Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1) (23 page)

"I have to work tomorrow," she said, though it was the weekend.

He didn't answer.

Blinking, she swiped tears off her cheeks and turned for the back door to get Barney. She couldn't bear to discuss it now—not the alcohol and definitely not everything else.

As she touched the doorknob, Tony spoke. "I killed him."

In his voice, she heard the slightest lilt of her father's voice. A bit of slurred brogue that came out of Mick and Tony only when they drank. As though the genes they'd gotten from Pat had included some deep assimilation between alcohol and the accent. She thought momentarily of her father—where he was, when they'd last spoken, what he thought of her, what he'd ever thought of her. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall.

"I can't get it out of my head," he continued.

She stared into the dark, wishing she could go, escape. Instead, she turned around slowly, dragging out the time before she met his gaze.

When she did, it was like a physical blow.

His shoulders hunched, he gripped his hands together. A smear of blood—hers, she assumed—made a hash mark down his cheek, tears just beginning to blur it.

"That was the last thing dad said to me."

She moved toward him, and it was like walking through moving water, the sense of being dragged back by so many forces. "You didn't kill him."

Tony sank onto the couch, then slid onto the floor. "He said, 'I never thought it would be Mick. He was always the quick one, the bright one.'"

Jamie perched on the edge of the couch. "You didn't kill him," she said again, more emphatically.

"My own father," he said. The words were slurred in drunken anguish.

Jamie pressed her hand to her chest, searching for something to say. Christ, why was it so hard?

"He wanted it to be me."

She dropped to her knees. "No, he didn't."

"The hell he didn't. He told me. 'It should've been you, Tony. Mick was too good.'"

She turned back, anger rising. "Fuck him, then."

"Ha!" he shouted. "That's what I told him, the bastard. I said to hell with him."

"Good for you."

"Yeah, good for fucking me. He died, you know. He died the next week. I never talked to him after that. My last words to my own father were 'Go to hell.'" He choked back a sob.

Jamie sank to the floor beside him, rubbed her eyes. She reached out to touch his shoulder. Her hand was tentative as though expecting an electrical shock. It found the bony shoulder and she squeezed gently. "He was wrong, Tony."

Tony shook his head, dropped it to his knees.

"He was wrong to say that. He didn't mean it," she promised. "He was angry. Shit, we all say things we don't mean when we're angry."

"He meant it. He was calm when he said it, not angry. He was just disgusted that I was the one he was left with. So disgusted that he went and fucking died."

Jamie pressed her palm to the back of his neck, felt the moisture of his sweat. She laid her hand flat, felt his pulse, the rough edge of the wounds under her fingers. How long had it been since she'd touched another person? The tears fell harder. "They never got over Lana and Mom, you know. Neither of them ever did," she whispered. "They had a raw deal, those two—one shitty thing after another. We were just reminders of the women they'd lost."

"Like we had it so fucking easy."

Jamie thought back on her childhood. It hadn't been that bad. There were moments when it had seemed pretty great. She put her head on his shoulder, listened to the rhythm of his breath. The constant beating, the promise that things would continue. She savored it.

He sat up, leaned his head into hers. "God, haven't you got anything to drink?"

"I quit."

"That was a stupid idea."

"I was about to lose my job. It's no good, you know. We can't handle the booze. Dad and Pat never could either. It's lousy Irish luck." She lifted her head, looked at him. "You've got to quit it, Tony."

He pulled away.

"You can't do it anymore," she told him. "Trust me. It'll get easier."

"You're as self-righteous as the rest of them."

She frowned. "Damn it, Tony. I want to help, but you can't drink here. I can't do it—I'm not strong enough to hold us both up."

Tony pushed himself to his knees, stood unevenly. "Who asked you for help?"

Jamie didn't move, felt the anger burn her skin. "Isn't that why you're here? Because if you're not here for help, what do you want, Tony?"

"Nothing," he snapped then staggered several feet. "Shit, I don't want anything. God forbid I ask you for anything."

Jamie stood and moved around the table until she was standing inches from Tony's chest. "I'm trying." She shoved him back down.

He stumbled but didn't fall.

"It's not my fault things ended up the way they did," she shouted. "Mick's not my fault—your dad, our mothers, the past—none of it. I'm sorry life's been so fucking hard on you, Tony.

"It's been pretty shitty here, too," she went on, ignoring the way her voice cracked. "I'm sorry you lost your job, but did you ever stop to think that losing your job saved your damn life? You'd be dead now if you hadn't gotten drunk and kicked out of the department."

Tony turned from her. "Maybe I want to be dead."

"Fine," she roared, striking her finger out at him like a sword. "Then go kill yourself, but don't come to my house to do it. Don't go asking for my help. You want to do that, then you do it somewhere fucking else." Her throat went hoarse. She coughed.

"Jesus, you're a hard bitch."

"Yeah, well, life's made me hard."

He turned then, marched for the front door. He hadn't quite reached it when the doorbell rang.

As Tony pulled the door open, Jamie wondered what neighbors they'd awakened. Why wouldn't everyone just leave her the hell alone?

She turned for the stairs when Tony's voice stopped her.

"Oh, Christ," he cried. "Jamie, quick!"

Jamie came around the corner as Tony stood up and turned back to her. He stared at his hands. They were streaked in red—blood.

Jamie ran. He'd cut himself, but she couldn't see how. "What the hell happened?"

"He's hurt."

"Who?"

She passed Tony. Barney lay on his side on the doormat. She lifted his paw and saw his heaving chest. Blood caked one ear.

"Barney!" Jamie touched his matted coat, the blood dark against his brown fur. "Oh, my God. He's been cut. He's bleeding."

"He must've cut himself on the glass," Tony said.

Jamie shook her head, heart pounding. "Then who the hell rang the doorbell?"

Chapter 23

Jamie woke up to a phone ringing. She bolted upright. Tony. No, Tony was here. "Hello," she gasped.

The voice was breathless on the other end. "Wallace has been attacked."

"Wha—who?" She blinked, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Who the hell was Wallace?

"It's me, Hailey. Mackenzie Wallace—the rookie cop who found Devlin-she was attacked. I just found out from Linda James."

"Attacked. When?"

"Around eight last night. Near Irving and 10th." There was a pause and Jamie felt her pulse still. "He was brutal," Hailey added. Jamie pressed her fist to the hollow pit in her gut. "No one's gotten her report on it. She was unconscious when she came in. She only woke up about an hour ago."

This was her fault. Jesus Christ. First her dog then a rookie cop. She glanced at the bedside clock. Eight a.m. Sunday morning. She'd gotten to bed sometime after three. Barney was still at the vet hospital. Twenty-eight stitches as a result of a knife wound. Not a piece of broken glass on the porch. Someone had knifed her dog at her house. Already there had been another attack.

She threw the covers back, stood. "Where is she now?"

"She's at General. I'm going there. But, Jamie, I have to tell you something."

"What?"

Hailey didn't speak.

Jamie heard a door close with a click. "Hello."

"I'm here. I had to go into another room." Her voice was a whisper.

"What happened?"

"I was attacked."

Dread splashed hot in her gut. "What? When?"

"On Friday night," she whispered.

"Where? At home?"

Silence.

Jamie frowned. "Hailey, what the hell happened?"

Hailey sighed. "After we left the station, I was headed home. But I got a call."

"From—"

"A friend. He invited me over." She hesitated. "I went to his apartment."

Jamie nodded, thought about that night. "Daniels." It wasn't a question.

Hailey didn't respond.

Jamie knew she was right. "What time did you get there?"

"About nine fifteen. Listen, Jamie, this could ruin so much for both of us."

"I don't care about the affair, Hailey."

She heard Hailey's breath release in a long hiss. "I hate that word."

"Call it what you want." Tim. Devlin. Now Hailey. Christ, the world was full of cheaters. She forced it aside. "Tell me exactly what happened."

Hailey told Jamie about the attack. How she'd gotten out of her car, locked her gun in the glove box, put her purse strap across her chest, and walked up to the apartment. She hadn't noticed anyone. The street was quiet. It was always quiet, she said.

Jamie closed her eyes, pressed her fingers to the tiny crater at her temple. Pressed against the soft spot. The purse strap across Hailey's chest was a big mistake. Cops were supposed to know better. Straps, long ponytails, and hoods all made good things for an attacker to grab. Hailey described how he'd had her facedown, how he'd knocked her head into the floor, tightened the strap on her neck. She'd passed out once, maybe twice. Then she'd heard a voice above. Someone coming down the stairs. The attacker ran.

"Did you go after him?"

"I was half-conscious."

"Did anyone else go after him?"

"No. He—he was worried about me."

Jamie closed her eyes, searched for another clue. "Did the attacker speak? Say anything?"

"Nothing. I didn't get a look at him, and he didn't say a word. I don't even remember him breathing. I was alone one minute and the next he was there, strangling me."

Her voice caught. "It was clean, Jamie. I didn't get anything."

"Prints? I don't suppose you—"

"I didn't. I let the scene go."

"Shit."

A moment of silence passed before Hailey spoke. "I assumed it was random, but now, after Mackenzie, I don't think so."

Jamie thought about that night. They'd confronted Scanlan. He could have pulled something like that. But Hailey wasn't really at the forefront of that—Jamie was. Mackenzie had nothing to do with that night. Scanlan would have had no reason to target her. Then there was Marchek. Had she really seen him at Tommy's? Could he have followed Hailey to Daniels' apartment?

Mackenzie was badly beaten. That sounded like Marchek's work. Christ. She ran her hand through her hair. She'd never forgive herself if Mackenzie had been killed.

"I blame myself, Jamie. I should've spoken up."

"Don't."

Hailey stopped.

Jamie shook her head. "I thought I saw Marchek when we were at Tommy's. I'm not sure. It was a flash of something familiar, a sense."

"Oh God," Hailey uttered.

"I'm to blame as much as you." She paused. "More."

"We could do this all day. It won't help Mackenzie."

Jamie nodded. "Has anyone talked to her about what she saw?"

"Not yet."

Jamie heard someone in the background on Hailey's end.

"I need to go," she said quickly. "But I'm heading to the hospital soon. Will you come?"

"Yeah. I'll be there as soon as I can. It'll probably take me an hour."