Fatal Identity (5 page)

“I need to warn you, if this guy turns out to be their son, it'll be the lead story on every TV station and in every newspaper in the country for the foreseeable future.”

“Why? What the hell? Who is he?”

“It's more about who his father is.”

“I'm not going to like this, am I?”

“None of us are.”

CHAPTER FIVE

S
AM
SPENT
MOST
of Friday night and early Saturday morning running between her puking son and her puking husband. She was about to fall over from exhaustion when she crawled into bed next to Nick after changing the sheets on Scotty's bed for the second time.

She'd no sooner closed her eyes when her cell phone rang. That only happened at this hour when she was on call, so she was immediately concerned about her dad. “Hello.”

“Sam.”

She groaned loudly and then regretted it when Nick stirred. Rubbing his back to settle him, she said, “What do you want, Darren?”

“I heard you were suspended for assaulting a fellow officer, and Forrester is considering charges. I wanted to give you a chance to comment before I go with it.”

How in the hell had a reporter from the
Washington Star
caught wind of her suspension? That was supposed to be an internal department matter, thus the term
internal affairs
.

“Sam?”

“No comment, other than to say if you run that I've been suspended when I haven't, that might be embarrassing for you.”

“So you haven't been suspended?”

“I'll neither confirm nor deny. Now leave me alone. I'm sleeping.” She slapped her phone closed and put it on the bedside table. If it weren't for her father's precarious health, she'd turn the thing off.

“What's that about?” Nick muttered.

“There's a very good possibility that the headline in the
Star
tomorrow will be ‘Second Lady Suspended After Assaulting Fellow Officer, U.S. Attorney Forrester Considering Charges.'”

“He had it coming.”

“And that, right there, is why I love you so much.”

“Why? What'd I say?”

“You still say he had it coming even though it could turn into a firestorm for your team.”

“They get paid to put out fires. What about your staff? Should you give them a heads-up?”

“Crap, you're right. Lilia shouldn't hear about it on the news. I keep forgetting I have a staff.” Another thought occurred to her. “Ah damn, I never checked on Gonzo today.”

“Today is now well into tomorrow, and you need some sleep. You can check on him later and call Lilia.”

“He blew off his shift yesterday. Never does that.”

Nick reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “He's grieving. It's going to take a while.”

“Worried about him.”

“I know, babe. Me too.”

* * *

T
OMMY
G
ONZALES
COULDN
'
T
SLEEP
. He couldn't eat. He couldn't breathe without pain rippling through his chest in agonizing waves. He couldn't play with his toddler son without breaking down in tears because his late partner would never experience the exquisite joy of fatherhood. He couldn't bear the touch of his fiancée while knowing that Arnold would never drop to one knee and propose to the love of his life.

The only relief Gonzo got from the unrelenting pain was found in a bottle of whiskey. He and Jameson had become very close friends since the dreadful night in January when his partner had been gunned down.

If you shut the fuck up
,
I'll let you take the lead
.

Those words would haunt him for the rest of his life. Of course, if he hadn't let Arnold take the lead that night, Gonzo would be dead. His son would be fatherless, and his fiancée bereft. The thought of those scenarios was only slightly less agonizing than the loss of Arnold had been. He didn't like to think of Alex or Christina grieving him, but he'd almost rather be dead himself than have to live with the way his partner had died.

The gurgling sound of blood in Arnold's throat gave Gonzo nightmares in the rare instances when he actually slept. In a career filled with things he'd much rather forget than remember, it was the single worst sound Gonzo had ever heard, the sound of life leaving his partner, one desperate gasp at a time.

He shuddered, thinking of it now and reached for the bottle that was never far from his grasp. The whiskey burned on the way down, his empty stomach protesting its arrival. Powering through the gut pain, he took another gulp, looking for the sweet oblivion he only found at the bottom of a bottle.

It was almost five now, and he had to work at seven. He'd missed his shift yesterday. That was a first. Under normal circumstances, he'd be freaking out about screwing up at work. Under these circumstances, he couldn't find the wherewithal to give a shit about his fucking nightmare of a job. He could no longer remember what he'd ever loved about it.

In what other career could you be gunned down on a sidewalk simply because you carry a badge? In what other career did you risk your life every day for people who didn't give a shit about you?

These days, cops were viewed as the enemy because of a few bad ones who couldn't control themselves. Did anyone other than his family and friends and colleagues in blue even care that a young man named Arnold John “AJ” Arnold had been gunned down on a sidewalk simply because he'd approached a suspect on a cold, dark night?

Life had gone on for everyone else. Six weeks later, it was like it never happened for the rest of the world. Despite his best efforts to carry on, to be brave and strong for the people who were counting on him at home and at work, Gonzo could still hear the echo of the gunshots, smell the blood, taste the fear and panic of knowing there was nothing he could do. He could still hear that god-awful gurgling noise.

Gonzo had about twenty—or maybe it was thirty—unanswered calls from the department shrink, reminding him he needed to make his next appointment. Like the last time Gonzo had seen him, Trulo would make him talk about it when that was the last freaking thing he wanted to do. How in the hell would that help anything? Let's tear the scab off the wound and poke a sharp stick in it because that'll surely make everything better. So he was avoiding Trulo and all the other do-gooders who wanted to “help.” As if there was anything anyone could do.

“Tommy.” Christina's soft voice jarred him. He hadn't seen her coming. His reflexes weren't what they used to be if she could sneak up on him in the dark.

“What?”

“Are you coming to bed?”

“No.” It wasn't her fault. None of this was her fault. He told himself that a thousand times a day as she hovered over him, her care and concern wearing on his already-frazzled nerves. It was hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago, they'd been talking about making time to get married. And now he wanted to tell her to leave him alone. He wished everyone would just
leave him the hell alone
. But they didn't. In addition to Christina, he had his family and colleagues around his neck too.

If Cruz called him one more time to “check in” he was going to tell him to fuck off. What did they
want
from him anyway?

“Will you please come to bed? You need to sleep.”

“No, I don't need to sleep.” Sleep brought nightmares, and the last fucking thing he wanted was to relive it—again. “I need to be alone.” On the outer edges of his mind, in the place where the man he used to be lived, he knew he was making an extraordinary mess of the most precious relationship in his life. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

Christina knelt on the floor in front of him, her hands flat against his thighs. There'd been a time, not that long ago, when that would've been enough to fire him up. Now he felt nothing for her or his son or his family or his friends. He felt absolutely nothing but pain.

“You're scaring me, Tommy. You can't go on this way. You need help. You have to let us help you.”

“I don't have to do anything. You don't know what you're talking about.”

“I can't possibly know what you went through that night, but the Tommy I know and love—”

“Is dead. That guy died on a sidewalk right along with his partner. So if you don't like the new and improved Tommy, maybe you should cut your losses and get out.”

Her face went slack with shock, tears flooding her eyes. “You don't mean that.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Tommy...”

“Don't make this harder than it has to be. We had a good thing, but it's over now.”

“You... Alex...”

“Take him. Take him and just go. Leave me alone.”

“I'm not leaving you, Tommy,” she said as sobs shook her petite body.

Once upon a time, her tears would've moved him. “Then I'll go.”

“No. You're not going, and neither am I. We're a family, and if you won't fight for our family then I will.”

“Knock yourself out.” He reached for the bottle.

She grabbed it from his hand, and it went flying, smashing into the glass coffee table and shattering it.

The sight of her surrounded by shards of glass cleared the fog in his brain, making way for a moment of clarity. “Don't move.”

As tears continued to rain down her face, she whimpered.

Standing, he reached for her and lifted her up and off the floor.

Christina wrapped her arms around his neck and curled her legs around his hips. She trembled violently, her tears wetting his face.

“You're okay. I've got you.” His heart beat fast and hard as fear sliced through the numbness.

“Please don't let me go, Tommy.” Her chest heaved from the strength of her sobs. “I'd never survive it.”

He tightened his hold on her, blinking rapidly to stop tears that suddenly couldn't be contained. His chest ached as the dam broke, flooding him with a barrage of emotions he was unequipped to handle. Fear and grief and love and despair... All of it poured forth as Christina clung to him. He'd never cried like this before. Not when his grandparents died or when he found out he had a son he didn't know about or when Arnold was killed right in front of him.

Something about the sight of Christina surrounded by broken glass had done what nothing else could. It had broken
him
. Leaning against a wall, he slid down, taking her with him, until they were on the floor. She never let go, holding him through the storm the way she had from the beginning.

He had no idea how long they were there before he found his voice. “I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things. I didn't mean—”

Cradling his face in her hands, she kissed him and wiped away his tears. “We need help, Tommy. We can't do this alone.
Please
. Before we lose us...”

He hesitated but only for a second. “Okay.”

* * *

S
AM
SHOT
OUT
of bed, going from asleep to running in the blink of an eye when she heard Scotty cry out. Fearing another vomit-astrophe, she steeled herself as she turned the corner in his room and found him sitting up in bed, weeping.

“Buddy, what's wrong? Are you feeling sick again?”

She'd never seen him cry like this, as if his heart were breaking. Sam sat on the bed and wrapped her arms around him. The heat from his body radiated through the thin T-shirt he wore, but he didn't feel quite as hot as he had during the night.

“I still feel awful,” he said between sobs. “I can't go to the party.”

“I'm so sorry, and so is Dad. We know how disappointed you are.” And she knew that under normal circumstances, Scotty would never cry over such a thing. “But Dad said last night—and it's true—there'll be lots and lots of chances to have fun with your friends and lots of other parties.”

“I wanted to go to this one.”

“I know.” Desperate to find a way to comfort him, she settled him back on his pillow. “How about we have our own little party right here? We'll watch whatever movie you want and play video games.”

His shoulders lifted ever so slightly.

She was no substitute for his friends, but she'd do whatever she could to fill the void. “You want to get up and try to eat something?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. Not yet.”

“Let me know when you're ready.” She tucked him in and kissed his forehead.

“Thanks,” he said, “for taking care of me and stuff.”

“It's my pleasure.”

“Sure,” he said with the tiniest hint of a smile. “Cleaning up puke is a pleasure.”

“Being your mom is a pleasure. The good, the bad and the ugly. I love it all.”

“Something's wrong with you if you like the ugly.”

“I hear that every day.” She left him with a smile and went back to her room, crawling in bed next to Nick, who hadn't stirred. When she placed a hand on his back, the heat of his body alarmed her. She felt his forehead and launched out of bed to find the thermometer Harry had left for her. Running it over his forehead, she gasped when it registered at 104.5.
Dear God!

“Nick.” She shook his shoulder. “Babe, wake up. You've got to take something for the fever.” Kissing his cheek, she said, “Nick, wake up.” He didn't respond, even when she shook him vigorously.

Frantic, Sam grabbed her phone from the bedside table and called Harry. “Nick is at 104.5, and he won't wake up,” she said the second Harry answered.

“Call 911. Right now. I'll meet you at GW.”

“I can't leave Scotty with only his detail!”

“Call Tracy to stay with him.”

“Okay. I'll do that. Harry—”

“Make the call, Sam.”

Her hands shook as she called 911 and requested an ambulance. In the hallway, she said to Darcy, “I called rescue for Nick. He's unresponsive.”

“Oh my God! I'll let them know downstairs.”

After nearly dropping the phone in her haste, Sam found Tracy's number and willed her sister to answer the phone. “Trace! I need you to come over here. Hurry. Nick and Scotty are sick, and I have to take Nick to GW—”