The cabdriver hesitates when I climb into his backseat. Must be my outfit.
“Lake Shore and Goethe,” I tell him. He sizes me up in his rearview mirror. “I live there,” I assure him. He starts the meter. I guess he figures the fare is more important than the circumstances. If he only knew the circumstances.
I tolerate the ride, though the cabbie is heavy on the brakes. A couple of times I think my brain is going to come out of my head and join him in the front seat. I distract myself by watching the sun rise over the lake, becoming circular and solid as it distances itself from the warm colors on the horizon. How many cups of coffee had Fred and I shared at daybreak, mundanely patrolling the Drive during the sun’s daily climb? All the moments we overlooked seem so much more important without him.
I see my building in the distance. It’s a high rise with bad management and hardly any amenities. I can always find a parking spot, though, and I have a great lake view. I can see the Hancock and the Drake to the south, and on a good day, clear up to the Baha’i temple.
When we pull up to the rotunda, Omar perceptively intervenes to take care of the cab fare and me without so much as raising an eyebrow. He acts like half of the residents show up barefoot. In March.
I follow Omar inside. He’s a nice-looking man with chocolate skin and a vanilla smile. He is older than me by at least a decade and I know he’s seen it all with blind eyes. I’ve often wondered what he looks like out of uniform. What he does when he’s not opening doors.
He buzzes me in the front entrance, follows me to the elevator, and hands me an extra key. I’m thankful he’s the one on duty. He is definitely an amenity.
“You have a good one,” he says as the elevator door closes. He might just believe that’s possible.
I get into my place and examine my head in the mirror. I take off the bandage and count the stitches. I think there are nine. They look about as bad as they feel. I put the bandage back in place and try to fit my police cap over it. It’s swollen. I cringe from the pain. I throw the cap down. I will not cry.
I attempt to put on my uniform, a leftover shirt I only wear when I miss the dry cleaner’s drop-off hours. I can’t button the top button, it’s too constricting. It chokes me. My hands tingle as I undo the rest of the buttons and lean up against the mirror, dizzy from my own body heat. The logical side of my brain is telling me how stupid I am for doing this, but logic has never been one of my strengths.
I slump to the floor and try to focus. I can see straight. I can walk. I can function. I am still alive. And I have to find Marko Trovic. I just have to get up.
I hear sirens outside. The city wakes. Police are working. I should be working. I rebutton my shirt, zip up my pants, and automatically reach for my holster. Then I remember: It’s evidence. Just like my gun.
That’s when I totally lose it. My body involuntarily collapses, and I curl up in a ball on the floor, convulsing in sobs. What the hell am I thinking? Fred is dead because I wasn’t thinking. Fred is dead because I dropped my guard. I’m trying to get around it, but it’s my fault. Even if Trovic pulled the trigger, I am responsible. And I am the one who’s still here.
I have to figure out what happened. I run through the details of the night over and over in my mind, so many times they begin to seem like part of a movie. I’m talking to Fred. I sense danger. I turn and fire. I see Marko Trovic. He shoots at me. I feel the bullets. Fred ends up dead. What parts are real?
At some point while I’m trying to piece together the events, I realize that Mason is here. I’m disoriented; I feel like I’m waking from a dream that was just the same as this: I see Mason standing over me, taller than ever, his five-o’clock shadow grown through another shift, his steel eyes softened by concern.
I focus on the thick veins that run the length of his arms like electrical cords as he picks me up from the floor, steadying me. I feel small. I stand, though I don’t feel my legs. I’m lost; I don’t know how he knew I was here. I’m numb. I cannot wrap my mind around the idea that Fred is gone. This could still be a dream.
“Sam, are you okay?” Mason asks, and at the concrete sound of his voice, reality confronts me. There are clothes strewn all over the floor. I ripped everything blue from its hanger and didn’t even get dressed. The bed is unmade. The lightbulb in the closet burned out. The mail is unopened. I forgot to pay the cable bill. The place is a mess. And I thought I had everything under control.
I begin to sob again.
I fall into Mason’s arms and he holds me there and lets me cry, and I cry until it seems silly. Then I tell him, “Freddy’s dead,” and crying is the only thing that makes any sense.
Mason pulls me closer to him, forcing my runny nose into his shirt.
“Freddy’s dead,” I say again, like the repetition will make it seem real. It doesn’t.
Mason wipes my nose with his hand and kisses my wet mouth. It doesn’t bother him; my tears are his. He doesn’t speak, he just holds on to me, and the strength of his embrace stands the moment still. I lose my bearings again; this time I am grateful.
As he holds me I abruptly stop crying, like a child who suddenly realizes it’s no use. I feel that I am safe here, in his arms, in the silence, completely detached from the unfair world.
Until his radio intrudes with static reality. “2356, respond with location; over,” the dispatcher calls Mason.
Mason responds by turning off his radio. He did not come here to investigate. He kisses my forehead and leans against the wall so that I can settle into his chest. I lie in his lap, and he softly strokes my hair. As I drift in and out of consciousness, I tell myself that under the circumstances this is the best possible way Mason can keep the world at bay, for just a little longer.
I don’t know when I fell asleep. I remember Mason carrying me to bed. Sometime later, I hear him tell someone that he was in the neighborhood, so he stopped to check my place and found me. I hear him say I’m not in any condition to leave home. He says I need to sleep. I cling to the certainty of his voice and hope that he can make this mess bearable.
When it’s quiet for a while, I think he may be gone. Then I open my eyes and Mason is next to me, seated on the bed.
“You going to sleep forever?” he asks. I wonder how long he’s been here, watching me.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Eight forty-five. Thursday morning.”
“I slept through a whole day?”
“When you weren’t sleepwalking or speaking gibberish.”
“I feel fuzzy.”
“It’s the concussion. You were really out of it, so I called a nurse. She said to give you Tylenol with codeine before I left last night. I didn’t want you to make another escape.”
“Oh. The escape.” He’s probably not impressed.
“Sam,” he says, “the night nurse at Saint Vincent’s nearly had a heart attack when she couldn’t find you. She called 911. It went out over all the wires. MacInerny is pissed. He’s afraid it’ll get to the press. I bought you some time, told them I found you here, sleeping it off, but it’s been over twenty-four hours.”
I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that I’m not going to like what else he has to say.
“They want me to bring you in.”
Mason hands me a glass of water and two regular Tylenol. “This is what the nurse says to take from here on out. No aspirin, no alcohol.” I take them obediently. I feel dumb, but at least he’s the one who came to get me.
“I’ll get dressed,” I say.
I need to be tough. I clench my jaw as I pull a sweatshirt over my messed-up head. Mason tries to help me, but when he puts his hand on my bruised shoulder blade I flinch, because that’s exactly where Trovic made contact when he pushed me down.
Trovic.
“You said you talked to MacInerny,” I say to Mason as I pull on some jeans. “Did he tell you if they found Trovic?”
Mason has this way of looking at me that stops me in my tracks. This is not that look, but it stops me.
“What?” I ask.
“The word is out about your conversation with MacInerny. About Trovic. I’ve talked to just about everyone who was on scene. They tell me the only prints they’ve identified so far are yours and Fred’s. They haven’t found any other latents.”
“So what are they going out with?” I ask. “They can’t just give the press a dead cop with no leads.” I know what Mason is going to say but I don’t believe it, even when I hear it:
“They’re calling it an accident.”
They’re saying it was me. They’re not even going to look for Trovic.
“What about ballistics?” I ask.
“Haven’t come back yet,” he says. “The case isn’t closed. It’s just a press thing. You know how it goes. It’s best for the family, for the department, if we have an explanation—”
“There was a third fucking person! Marko Trovic—that’s your explanation!”
Mason studies me with patient eyes. I know he wants to believe me, but I don’t think he does. He gets up.
“I have to take you in,” he says. “You’ll talk to a lawyer, you’ll give a statement to civil liabilities—”
“How can you be so calm about this? Like it’s just some little problem, another little hang-up in your grand plan that never materializes? You probably want to take me in just to show everybody what a sleuth you are.”
“Don’t make me the enemy. Don’t make this about us.”
“People think I killed my partner, they think I imagined some killer, and you think I’m worried about us? Jesus, that’s rich.”
“Look, Sam, they know I’m here. They’re waiting for us. How’s it going to look if I don’t get you in there? We have to do this right. If they get the idea that you and I are involved—”
“You’re the one who’s afraid they’ll find out we’re fucking, not me.”
“I don’t know what happened the other night, Sam, but you have to follow the rules today if you want my help. If you want me to get on the case. If you want to come out of this with your badge.”
“Fuck my star. And you, if you think I did it.”
Instead of a deserved counterattack, Mason simply turns to leave.
I watch him walk down the hall and I know he won’t turn around. I just put a big, fat obstacle between us: my ego. And he won’t argue with that. He knows I’m stubborn, because I don’t want to depend on him or anybody.
But I can’t be stubborn. I need him right now.
“I’m sorry, Mason, you’re right . . .” I follow him down the hall into the living room despite the whopping dizziness I feel when I walk without his guidance. My head rush catches up with my feet and I’m about to lose my balance and fall on my face. I look for something to grab on to. The couch is too far away, so I lean on the wall for support. Still, an unbelievable pain envelops my head and brings me to my knees. I can’t call out to him because I’m afraid I’ll throw up if I so much as open my mouth, so I just shut my eyes and breathe.
Within seconds, Mason is back at my side.
“Oh, baby, oh, no. Are you okay?” He braces me, and his strong hands give me reason to fight the pain. I swallow and try to right myself.
“I’m sorry, Mason,” I finally say. “Take me in.”
“You shouldn’t get so worked up.”
“I know.” I turn my head and lean into his chest. I feel like a jerk.
“You want to go back to the hospital?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
I nod, though I’m not. My head is killing me. My arm is numb. But Fred is dead, and I need Mason to help me find out why.
“Will you help me?” I ask him, knowing the risk of using personal ties, especially those kept under wraps.
“You know I will,” he says. “You do what your Sarge says. I’ll see what I can find out about Trovic.”
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.” I want to be as brave as he is.
He helps me up and waits a moment to make sure I can handle standing. Then he walks me to the door and gets me a coat from the closet. A plain black wool coat, instead of the official blue one hanging next to it.
As he helps me with the coat, I ask,
“Mason?”
“Yeah.” He opens the door, and when I don’t go through it, he takes my hand.
“You love me?”
He leans over and he kisses me and he means it. “No. Not on purpose.”