“We, Jamie, what we did,” I say, trying to search his eyes. I force myself not to blink.
In my ears, screaming is loud. “Reese said STOP, motherfucker!” Eighteen- year-old Jamie, slammed a lamp across my mother’s boyfriend’s head. Blood trickled in his pale- green eyes. He fell to the ground, never to get back up again.
I lick my lips. Voice dry, it’s hard for me to speak. “Jamie, we’re in this together…”
It hurts my heart that Jamie would even consider the notion that I might tell Evan something so gruesome. We murdered a man and dragged his body into a major gang infested territory. No matter how trusting Evan seems, and, man, did he honestly compel me that one night while we meandered during the Downtown Art Walk, this secret isn’t mine to tell.
16
Evan
Two weeks ago is the last time I laid eyes on Reese. The office is swamped with paperwork, which the captain has threatened to cut off extremities if not completed. We aren’t to eat, sleep or breathe prior to the completion of this investigation. Once a month, a cold case is assigned to each unit, those too, have been placed on the backburner in order to give rest to the families of our fallen comrades.
The 8 by 11 photos of The Jackals head honchos have been replaced with a post-mortem snapshot of Jackals prospect Derek Cooper and the Russian with golden-white hair, now deceased John Doe. The Russians have taken precedence, there will be no finding Riker and bashing his teeth in, at least I hope he forces my hand when I catch up with him.
“Any more leads?” Just the thought of hearing any variation of that question shakes my head as I conclude the debriefing. A sea of eyes is looking to me for an answer, and Captain Raynor is leaning against one of the desks, arms folded, ready to tear myself and Tyrone a new one if we’re not able solve this puzzle soon. It’s not the first time Los Angelenos doubted their own, but people are expecting CSI television results where the case is solved in 60 minutes—including commercials.
I finish up the pep talk and step out of the room just as Raynor stands to take over. I head straight toward the locker room. My hands slam against the door and it revolves. Inside, the room is empty since those who aren’t on the beat were just looking to me to be a savior.
The perimeter is surrounded with red lockers, benches parallel from them, and a passageway leads to the shower room.
Like a restless, caged animal I stalk back and forth in the center of the locker room, fists slicing through the air so quickly. SWOOSH. SWOOSH… Swoosh. It’s not enough to cease my racing mind, with the muddled thoughts of my fallen comrades. One of the rookies was a single-father, his parents are now caregivers of his three-year-old daughter.
BLAM! My fist hits the tin locker door. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! The other rookie was a newlywed. Though patrolmen went to give her the news, I still recall her crying at her husband’s funeral. Almost five hundred police cars escorted the fallen officer to the memorial service. Law enforcement from neighboring areas, to include police departments from around the states and the country, sent officers as a show of solidarity and support. The widow’s ear-shattering crying pierced throughout the entire procession.
I pull my tie away from my Adam’s apple. Not one second later, am I punching the locker again.
“I need a fucking drink,” I say to myself, sinking onto the bench before me. The skin on my knuckles is scraped and bloody. “Fuck a drink…” I laugh, and grab my cell phone from my pocket.
I scroll through my contacts for Reese’s number, though I know it by heart in a world where nobody knows any fuckin’ body’s number, I know hers. Pressing the button, I recollect on her last text to me.
It was the very night those Russians ambushed our investigation. She had to be scared. As the call connects, the widow’s unremitting crying echoes in my ears.
But I need Reese. I fell in love with her the night before everything went to shit. She'd cried and I fell. I wanted to say the words but I'm sure she felt them. It’s all been too soon so I hadn’t the slightest idea of how to address them with her.
This shootout off Wilshire and Fairfax made her skittish. Reese started talking that "stepbrother, stepsister" bullshit. But it’s not too late. There’s no such thing as too late, when it comes to the way I feel about her.
“Evan…” her voice is a mixture of questioning and longing. “How are you?”
“Could be better.” I take a deep breath. “And you’re busy baking a thousand cakes.”
“Spring was last week, wedding season is among us. I told Tony there were three hundred, and joked that it might as well be a thousand, but I’m in my element and can handle anything. I’m wearing my Captain America apron, so… So… Hey, you’re keeping tabs on me?” She seems to be smiling from ear to ear.
“Best I can under the circumstances. But I need to see you this evening.” I glare at my knuckles, selfishly placing my desire over her safety and her heart…
The happiness caves for a reluctant quietness. In her silence, the widow’s crying gets louder. What the fuck am I doing? We have no future. I could’ve been the one buried six feet under…
“Evan, I… I’m working on those wedding cakes,” she murmurs.
“So, no tonight, then?”
“Tonight won’t work,” she sighs. “My day started before dawn, and I...”
I help Reese out in the excuse department by finishing her sentence, “And you're busy?” I let my long legs lean out, and cross my legs at the ankles.
I could try harder to persuade Reese to my way of thinking but I've got shit to do too.
“Tony's having the family get-together
