Faith and Fidelity (2 page)

This seemed to placate his daughter enough. She laid her head down on Miranda's shoulder and closed her eyes. Evan caught his eldest child's eyes in the rearview mirror. They shared a weary moment then Miranda rested her heavy eyes as well.

Then Evan was alone with his grief.

Matt Haight sat in his car, watching the entrance of the Stag Bar with butterflies in his stomach. Come to think of it, more like a hornet with an Uzi. He could smell all the cops in there from across the street; inside, in that sea of blue, was the place he wanted to be most, and least, in the world. Only Abe Klein's retirement party could bring him to the city, into a room full of detectives and beat cops, reminding Matt over and over of what his life no longer was.

It'd been a long time since he'd hung with cops from Manhattan. Staten Island might well be a leper colony (and he the head leper?) because no one wanted to be there, and no one wanted to admit knowing Matt Haight. Then again, he hadn't been a cop for almost a year so, basically, no one gave a shit in triplicate.

Jesus H. Christ but did he need a drink.

With shakier hands than he would ever admit to, Matt swung his tall, muscled form out of the sedan— he supposed it was some sort of psychological thing that he still drove a detective's car, still dressed like he was on the force. He just couldn't seem to give up the illusion of his former life. They called him Lieutenant Matt at the security firm he worked for, and with a smile that was forced and false, he would laugh at the joke and walk away. He'd gotten very, very good at walking away— a hard lesson learned for Matty but he figured at forty-fucking-two years old, he might as well start acting like an adult.

Or so he liked to tell himself right before he got falling down drunk.

Suddenly, he was inside the bar, taking automatic inventory of the wood paneling, boxing memorabilia, and TVs at either end of the bar playing baseball games— gee, Anybar NYC. Boy, did this place look familiar.

A quick scan told him that he didn't know anyone milling around the main room; he could hear the roars of laughter and raucous buzz of conversation from the back. At some point he'd have to go find Abe in that sea of familiar faces and give him his most sincere congratulations, but first Matt moved to the bar, checked the Yankee score, and waited for the bartender to catch notice of him. He knew there would be whispering and he didn't want to hear it. So he'd wait until he was just a little bit drunk.

The door behind him opened and he turned to see if it was someone he knew. Vic Fucking Wolkowski! A big smile crossed Matt's face.

“Hey Vic!”

The bald captain was taking off his jacket and turned to face the voice. “Matty! What the hell are you doing here?”

It wasn't meant to be a slight but it hurt anyway.

“Couldn't miss Abe's sendoff.” The two men shook hands heartily.

“You look good, Matty. They tell me you left the force.”

“Yeah, yeah. Time to move on.” He shrugged, pretending it was no big deal. Vic kindly played along. “I got a decent job, working for a corporate security firm. We analyze security for businesses, protect head honchos from disgruntled employees. That sort of shit.”

“Good cash?”

Matt laughed. “I'm doing okay.” I can afford to eat my dinner every night in the shit hole pub down the street from my one room apartment. I'm doing great, he thought.

“So let me ask you something. You think that highfalutin firm'd have something for me?”

“You thinking about retiring, Vic?”

“Might be nice. I get awfully tired these days. Vice can really be a black hole.”

Matt nodded. He'd never done any time in Vice but remembered his own dealings in Homicide, working in conjunction with the other department. You would never imagine there were some things worse than death, but there were.

“Hey, meet some detectives from my unit.” For the first time, Matt realized there were people standing a few feet away, waiting for Vic. A man and a woman.
Jesus
, thought Matt,
how did I miss her? Must be slipping in my old age
. He flashed a ten-thousand-watt smile in her direction.

“Helena Abbot, Evan Cerelli, meet Matt Haight. He used to partner with Abe back in Homicide.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Matt said with a squeeze to Helena's hand.

She smiled back. Ho-ly Cow. Gorgeous smile. Violet eyes. Short, glossy black hair that looked more Fifth Avenue professional than Vice cop. He shook the guy's hand— Elvis?— and immediately turned his attention back to Helena.

He never got past opening his mouth. Helena moved past him and signaled the bartender.

“Evan, Captain, Matt, right? What do you guys want?”

“Club soda.”

“Same.”

“Aw c'mon, Evan, not even a beer?”

“Peer pressure notwithstanding, Helena, just club soda,” he said.

“Uh, I'll take a beer,” Matt piped up, resisting the urge to sniff himself or check his teeth for a plank of wood stuck in between the front two.

“Tap or bottle?”

“Tap's fine,” Matt said, unable to come up with anything witty.

Her smile felt warm but her eyes indicated her mind was elsewhere. Matt wasn't getting any beeps on the interest meter. Uh... ouch.

The drinks came and Helena played hostess. Her main focus seemed to be Evan. She kept touching his arm and shining her bright smile in his direction. The conversation was light and full of Vic catching Matt up on old acquaintances, peppered with a few “remember that time” stories thrown in. He listened with half an ear— Helena was a distraction. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what she seemed to see in her partner. This guy was no player, that was for damn sure, and seemed on the stiff side. He obviously didn't know how to respond to Helena's flirting.

Vic excused himself when he saw a friend enter the bar, leaving Matt to officially become The Third Wheel.

Fuck. Maybe it was time to find Abe.

“Hey, I'm gonna check out the party in the back room. You guys coming?” He sounded idiotic. It felt like high school.

Helena smiled at him. “Thanks— we'll be in soon.”

Thank you. I'm dismissed
, thought Matt. He picked up his beer— and the dark cloud over his head— and walked into the back room.

About seventy-five of Abe's closest friends were toasting his health and, apparently, the size of his penis. Classy crowd. God, but he missed them. Matt scanned the crowd and spotted his old friend chatting with a few suits in the corner. Trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, Matt moved across the room.

He had almost made it when a hand snaked out of the crowd and grabbed his arm. “Matt Haight!” a voice bellowed. Matt turned and looked down into the red and bloated face of Rick Hanlon, a former Academy classmate. Last he'd heard, Rick was on the fast track to being a captain. If he didn't drink himself to death first.

Oh great
, thought Matt,
exactly who I want to see right now.

“Matty, baby! How the fuck are you? Jesus, they let you off foot patrol for this!” The Rick clones sitting around his table laughed obediently. “What are you doing on the big island?”

Matt flashed his most charming smile and counted backward from ten. “Hey, Rick. No, no foot patrol for me. I'm outta the blue uniform these days. Working private security— ”

Rick cut him off. “Security guard— niiice. Do ya have a spiffy outfit?” More inane laughter.

“Yeah, whatever. See ya, Rick.” Matt turned on his heel, heading blindly out the way he came. Jesus fucking Christ. How did he think this was a good idea?

He could feel all the eyes burning into his back. He felt like “America's Most Wanted.” Brothers in blue— what a crock of shit. Brothers until you turned one of them in for being no better than the people they arrested. Brothers who had your back, your life in their hands, until you decided that the truth mattered more than their crap codes. Then all bets were apparently off.

The anger and frustration washed over him like a wave.

This is where he always got himself in trouble, and he was determined to keep a lid on it. He'd paid the ultimate price— his career— for the temporary gratification of letting the anger escape in one punch.

Never again.

Matt stopped, took a deep breath, and found himself back at the bar. He signaled the bartender, got his prompt attention by waving a twenty, and ordered another beer. Turning his head he saw that the Vice detectives had moved to a table in the corner. Wolkowski was gone— probably in the main room— but an attractive woman had joined Helena and Evan. Jeeze, didn't any ugly girls work at Vice? He considered going over to say hello but thought again. Did he want to be ignored by two women?

Without anything else to do— well, besides the obvious option of getting drunk— a tired and resigned Matt watched the three detectives at the corner table, still trying to figure out what this Evan guy had going to make two such hot women fawn over him.

But when Matt took a closer look, he realized that the detective barely reacted to their teasing. He smiled automatically but kept looking into the distance, as if engaged in an entirely different scene playing out in his head. After a few moments, Matt watched as he excused himself and got up, grabbing a cell phone from his coat pocket as he walked outside. When Matt looked back toward the table, he saw the two women frowning, whispering.

Something screwy going on in Vice.
Wow, what a brilliant detective you were, Matt. Stunning they let you get away.

The door opened again and Evan returned, followed by another man. Round and balding, in a cheap suit, looked ten years older than he actually was— definitely a cop. There was general chatting as Evan grabbed another chair to add to the table and a friendly wave of conversation filled the air.

Evan settled down, glad to have Moses there to soak up some of the attention from his fellow detectives. Ducking out of the conversation mentally, he looked up to see Matt Haight watching the table with a hangdog expression on his face. Evan gave him a smile. He felt a little bad about what happened earlier at the bar. He could see Matt was interested in Helena and she hadn't seemed to notice.

He knew why; he was there and Helena was sweetly transparent. She'd been working so hard at keeping an eye on him over the past year that their once equal relationship had become more of a nurse/patient one. Every morning she brought him breakfast and watched him eat it. Every afternoon she nagged him about lunch. She told jokes and kept herself so perkily “up” that sometimes he worried she was going to hurt herself. Before they took leave of each other at night, she'd remind him about his dinner. The woman was obsessed with his eating habits. Sometimes she'd call him at home over the weekend, just to chat, pretending she needed his expert help on something.

Evan missed just being Helena's friend and partner.

Evan knew the story of Matt Haight. After a year of spending time in the “Vic Wolkowski's Widower/Divorced Guy Outreach Program” (as fellow participant Moses had christened it), he'd gotten the dirt. Matt Haight's legendary temper, his pissing off the wrong politicians with his also legendary opinions, and having his career offered up as a sacrificial lamb when he'd stumbled on a string of dirty cops while investigating a junkie's murder. Bringing down a corrupt but well-liked cop to put a “solved” sticker on the case of a dead heroin dealer didn't exactly get you a ticker tape parade. NYC homicide detective to Staten Island beat cop, a hell of a fall from grace. It was probably a cop's worst nightmare outside of death or injury. Or maybe not. Death most likely meant honor. What happened to Haight stained a man, inside and out, forever.

He motioned for him to join them at the table. Haight hesitated so he waved at him again. The former cop made like he was going to refuse but Evan could see the loneliness in his face. After a small pause, the tall man got off his bar stool and headed over.

“Hi, Matt. Come and join us?” Evan said politely.

Everyone at the table looked up expectantly. Helena seemed to realize her faux pas before at the bar because she started nodding enthusiastically.

“I didn't see you over there or I would have waved you over myself!”

Matt smiled wanly and pulled a chair over. They all scooted over until the chairs fit.

“Matt Haight, Kalee Jensen and Jonah Moses, Vice.” Handshakes and nods all around.

Kalee flashed a flirty smile in Matt's direction and he gave her one in return before she launched into a rant against the Public Defender who'd cross-examined her at a trial the previous day. Things quickly turned into a “you think that's bad?” contest, with even Matt joining in to tell a few stories of his own. Helena signaled the bartender to keep the pitchers of beer coming as this was obviously warming up into something big.

After a while the conversation degraded into Kalee and Moses getting into a fake fight over which was a tougher department— Vice or Narcotics, where Moses had spent most of his career. It slid dangerously close to a Mighty Mouse vs. Superman sort of thing and everyone else just sat back and watched the two go at it. Evan spared a glance across the table at Matt, who hadn't said a word in quite some time. His rugged face reflected a weary acceptance of life that Evan recognized quite easily— he'd spent nearly a full year avoiding it in his own mirror.

Missing Sherri had turned out to be a full-time job. Add in raising his kids and working at Vice and he had simply given up a few things to get by. Like sleeping. Like eating (except when Helena or Miranda were around and forced him to sit down and swallow some food). Like conscious thought outside of what automatically needed to be done. This zombie-like existence seemed to be working fine. His work hadn't suffered— concentrating on the pain and misery of others proved to be a helpful distraction from his own looming grief. No one was really the wiser. They knew he was sad, figured that he was lonely.

But they didn't realize he'd become, for all intents and purposes, removed from life. He felt love for his children and friends, but it pretty much ended there. He couldn't feel what they gave in return, didn't respond when Elizabeth threw her arms around his neck or Danny curled up next to him on the couch after dinner. Every time Helena touched him he'd have to stare at her hand, to make the connection between his arm and brain. He knew at some point he'd have to seek help— this couldn't go on because frankly sooner or later he was going to end up eating his gun. And he couldn't do that to his children.