TWO MONTHS LATER and still no clue as to the whereabouts of Simon Purcell, The Chatterbox Killer. He’s still in the news, but no longer front page. Occasionally in touch with the media, Simon teases them with the threat to kill again. Whores that they are, they swallow it hook-line. Simon wishes to keep his memory alive, but not at the expense of his freedom. He doesn’t want to be caught—not yet. Thankfully, he no longer contacts me.
While convalescing at home, I speak with my twin sister in LA. Angel warns me of the danger of addiction, her own personal history, our family history. Her business partner, Rosie, is a former executive assistant to a big-shot Hollywood producer.
“Rosie still has contacts in the movie business, Dex,” my sister says. “She could hook you up, if you’re interested.”
I’m not.
Two months after having my clavicle shattered by a bullet from The Chatterbox, I receive my shoulder replacement. The surgery proceeds as planned; long and painful, but I’ll survive.
Six to eight months therapy before I can return to active-duty. In the meantime, I stay in shape best I know how by loafing, binge-watching Netflix, and hanging out only occasionally with Gabby because Gabby has returned to work.
Celebrity is as fleeting as if we were contestants on Dancing With The Stars, which is okay by me.
Jimmy O’Neill has retired owing to the bad ticker, which surprises no one. Melissa moves to Borough Queens and, despite losing four fingers—or because of it—is promoted to Staff Sargent, where she excels. Malachi McGowan remains Chief of Ds but operates on borrowed time. Tommy Upton is working as a special liaison to the Mayor and the NYPD and is rumored in line to become the next PC.
By the end of November, craving a change in scenery and climate, I book a one bedroom condo for four months near the beach in Naples, Florida, planning to make the drive down—alone—by car.
Along the way I’ll stop a day and an overnight in Savannah, Georgia. Having never been, I’m told from people who have that it’s worth it. Maybe I’ll stay two days, walk as many Confederate graveyards as I can. Off the clock, I’m in no hurry to get anywhere. With my sick benefits and various other perks, I’m pulling in almost as much coin as I did while on active-duty.
December first, I pack the car. Light snow falls over the City though nothing that will slow my progress. Exiting Manhattan via The Lincoln Tunnel, I pick up I95 South at Secaucus. Savannah is a twelve hour drive in good traffic. I plan to take my time, stop for lunch along the way, arrive late to a motel I’ve booked in advance. It will give me all next day in Savannah to explore.
It’s odd to not have Gabby riding with me by my side. Dare I say I miss her? For eighteen months, we’ve spent almost every day in each other’s company. Until now, I had no sense how desperately I’ve come to rely on her companionship. For a crazy moment, I think the pain in my left side is my heart breaking.
Then no, it’s the implant. In the damp New York City winter air, the implant is killing me.