Kev and I sit at a corner table at Peekskill Brewery. During spring and summer this place is teeming with patrons anxious for their fill. But with the start of winter just around the corner, the crowd is sparse, making it a good place for us to grab a quick meal and catch up. In between bites of a burger, I pick at my sweet potato fries while Kennedy makes short work of his spicy buffalo chicken wings.
“So, Chief, how’s everything going at the DMC since my sudden and illustrious departure?” I say with a wry smile as I down a local brew.
Mouth stuffed with chicken meat, Kennedy spits the words out. “It’s a fuckin’ mess, Chris.”
“How so?” I ask, surprised.
“For starters, Kelly never even mentioned you leaving the force.” Kennedy finishes chewing and clears his throat. He raises a mammoth hand to his face and pours down the remnants of his beer. “Just waltzed in, anointed me Acting Chief, and took off. All the guys were looking at each other like ‘What the fuck?’”
I let out an involuntary laugh and shake my head. “Wish I could say I’m surprised, but we both know communication skills were never the commissioner’s strong suit.”
“Damn straight on that,” Kev grumbles. “Least he could have given me a heads up, so I didn’t look like a clueless moron.”
“Which, of course, you were at that point....” I say with a broad smile and a shrug of my shoulders.
Kev gives me a stone-cold, killer stare—then roars with laughter as he smacks my shoulder. “Why the hell should that day have been different than any other?”
“Why indeed?” I reply as I rub my shoulder and wonder if I’ll ever regain feeling in that arm.
Kev and I spend the next few minutes busting on each other. Epithets such as McMoron and Guinea Bastard fly back and forth, giving testament to just how mature and racially sensitive two grown men bonding over beers can be. Eventually, we corral our sideshow and get back on topic.
“Seriously, though, Chris,” Kennedy says with concern. “I’m in way over my head as chief.” Weariness, then playful optimism washes over Kev. “We sure as hell could use a chief with some medical know-how. It is the Division of Medical Crimes for Christ’s sake. Know anyone?”
An amused smile fills my face. “There is this one guy. Smart as a whip. But... not terribly reliable,” I laugh. “First, he bailed on a cush job as an NYC trauma surgeon, then he washed out of the detective biz after solving exactly one case.” I hold up my index finger. “One case! Pretty hopeless fuck-up, if you ask me.”
“Hmmm, sounds like our kinda guy. He’d fit right in with the DMC.”
I lean back and nod my head a few times, trying not to reflect on all that has gone wrong the last few weeks. “So... working any interesting cases these days?” I regret the words immediately.
Kev nods back as awkwardness fills the space between us. We’re no longer partners, no longer professional confidantes. Discussing an active investigation with me defies all police protocol.
We were never much on protocol.
“As a matter of fact, just caught a strange one earlier today....”
Kev fills me in on the details of the middle-aged, Russian piano teacher’s death. I nod as my mind churns through the details of the case. I would love to offer my friend guidance, but short of examining the body, it would be pointless speculation. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full, but McGowan ought to point you in the right direction.”
Kev nods his head. “As long as she waters it down,” he replies with a sarcastic smile, “and doesn’t go all doctorly on me.” Kev’s voice fills with caution and concern. “Say, what’s going on with your situation?”
I shake my head. “Still a mess. Had a full-blown attack on Christine’s birthday that scared the shit out of all of us, so back to Jacobs.”
“What’d he say? Can he help?”
I sip my beer and stare out the window. An old, green Cadillac pulls into the parking lot across the street. A rueful smile fills my face as a middle-aged, African-American couple and their kids spill out, hurrying into Home Style bakery for some decadence. I take a quick, involuntary breath, letting it out slowly as I turn back to Kennedy.
“Guess I’ll find out tomorrow; he’s got an experimental treatment lined up for me.”
Kennedy’s face scrunches up like a Shar-Pei. “What? Wait... tomorrow? You’re kidding, right?”
I wince, realizing I hurt him by not sharing sooner. “Uh, yeah. But it’s no big deal, just—”
“Experimental is never ‘no big deal,’ bud.” Kev takes on a pensive pose. “You should’ve told me soon—aw forget it. What time’s the treatment? I wanna be there.”
I start to object but Kennedy’s dark, brooding eyes bore through me. Different eyes, same disapproving look. Michelle’s look. I shake my head. Seeing her everywhere is both agonizing and comforting.
I smile back at my dear friend as I rise from my chair and throw thirty bucks on the table. “Ten a.m. at Washington General in the minor procedure area. Jacob’s office can fill you in on the details.” Kennedy rises. We look at each other, then shake hands and exchange an awkward hug.
As I head out to the car, thoughts of Michelle and the kids swirl around in my head. Fate has been beyond cruel to all of us. Cold air gusts off the Hudson, stinging my face as I climb into the Firebird. Sitting in the car, I stare into the dark, gloomy night and face the sobering truth Kennedy and I left unspoken—tomorrow will either put my life back on track or finish me off for good.