new job became a new failure. The names had changed, but the move hadn’t changed a thing.
Now, the brass at BCI wanted him gone, and at the age of forty-two, John was facing early retirement. Or maybe a security officer position at the local Kroger. But John wasn’t ready to call it quits. The sad truth was there wasn’t much out there for a former detective with a psych sheet, a reputation as a rogue cop, and the work record of a stoned college student. The grand jury in Cleveland might have returned a no bill, but the stigma would follow him the rest of his life.
Rummel gazed steadily at John. “Have you considered early retirement? Taking into account your service with the Cleveland Division of Police, we could wrangle you a deal.”
John knew he should jump at the opportunity. Shoot the horse and put it out of its misery. But God, he didn’t want to give up on his career. If he did that he might as well be dead. Even that option had crossed his mind a time or two, but he didn’t have the guts.
“What kind of deal?” he asked.
Rummel came forward in his chair, his rodent eyes gleaming. “In case you’re not reading between the lines here, John, this is not a request.”
“Take the deal,” McNinch said quietly.
“It’s more than fair,” Bogart put in. “Full bennies. Company car.”
John’s temper writhed. Contempt for these people was like a serpent beneath his skin, twisting, ready to slither out and strike. “Fair probably isn’t quite the right word, is it?”
“We know what you’ve been through,” Bogart soothed.
“I seriously doubt it.” John said the words through teeth clenched so tightly his jaws ached.
“We sympathize with your . . . situation.” This from Rummel.
John looked at him, wondering how many times the man had said those hollow words to other agents who’d lost partners or loved ones. Insincere son of a bitch; he was probably enjoying this. He envisioned himself lunging over the table, grabbing the other man’s collar and slamming his face into the rosewood surface until his nose was a bloody pulp. He could feel his pulse throbbing at his temples. The blood roaring in his ears.
Silently, he counted to ten, the way Doc Pop-a-pill had instructed. It didn’t help. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he ground out.
Denny groaned aloud. “John, for chrissake . . .”
Shoving away from the table, John rose abruptly. “If you people want me gone, I suggest you get your cards in order and grow some balls.” Not waiting for a reply, he started toward the door.
“John!” McNinch called out.
John didn’t stop. He didn’t look back.
“Let him go,” Rummel said quietly.
John hit the door with both hands, sent it flying open. It banged against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed picture of the attorney general in the hall. Keyboards fell silent. Heads swung his way. Pretty administrative assistants. A field agent holding a Krispy Kreme doughnut. The mail guy with his cart piled high with envelopes. Their expressions were wary, as if they expected John to pull out his sidearm and go postal. A little afternoon entertainment to go with their lattes and Diet Cokes. High drama on the fourteenth floor. Break out the fucking popcorn.
John felt the eyes burning into him as he strode toward his office and yanked open the door. Inside, he looked around, wondering what the hell he was doing. He should have taken the offer. He should have stayed calm. Now, if Rummel had his way, they were going to fire him. God knows he’d given them cause. Liquid lunches. Lost afternoons. That was when he bothered to show up at all. His penchant for prescription drugs was just the icing on the cake.
But God help him, he didn’t know what he’d do without the drugs. Didn’t know how he’d get through the day or God forbid a whole goddamn night. Talk about a clusterfuck.
He crossed to the window behind his desk and stared out at the traffic on Broad Street fourteen stories below. Not for the first time, the thought of ending it all flitted through his mind. He could go home. Have a couple of drinks. Work up the courage. Be done with it. But while John was squarely at the bottom of the barrel, he wasn’t so far gone that he could blow his brains out.
Not yet, anyway.
Sighing, he turned from the window and slid into the chair behind his desk. He thought about Nancy and Donna and Kelly, and shame for what he’d become cut him. The urge to pull out the photos was strong, but he resisted. Seeing their faces didn’t make him feel any better. He couldn’t remember them the way they’d been. When he thought of his wife and two little girls, he saw them the way they’d been on the dreadful night he’d found them . . .
A soft rap on the door drew him from dark thoughts. “It’s open.”
McNinch stepped into his office, his expression contrite. “Sorry about what happened in there.”
“Par for the course.”
“Rummel knows you’re a good agent.”
“Rummel doesn’t know shit about me.”
McNinch slid into the visitor chair and pretended to be interested in the plaques, commendations and framed diploma on the wall. “It was a good deal,” he said after a moment.
“I’m not ready to retire.”
“There are a lot of things you could do, John. Things with less stress.”
The smile felt brittle on his face. “You mean like a rent-a-cop?”
McNinch frowned. “Hell, I don’t know. Private detective. Friend of mine from Houston, a former cop, went into corporate security for a major pizza company chain. Draws a decent salary. Another guy I know is now a Justice of the Peace.”
“Good for them.”
“You gotta do something, man. Rummel wants you gone. He’s like a dog and you’re the fucking bone. At the moment, you have a choice as to how you walk out that door. In six months, you may not have that luxury.”
John gave him a hard look. “I wouldn’t call any of this a luxury.”
“Hey, man, I know you got a tough break—”
“I didn’t have a tough break,” he snapped. “For chrissake, just say it. Stop with the fucking euphemisms.”
Grimacing, Denny looked down at his hands. “I’m on your side.”
“You’re on whatever side is convenient. But I get it, Denny. I’ve been around long enough to know how it works.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
Rising, the other man started toward the door.
John leaned back in his chair and watched him go. When the door clicked shut, he opened his pencil drawer and pulled out the flask, the silver finish tarnished from use. The irony that it had been a gift from his wife never ceased to give him pause every time he took a drink.
Snagging his briefcase, he set it on his lap and snapped it open. He dug into the side pocket. Relief swept through him when his fingers closed around the prescription bottle. John hated what he’d become. A sick parody of the man he’d once been. A fucking junkie. Everything he despised. Weak. Dependent. Pathetic. He wanted to blame it on the doctors. After all, it was they who’d so eagerly prescribed. But two years ago, John had been a basket case. A man truly at the end of his rope. Flirting with thoughts of suicide. Going so far as to put the gun in his mouth. He’d tasted the gun oil and his own fear, felt the cold steel rattle against his teeth.
Popping the cap, he tapped out two Xanax and one Valium. He wasn’t supposed to take them together, but he’d experimented and discovered through trial and error a cocktail of pills that provided what he needed to get through the day.
He pulled out the framed photograph and blew off the paper dust and pencil shavings. His late wife, Nancy, and his two little girls, Donna and Kelly, smiled at him as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Looking at them never got any easier. He should have been able to protect them.
Propping the frame on his desk, he tossed the pills into his mouth and raised the flask. “Here’s to you, Nancy,” he whispered and washed them down with eighty-proof whiskey.
