said. “We’ll take care of this.”

“We brought the doctor down, but I ain’t opening that cell ‘til he calms down,” an officer said.

Jim let go of Karen’s arm and touched the bars to his right. “Artez!” He thought of yelling at him to pull himself together, but figured that wouldn’t go over so well. “Your sister’s still safe. We talked to her this morning on the phone.”

“Don’t go down there!” Artez sobbed. “They’ll follow you.”

“It was a phone call,” Karen said.

“She was fine, so are the kids. And here you are. Can you calm down and talk to us or are you going to make us restrain you?”

“Don’t go down there! Promise,” Artez whispered.

“I promise,” Jim said calmly.

“Never trust a cop.”

Jim leaned forward. “You gotta talk to us. We won’t go down to talk to her, we’ll just keep it to the phone.”

Artez was on the floor. Still crying, but calming down.

“We know a lot more about Samantha now, but you gotta come clean with us. Help us out.”

“No!”

“Hey! Artez! Don’t you want us to help?”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“We have a tranquilizer ready,” the doctor whispered.

“No!” Artez yelled, rearing back, pushing himself across the cell on the floor.

Jim held out a hand behind him to stop the doctor. “He’ll be fine. Right? You’ll calm down? So they don’t have to give you a tranquilizer? You’ll let them examine you, make sure you’re okay?”

“I’m never going to see my sister again, so what do I gotta live for? They don’t need to make sure I’m okay. It’s all my fault in the first place.”

“Why?” Karen asked.

Artez was crying quietly. “Samantha,” he groaned.

“You wanna tell us how you met Samantha?” Jim asked.

“Is Clem okay?”

“Doing fine.”

“Does he miss his daddy?” He made a strangled noise and cut off.

Karen gasped and snatched Jim’s arm, pulling him out of the way as the doctor rushed forward. The cell was opened and the body held down as it shook.

“I’m going to sedate him so I can examine him more thoroughly,” the doctor said. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

Jim hooked his hand around Karen’s arm and sighed.


* * *


“Karen, what are you doing?” Marty asked.

Jim looked over. He didn’t often hear Marty sound surprised.

“I have a date,” Karen mumbled.

“So you’re running him for priors?”

Jim laughed loudly, surprising even himself.

“Jim, shut up.”

Jim grinned. “You want me to call the FBI?”

“I already did.” She sounded a little embarrassed.

“That’s illegal, right?” Marty said.

“I made up a very plausible story,” Karen said.

“Let’s run Tom’s girlfriend next,” Jim suggested.

“How about that floozy from the other night, too?” Marty asked.

“Are you—” Karen sputtered. “Are you guys picking up girls at the bar?”

“Chicks, Karen,” Tom said, coming up. “At a bar, they’re chicks.”

“But these guys are married!” She made a gesture, probably encompassing him and Marty, Jim thought.

“Don’t worry, they’re just picking up chicks for me.” Tom leaned over Karen’s desk.

“Nice,” Karen said.

“Who are we running?” Tom asked. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Keep your eyes on your own computer. The whole world doesn’t need to know.”

“Karen has a date,” Jim said proudly. He felt both good for her, and good to be in on the joke. He hoped it worked out for her, but in the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to rib her a little about it.

“Jim!”

“She’s running him for priors?” Tom asked.

“Karen, that look of spite—you got a thing for Dunbar?” Marty asked.

“Not particularly,” she spat.

“Ouch, sorry, Jim,” Marty said.

“Most women don’t like me much, Marty. I’m used to it.”

Fisk walked out of his office and headed their way. “Who are we running?”


* * *


Jim followed Karen to the locker room. She’d been snippy when she told him goodnight. “Karen?” Jim asked.

“What?”

“I’m sorry about telling Tom about your date.”

“I can take a little teasing, Jim. I’m not gonna break.”

Jim stayed by the door. Karen hadn’t moved from her locker.

“Marty told me about the girl you guys picked up the other night,” she said disapprovingly.

“Marty gossips a lot, doesn’t he?”

“I thought you’d know better, Jim. By now, wouldn’t you?” She slammed her locker.

“Karen.” Jim moved into the room, headed for her locker, but she intercepted him. “I didn’t—”

“You kissed her.”

“She kissed me. There’s a difference.”

“Big difference.”

“Intent is a big difference. I made her stop!”

“You expect me to believe you? I could ask Anne. We’ll find out what she thinks.”

“Karen, honest.”

“Was Anne really the only one?”

“Yes!” Jim turned away. “Just what did Russo tell you? ‘Cause I made her stop. She went off with Tom.”

“Really?”

“Yes! Ask them. I’m not gonna lie to you.”

“Jim…” Karen said more calmly. “I’m your partner now and I’d hope you wouldn’t lie to me. I just want to make sure you don’t screw up. ‘Cause you know, cops can really mess up their lives doing that.”

Jim nodded. Carl Desmond’s death was still fresh in their minds. “I know. I almost did once. I swear I won’t do it again.”

Karen smiled. “I’m keeping an eye on you anyway. I have to report back to Anne, you know.”

Jim groaned. “Can we set her up with that Nick guy you were seeing? She’d have a field day with him; make me look like a saint.”

“He’s in jail.”

Jim grimaced. “Sorry.”

“But the guy I’m going out with this weekend looked clean. Here’s hoping.”

“We good?”

“Yeah.”


* * *


He’d thought Tom and Karen had already left. Marty was still in the squad room. Someone else was in the locker room and, though Jim couldn’t pin down why exactly, it just didn’t sound like that person belonged. He could ask ‘hello’ like a blind man, but that would be like showing his cards, and he wanted to have the upper hand. A control freak, like he’d told Marty and Tom in the bar. He stood listening a second to footsteps moving slowly. He moved himself to the far side of the lockers, then waited for the steps to turn the corner. “Can I help you?” he asked, looking as closely at the other person as possible. He’d whipped off his sunglasses as soon as he heard the footsteps, so he kept his gaze as piercing as possible.

“I was just looking for your boss. Brian Mulhaney.”

Jim turned quickly before the guy could offer his hand. “Come with me.”

“I was sent over from my squad for some information on a witness in one of our cases.”

Jim stopped in the hallway and they faced each other. “The boss is gone for the day,” Jim said. His internal lie detector was going off, telling him not to trust this guy. “What’s your name again?”

“Mulhaney. You wanna see my badge?” There was a snarky, superior tone in his voice, a hint of sarcasm, almost like he was toying with Jim, thought it would be fun to torment him, like pulling the wings off a butterfly. Malice.

Jim shook his head. The guy obviously had noticed he was blind, so Jim dropped the charade.

“And you’re…?”

“Jim Dunbar. You wanna see my badge?”

“Oh, you’re Dunbar? I heard you interviewed this girl I’m looking for. Maybe you can help me out?”

“What girl are you looking for? I interview a lot of people everyday.”

“You want me to describe her?” Mulhaney asked with a tone bridging on the absurd.

“How else am I gonna know who you mean? You just wanna look at my files on everyone I’ve interviewed this week?”

“If it’ll be easier.” His voice had a hopeful, almost excited tinge.

“What’s her name, this girl, and why are you looking for her?”

“We have reason to believe she witnessed a murder in our precinct. Name she goes by’s DeLana Artez.”

Jim waited.

“Real name’s Laine Campbell. You remember her?”

Jim frowned, pretending to think. “Can’t say I do.”

“You mind if I go through those files you were talking about?”

“Why don’t you come back tomorrow—they’re all in Braille, I’d have to read them to you.”

“Oh. Ah, yeah, tomorrow. Sure.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. I’d just hoped the files would be more readily available. Hoped to get a jump on things.”

Jim shrugged widely. “Sorry, what you see is what you get. Come back tomorrow, I’ll hook you up.” Jim held his hand out. “Nice meeting you.”

Mulhaney shook, then headed for the elevator.

Jim hurried to his desk.

“Who was that?” Marty asked.

“Take a good look,” Jim said quietly.

“I don’t recognize him. Should I?”

Jim slid into his chair, trying to look like he wasn’t talking to Marty, in case Mulhaney turned around. “Remember that face, okay?”

Marty kept quiet. The elevator doors dinged.

Jim sighed. He cracked his neck and tried to unbunch his muscles.

“You mind explaining?”

Jim put in his earpiece and started loading a file. “I can’t explain it. This guy’s snooping around, obviously he got lost. I’m pretty sure he’s not who he says he is. And he’s looking for our witness.”

“Who’s he say he is?”

Jim was already typing the name into his computer. “Brian Mulhaney,” he said slowly as he typed it out. He hit enter and waited for the computer to tell him what he already suspected. It was loading slowly, so he turned back to Marty. “I met this kid once, back when he was in training, so I think I’d even recognize his voice. If I remember right, he was on the job about two days, but he couldn’t cut it. Rob Mulhaney’s only son. You know Rob?”

“Vaguely.”

“Brian was assigned to my old precinct.”

“But he only lasted two days?”

The computer started spitting out information and Jim held up a finger for Marty to wait. When the file was done he nodded to himself and threw the earpiece on the desk.

“Bad news?” Marty asked.

“After he left the squad, he disappeared. I don’t think he was officially on a case when he disappeared, maybe unofficially… Rob kept it real quiet. If I remember right, they found his body a year ago in a creek upstate. Kid died, but they kept it real hush-hush, no obituary, no funeral. Cremated. All the file could tell me was he was a cop for two days and he disappeared, whereabouts unknown. What do you bet they never recovered his badge?”

“Are you sure it was the kid they found, and this wasn’t Mulhaney?”

“I don’t even think this guy was a cop.”

“You mind explaining that one?”

“Marty, the only cop I know who makes fun of me for being blind is you. True?”

“True. Everyone else can’t get past the whole bank thing and stop calling you hero long enough to see you as you really are.”

Jim leaned forward on his desk, resting his chin on his hands. “Rob told me about his kid himself. I was still in the hospital, all these well-wishers coming by, driving me crazy: good job, you’ll be fine. Rob came in. He sat down, didn’t say anything. Just sat there.

“Finally he said, “Jimmy, you were a good detective, sorry ‘bout what happened, we’ll miss you, but at least we didn’t have to pull your body out of a stream.””

That had been when Jim had decided to try to come back on the job. He still hadn’t been able to walk down the hall on his own, wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to, but he wasn’t dead, that much he knew. As long as he was still alive, he’d be a detective. He had been a good detective, and he would be as long as possible.

“He started talking to me, since I couldn’t interfere—they were keeping it all under wraps. And to see what I thought. They’d run DNA and everything, ‘cause the body’d been decomposing in a creek for a month. Not a pretty sight.

“Rob said Brian had met this group of people the summer before, disappeared for a while. Rob just thought they were all out partying. Then Brian showed up one day, suddenly wanting to follow in the old man’s footsteps. Rob was kinda proud, thought Brian was ready to turn his life around.

“The case is still open on his disappearance, and I’d guess they’re still investigating—pretty sure it’s a murder. Rob thought it had something to do with those new friends.”

Jim sighed and leaned back, spinning his chair a little and staring at the ceiling.

“Go home. You look like you need some sleep.”

“What I need is to figure out who this guy—”

“I’ll look through a few mug books for you.”

Jim clenched his jaw.

“Don’t tell me you want to do that, too. Jim, you can’t—”

“I know.” He gripped the armrests of his chair. It was killing him that he’d had a conversation with this guy but had to rely on Marty’s eyes.

“I was going to say you can’t save the world. One cop doesn’t interview everyone, do all the footwork, research, and make the arrests, right?”

Jim smiled. “Right.”

“Get some sleep. And apologize to your wife while you’re at it.”

Jim grimaced. That’s not what he’d spent the whole day thinking about, apologizing. Apologizing wasn’t even on his list at the moment. “Marty—”

“None of my business.”

Jim shut his laptop and stood up. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”


* * *

[greenbeing]

* * *


“Jim?”

He turned away. He didn’t want her to look him in the eye.

“What? I was just going to ask what you wanted for dinner.”

“Are we okay?”

“I don’t know.”

He nodded. “We’ve both been pretty busy lately. Everything’s been so hectic.”

“Mhmm.”

Jim leaned against the pillar in the living room. “About last night…” The whole way home, he’d been thinking, stewing, needed her to understand where he was coming from. Almost like when Marty had confronted him about always trying to be the best, he felt like that around Christie. He’d been wrong when he told Fisk it would all blow over. If he bowed out, yeah, it would blow over for a while, but there was no way he could keep his feelings at bay. Maybe she’d had her answers last night, but he hadn’t.

“It’s not always about you being blind, Jim.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t care how many messes you make. You could have let me help, but I understand why you didn’t.”

Jim sighed. “When you married me, I bet you had no idea one day I was going to be blind.” He was tired. Tired and he really didn’t want to talk about the night before. He had things he wanted to know, like where he stood with her before apologizing. Maybe all their discretions weren’t pardonable after all.

“How could I?”

“How do you deal with it?” He’d heard enough people ask her that, but she’d always shushed them, he’d never heard her answer, but now he wanted to know.

Christie was quiet. “I guess it would be easier to answer that if I knew,” she said. “You don’t talk to me—”

“I never have. How do you feel? How do you deal with it?”

“You don’t let me help.”

“I don’t want help. And usually I don’t need it.”

“You don’t make it very easy for me to understand, to know what I should do.”

It was always back on him. Always his fault.

“I just want things to be the way they were before,” Jim said.

“How can I argue with that?” Christie asked.

“Do you want to?”

She paused. “I don’t want everything the way it was before.”

“Okay, what I want is for you to treat me the same way as before. Can we forget everything and go back to the beginning? I’m still the asshole you married, right?”

“That doesn’t say much for me, does it?” she asked with a grimace in her voice.

“So maybe I became one later.”

“Timing is everything.”

“When I fall down, why do you have to rush to my side?” That had been bugging him for so long. Why didn’t Christie just stand up for him? “You can’t help. Why don’t you just stand there and tell people I’m okay?”

“Wouldn’t that seem heartless?”

Aren’t you? he wanted to ask. “I was never good enough for you, Christie. Was I? You knew that. You were always out of my league. Why did you marry me?”

“Jim…”

It was Jim, not Jimmy. His pet name was gone. He couldn’t confront Christie and expect answers. He should have known that just by looking at the divorce rates in the US. He didn’t stand a chance. He turned away.

“I married you because I loved you. You’ve been making it pretty hard to do that for a long time now. And it has nothing to do with you being blind.”

“What if I wasn’t?” he speculated. So many things would be different if he hadn’t lost his sight, if he’d come out of the shooting with just a small scar on his temple and a few nightmares. If he’d only almost died, but hadn’t had to take a year to re-evaluate his life, to struggle to do everything that had always come naturally for him.

In his mind he could see Christie standing behind him, hugging herself, alone. She looked vulnerable for a second and he had to fight the urge to go to her and comfort her. Christie was usually so strong, such an individual, but there were those moments when she softened, when she worried what people thought of her. As he stood there with his back to her he looked closer, past the tears that had gathered in her eyes. Her lips weren’t pressed together, her chin wasn’t trembling, her nose wasn’t turning red. She wasn’t scared or sad or hurt. Her blouse, light blue to match her eyes, wasn’t wrinkled, and her skirt, dark wool that went just below her knees for a very professional look, it was still neatly pressed. She sat in her office all day, talking on the phone, writing at her computer, taking lunch with the rich and famous and beguiling them with her smile.

She’d almost left him so many times. She always seemed delighted to get him out into her world with her people, show how civilized he was. She took such pleasure in things like trapping him into those dance lessons.

He was tired of doing her favors. She could take one look at him at the end of the day, his suit mussed and wrinkled, his tie undone, often with splatters of blood and a five o’clock shadow, and she’d know she’d failed to curb his natural habits. That had to be killing her.

“Tell me. Why’d you marry me?”

“Do you have to ask? I fell in love with you.”

“Did you fall in love with all the parts you’ve been trying to change for five years?”

“I wouldn’t try to change—”

“You do. All the time.” He ran both hands through his hair and fell onto the couch.

“You’re tired.”

“Yes! I’m tired. And all day, I’ve kept thinking, what does Christie really think?” He turned his head up toward her. “Well?”

She didn’t say anything.

“You feel sorry for me? You want to help me?”

“I want to help. That doesn’t have anything to do with feeling sorry for you.”

“You can’t help.”

“You’re going to do it all on your own, right? Like you’ve always done everything.”

“Is that so bad? That’s who I am, Christie.”

“I think you should sleep before you say anything else, Jim.”

He stood up. “I can’t. Dr. Galloway rescheduled me. I have to be there in an hour.”

“And what are you going to tell him? About us?”

“That my wife couldn’t tell me what she thought of me, how’s that?”

“I think,” she said, “that you need to stop pushing me away.”

Jim grabbed Hank’s harness and called the dog over. “I didn’t say, tell me what to do. I said, tell me what you think.”

“You’re not the same man.” Her voice trembled.

“That’s bad.”

“Some of it’s good.” She sighed. “And sometimes I just don’t know you anymore. Last night, right now.”

“I’m not very good about talking about my feelings.”

“Do you yell at Dr. Galloway?” she asked quietly.

Jim frowned, thinking. “Yeah.”

“Tell me, right now, what you think about us.”

“I think… I never knew who you were.”

“Do you know now?”

“No.”

“And yourself? What do you think about yourself?”

“That I’m trying my hardest. At everything.”

“You want me to cut you some slack, is that it?”

“I just want everything to be—”

“Yeah, well, it can’t. Get over it.”



* * *


He guessed he just wasn’t a sentimental guy. Thinking back to when he first met Christie, he didn’t get all nostalgic and think, boy if things were still like that. Or, wasn’t that a great time? Or boy, I sure liked Christie.

“Doc, is it possible to have never loved someone you thought you did?”

“How do you mean?”

“Like, when you look back at someone you’ve known for years, and you realize that, even though you thought you loved them, you can’t find anything good to look back at?”

“Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”

“Maybe.”

“There had to be something, right? Or else why would you have married her?”

Jim smiled a little. Galloway wouldn’t be fooled just because he didn’t mention Christie’s name. He thought back over their relationship again. “There were all these parties she used to drag me to. I hated it.”

“But you went for her?”

“Yeah.”

“And now you resent her for that? Because you didn’t want to do it and you think you wasted all that time you could have been doing something else?”

Jim grimaced.

“That’s normal. But those are tainted memories. That doesn’t mean you never loved her. You just need to dig a little deeper.”

Jim smiled. “I thought couples’ therapy wasn’t your specialty, but you sound pretty knowledgeable to me.”

“I’ve been doing a little reading. I figured you’d bring up your wife once in a while.”

“Thanks.”

“I still recommend you talk to someone else, though. With your wife. It might help. Jim, you’re outgrowing me. You seem to be getting everything back on track at work, you’re getting along with the other detectives, the biggest problem you have right now is that you won’t talk to your wife. I can’t force you to talk to her, but I highly suggest it.”

Jim turned to stare at the wall. Galloway let him think.


* * *


Christie was in bed when Jim got home. He fell on the couch, fully clothed, his arm slung over his eyes, and slept.