CHAPTER 36
Jake lived in a midcentury fixer-upper on the corner of South Main and Union, not far from the county jail and just a stone’s throw from Hawg & Dawg. Before I’d arrived, he’d run over for a couple orders of barbecue, coleslaw, and baked beans. I found a spot for Wilco in the family room, got him settled with a bowl of water and some kibble that I kept in a baggie in my pack. Then Jake and I fixed our own plates. We ate next to each other on his sofa, feet propped on the coffee table, a baseball game on television. Jake was a Yankees fan.
“I played two years in college. Tennessee Volunteers. Catcher. I had big dreams back then.”
I knew nothing about baseball. My people were into bare-knuckle boxing. Toe-to-toe, or strap fighting, an Irish Stand Down, whatever you called it, Pavee men fought raw and hard, smashed faces, broke teeth, and spewed blood. Baseball seemed like confessing a chocolate addiction to a heroin addict.
“Why law then?” I reached for a napkin. Wilco turned his head and watched my movement, saw none that indicated more food heading his way, and settled his head back down.
“That was Pop’s dream. He was a lawman. Wanted his boy to be like him, I guess.” Regret flashed over his features.
“You don’t like your career?”
“I do, but it wasn’t what I really wanted at the time. I . . .” He laughed. “I thought I wanted to coach kids. But my father was right. Law suits me. I’ve done okay for myself.”
Had he? Jake had complied with what his family expected. I had rebelled against what my family expected. Two different paths followed, yet we had ended up in the same place. Both drunks.
He continued, “Another five years and I’ll have the DA’s position. I’ll be fifty then. Not bad.”
Hard to believe he had fifteen years on me. I stole a look at his body: strong build, tight abs. . . . Still looking good for his age. Not bad at all. Really good. That was what came from working at a normal job, behind a desk, with a gym membership, instead of dodging bullets and baking in desert sun.
“How about you?” he asked.
I raised my gaze. “What about me?”
“You were an MP. Now a cop. Is that what you always wanted to do? Or did your parents influence you?”
I almost laughed. If only he knew. The only law Pavees adhered to was a sort of pseudo-moral code set forth by our ancestors, intertwined with our culture and religious beliefs, so intertwined, in fact, that it was difficult to discern tradition from the tenets of our faith. Even more so for those of us who attempted to live in both worlds. “No, I didn’t exactly plan for things to work out the way they did. The Marines was my way out of here. Then I got injured, and I . . . Well, police work is all I know.”
“What happened to you must’ve been horrible.”
“Yes.”
He moved in closer. Close enough for me to breathe in the scent of clean shampoo and smoky barbecue and feel his leg touching mine. Shivers ran through me. I took a deep breath and shifted away.
“What is it, Brynn?”
“There’s been so much, Jake.”
“Your friend Kevin Doogan?”
“Yeah.”
“He was more than a friend, wasn’t he?”
“You’ve been listening to rumors?”
He shrugged.
Of course he has. He’s pumping me for information. The chill of that fact should have shut down my thermostat completely—it cooled it a bit, but he still smelled too damned good. “We were friends at one time.” Tread carefully, Brynn. I couldn’t let my guard down. Jake was all friendly now, but if Harris got his way, he’d see to it that I was investigated for harboring a fugitive, or worse. Then the DA’s office—Jake’s office—would be coming after me. Jake could prosecute me. What a tangled web the cops and the DA’s office made: they cooperated to bring criminals to justice, but as soon as a cop messed up, the DA turned on him or her.
He shifted and opened a bit of space between us. Teasing me? That stupid, human, all–too-needy female in me wanted him to close the gap again. I resisted the urge. Resented the urge. Why had I really come here?
He continued, “Have they found his wife?”
“No.” I didn’t want to talk about this. Doogan and Katie, and Harris’s findings—they were too much. My anxiety kicked in again.
He sensed it and changed the topic. “You get a break in the case with that English teacher?”
“Mrs. Handie,” I said. Then we hashed back and forth over the details. Most he knew. Some I filled him in on: my interview with the conductor and the position of Zeke Farrell’s body on the tracks; Mrs. Handie’s English class; the crazy stuffed cat; and the conductor’s conversation with Zeke’s mother, Georgia Farrell. “We’re trying to locate their residence. Only four families with that name around here, but none of them are the right Farrells. We think Georgia probably lives somewhere in the hills, off-grid.”
“There’re a lot of those types around here.”
“You mean my type?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s fine. I get it. It’s hard to understand what we’re about.”
He shifted, and our legs touched again. Something squirmed low in my belly.
“Why’d you call today, Brynn?”
“I’ve had a lot of stress. The case, other things, you know. It’s been hard.”
“Are you using again?”
“Came close today. Didn’t.”
“I’m glad you called, then. That’s why we have sponsors. People you can call. It’s different for everyone. Slips, relapses . . .” He ran fingers through his hair. “Was it bad today? The need for a fix?”
“Yeah. Pretty bad.”
“Did you have access to something?”
“I can always get booze.” And I stole a few pills. Still have them, can get more if I need them.
“So what kept you straight today?”
“The case. I need to be sober. There’s a lot at stake. And . . . I keep thinking about that girl. Walker’s girlfriend, Nikki.”
“The prostitute?”
“Yeah. I can’t seem to shake her. She’s so messed up.”
“You think that could be you?”
“I’ve never gone that far for a fix, but—”
“She’s a prostitute, Brynn. You’re not like that.”
I looked at him and almost laughed. For all the talk in our group about how addiction hit any walk of life, I couldn’t believe he had just divided addicts into those “like that” and us.
“Yeah, she’s a prostitute. I’m a Pavee and a cop, and you’re a lawyer. You just don’t get it, do you? When it comes down to it, we’re all just addicts. Willing to destroy our self-esteem and worth and even lives for one more pill, drink, prick of the needle, whatever.” I stood. It’d been a long day already. The last thing I wanted was an argument. “I should go.”
Wilco came to my side. I reached down and buried my hand in his fur.
Jake reached out, pulled my hand to him, and tugged me gently back to the sofa. “Don’t go yet. Let’s talk more.” His hand covered mine; his fingers worked against mine, not urgent but ready.
He rested his other hand on my thigh, and heat shot through me, a familiar aching settled between my legs. Sex could easily become my new rush, my new release, my new drug. I had known Jake was interested, had sensed it. Maybe he needed it, too. Two addicts satisfying their mutual need for a substitute for their chemical addictions. It’d be good between us, easy, fun. But nothing more than a shallow physical release, and each fix a short-lived stopgap. Never a relationship, no intimate talk afterward, no real connection. Because he was a prosecutor and I’d committed prosecutable crimes, I could never pour out my soul to him. I couldn’t tell him about Dublin and the rape, Gran and what she’d done, my fears, my hopes, my desires....
I’d told Doogan all those things, trusted him with my heart and my body. And he’d betrayed me. Now he was dead. Gone. And I had no one.
Didn’t need anyone, actually. I shifted away and stood. “I’m going home.”
He rose from the sofa and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Are you sure you want to go?” His voice was soft, coaxing.
“I don’t want to do this, Jake. Not today.” Probably never.
He threw up his hands. “Yeah, right. You were the one who called me. But that’s fine. Go home.” His jaw tightened with anger.
“It’s been a long day, that’s all.”
He turned away, picked up the remote, and raised the volume on the game. I hovered, dismayed at his instant and silent dismissal. But what did I expect? One addict to another, we had needs and got pissed when they weren’t fulfilled.
I motioned for Wilco and headed home.