“Christ,” Louis said under his breath, looking away.
They were silent, the laughter and music of the tavern floating around them.
“What else did he have to say?” Louis asked finally.
Bjork fiddled with the neck of the Stroh’s bottle.
“What else?” Louis pressed.
“He said he was concerned because you, quote, couldn’t find your ass with two hands, unquote.”
Louis felt the heat creeping into his face but he didn’t look away.
“Sounds like a hard-ass,” Bjork said.
Bjork reached across the table and touched his hand. Louis looked down at her hand. Her nails were short with chipped, rose-colored polish. There was one of those mother’s rings on her finger with three little gemstones. He withdrew his hand and dropped it in his lap.
Bjork sat back, looking at him. Then she quickly raised her bottle and drained it, setting it down loudly.
“Well, I need to call it a night. How about you? You okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Bjork stood up, looking down at him. Her eyes were watery in the neon light and he wanted to believe it was from the booze, no veteran-to-rookie sympathy. Or worse, some woman-to-man thing. Christ, he had started the night thinking about what Bjork might look like handcuffed to a bed and now she was looking at him like he was her kid.
“Lieutenant Byrd will have your evidence ready for you tomorrow morning,” she said. “Swing by and pick it up.”
Louis nodded.
Bjork hesitated then extended a hand. “It was a pleasure, Officer Kincaid.”
Louis took her hand. “Thanks, Bjork,” her said softly. “Thanks for everything.”
CHAPTER 22
No doubt about it. He was drunk.
On the drive home from Dollar Bay he had stopped off at the grocery to pick up a six-pack of Heineken. It had taken only two hours to go through that and then he had moved on to the Christian Brothers.
Now he was sprawled on the sofa, staring into the dying fire in the hearth. Something in his fogged brain was telling him to go outside and get more logs but he was too tired to move.
With a grunt, he turned and reached for the bottle on the floor. He brought it up to his eyes, squinting. Empty. He stood and stumbled to the kitchen, jerking open the cupboard. Empty. No booze, no food, no woman, and soon, probably no job. What a shitty week.
Going back to the sofa, he grabbed a hooded sweatshirt, jerked open the door and headed to the lake. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe to just cut a hole in the ice and jump in. Hell, they wouldn’t find him until spring unless, of course, he floated up under some kid’s ice skate like Lovejoy had. That would be just his luck.
He was halfway to the shoreline when it occurred to him that he could be a walking target for Duane Lacey’s rifle. At least he was too drunk to feel the bullet.
Leaning heavily against a tree he stared blankly out at the dark lake. He had to stop this. He had to stop drinking so much. An image flashed into his head, his mother’s sunken face, leathery against the white pillow of her deathbed. For the first time he was beginning to understand how people could drink themselves to death. He ran a shaky hand over his face. No, he was just, what? Stressed out? Under pressure? Shit, all cops drank too much, didn’t they? He wasn’t like her. He wasn’t going to die like she did, liver eaten away, alone and scared.
He looked up. The moon was a sliver scythe in the black sky. Louis squinted across the lake, trying to make out the specks of lights, wondering which one was Zoe’s cabin, thinking about Jay Gatsby. Gatsby, the stupid putz who stood around mooning out at Daisy’s dock.
“Kincaid,” he said, “how in the hell could you be so stupid about so much?”
He heard a noise and spun around, trying to focus on the cabin. He saw a car and wondered why he hadn’t heard it pull up. He let out a breath when he saw Jesse heading to the cabin’s porch. Fucking traitor.
Jesse knocked, waited, knocked again. He started back toward his truck.
“Hey!” Louis called.
Jesse turned and Louis stepped out of the shadows. Jesse trudged out to him. “What you doing out here?” he asked.
“Looking for UFOs,” Louis said.
Jesse looked up, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his parka. Louis watched him from the corner of his eye. He was wearing a turtleneck and jeans, and his hair blown down across his forehead. Out of uniform, he looked like a teenager.
“What are you doing here?” Louis said.
Jesse shrugged. “I just wanted to know how it went in Dollar Bay.”
Louis eyed him coldly. “You can read the report.”
Jesse’s sigh came out in a long white vapor. “Look, Louis, I came here…Shit, I guess I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?”
“The chief was kind of rough on you the other day.”
“Aw gee, thanks for your support,” Louis muttered, starting back to the cabin.
Jesse hesitated then followed. “Maybe I should have said something, Louis, but it’s hard with the chief, the way he is about things. I mean, it’s a small department and I — ”
“You left me hanging out there by my balls.”
“There was nothing I could do!”
“Bullshit.”
“What?” Jesse asked, throwing his arms up. “What was I supposed to do?”
Louis faced him. “You could’ve told me about the raid. You could have told me about those kids. You could’ve told me about their fucking
“I didn’t know he was out!”
“You should have! It was your job to know.”
Jesse spun away suddenly and started toward his Bronco. Then he stopped and turned, looking down at the snow. For several seconds he said nothing. “All right,” he said finally. “I should have known. I should have double- checked the fucking record.”
Louis shook his head in disgust. “Get out of here. I’m done listening to your bullshit excuses.”
Louis staggered past him to the porch. Jesse hesitated then caught up, grabbing Louis’s arm. Louis jerked away and pushed open the door. Inside, he kicked off his wet shoes and went to the sofa, dropping down onto it. He heard the door close and knew Jesse had followed him.
“Look,” Jesse said slowly, “I know I should have said something in your defense but if I had opened my mouth Gibralter would have canned me. And I couldn’t take it if I couldn’t be a cop anymore.”
Louis looked up at him. “What makes you think you ever were one?”
Jesse stared at him. “You know, I’ve had about enough of your shit,” he said.
“That makes two of us.”
“Come on, man! Cut me some slack!”
“You fucked up!”
“So did you!” Jesse yelled.
Louis closed his eyes. It was quiet. He heard a squeak of the floorboards and opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus on the bottle in front of his nose. His eyes went up to Jesse’s face above him.
He took the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from Jesse, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He grimaced and handed it back to Jesse. Jesse retreated three feet to perch cautiously on the arm of a chair. In the long silence, Louis felt the whiskey burn a path down his throat to his empty stomach. For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit. He opened his eyes to see Jesse holding out the bottle again. He waved it off.
