Do Not Go Gentle (21 page)

Jamie looked out of the window from his corner seat at Starbucks. It was another sunny, autumn day in Boston. Jamie sat in one of the padded chairs, with the neighboring chair reserved for his partner. Jamie had agreed to meet at the coffee shop, located at the furthest end of north Dorchester because he had an appointment with his union rep and Sully at the station today.

Jamie felt the fatigue gnawing at his body like a predator. Even worse, the fatigue caused the headaches to increase, so now Jamie felt pain like iron bands tightening across his head from the front left corner of his right eye socket all the way back over the top of his head to the base of his skull. He ignored it at his own risk—continuing to push through this resulted in worsening of the fatigue and headaches, more balance and problems thinking.
I've become a feckin' mess,
he thought angrily, sipping his coffee.
I know Eileen's right. I need to stop getting angry about this, but how the hell do I do that? Everything is crumbling around me while I nap.

Jamie heard someone coming over and turned to see Cal making his way over, drink in hand. “Hey. Did you get your usual double latte, half foam, half BS, no salt, shaken not stirred, coffee?”

Cal flipped Jamie off and dropped heavily into the chair.

“Wow. Someone's cranky this morning.”

Cal took a drink of his coffee, and then sighed. “Well, this will help—a little sip of heaven.” He looked away, took another drink, and then looked back. “So, what have you been able to find out?”

Jamie grimaced. “Not much. Just bits here and there about the Mazzimah, a few former members of the Disciples who may be willing to talk to us, and absolutely zip on Samuel Properties. They appear to be a legitimate business, but we both got bad vibes from the fat man that day.”

“Agreed. You got some names for me on former cult members?”

“Yeah, right here,” Jamie said, handing Cal a piece of paper. “Names, addresses, contact info.” After drinking their coffee in silence for several moments, Jamie continued. “I did find an interesting rumor about the Mazzimah.”

This piqued Cal's interest. “Oh, yeah? Let's hear it. I can't get any traction digging into them.”

“If the rumor's true, that's not surprising—one of my CIs says the Mazzimah leader is a cop.”

“What? No way.” Cal shook his head. “I mean, we both know there are dirty cops, probably more than we'd like to admit, but a cop running a major operation like that? It doesn't make sense.”

“Maybe not,” agreed Jamie, “but my informant seemed pretty certain about it. Get this—when I asked him to find out more for me about the cop, he got seriously scared. I had to lean on him pretty hard to get him to agree to see what he can find out for me.”

“Hmmm,” Cal murmured. “Interesting, but not very helpful unless he comes up with a name. If there is a cop heading the Mazzimah, no one in their right mind is going to want to cross him. Probably worth his life if he's caught.”

“Yeah, I told him to go softly and be very careful.”

After another pregnant pause, Cal spoke. “So, have you followed up with Lucy and her experts?”

Jamie snorted. “Nah, that's been at the bottom of my ‘to-do' list.”

“Why?”

“You know why, Cushing,” said Jamie in an irritated tone of voice. “I just don't think we're going to find anything solid down that line of investigation.”

“Well, not if you've already decided we won't.” Cal pushed aside his coffee cup and leaned forward. “Look, Jamie, I know you don't buy into what these people believe, but that's not the point. I keep telling you—we have to pursue it from this angle, get into their heads, and see where it leads us.”

“It'll lead us to Star Trek conventions and new age stores,” replied Jamie flatly. “I don't need to jump into the river to know the water's wet. Common sense tells me that much.”

“Really? Does your common sense also tell you what these people are after? What they're going to do next? You ever hear of something called ‘profiling' my skeptical friend?” Cal asked.

“Yeah. Have you ever heard of something called logic and intelligence, my gullible friend? Because that's what's going to be missing if we keep following the supernatural bullshit angle.”

“God-damn-it,” swore Cushing. “Why do you have to be such a bull-headed Irishman?”

“I dunno, Cushing, why do you have to be such a dimwitted WASP?” Jamie regretted the words the minute they came out of his mouth. He started to apologize, but Cal held up a hand to silence him.

“Fine. Fine, you keep going the way you want to go. I'm going to keep going my way. Given your attendance record lately, I don't think you're going to be able to stay involved much longer anyway.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it's supposed to mean,” retorted Cal. “Everyone in the station knows about your meeting later this morning with Sully and your rep. The smart money says that they're gonna tell you that you're not allowed to participate in any official or unofficial capacity on any case any longer. Which means anyone helping you violate that directive is gonna have their tits in a wringer with Sully.”

“Since when has that ever been a big deal?” replied Jamie. He knew Cal was probably right. They weren't calling him to a meeting to tell him not to worry about anything.

“Normally, it's not, but listen to me, buddy.” Cal put his hand on Jamie's right shoulder and pulled him closer. “You're not getting any better. You're starting to jeopardize my cases.”

Jamie pulled back with a jerk, hurt and angry. “
Your
cases? Whaddya mean
your
cases?”

Cal didn't fight to keep Jamie's arm, but neither did he lean back in his chair. “Just what I said—
my
cases. Look, we've always had each other's back, right?”

“Right,” Jamie agreed slowly.

“But no matter how much you want to, you
can't
have my back—not if you can't work. So I have to start thinking of them as my cases. Sully's been talking about pairing me with a new partner again.”

“A new partner? Again? Who's the lucky victim this time?”

“Hamilton.”

“Hamilton? He's a dweeb.” protested Jamie.

“Yeah, but maybe I can bring him around. That's beside the point. The point is that you're not getting any better, and I can't wait around hoping you're going to get better.”

“I see.” Jamie leaned back into his chair and said nothing for a while, his eyes staring unfocused out the window into the busy street. “Well, then,” he continued briskly, “don't let me keep you. I know you're a busy man, important man, got lots of people to see, and places to be—”

“Aww, knock it the fuck off, Jamie,” Cal replied vehemently. “You know it's not like that—”

“Do I?” Jamie's voice rose in volume. “Really? No, I think it's
exactly
like that. You're tired of waiting around for me? Fine, then stop waiting. Get the hell out of here and get on with all of your important business. Don't let me drag you down.”

Cal eyed the other patrons, who overheard. “Jamie, don't do this.”

“Don't do what?” Jamie replied, his volume back down to a conversational level. “Don't be angry that my partner's bailing on me? Don't be angry that my co-workers have written me off?' Don't feel like I'm losing the last shreds of my professional life?” Jamie snapped out the words softly, but his face was red. “No way, Cal. You go your own way, you do what you have to do, and I'll do what I have to do.”

Jamie looked at his watch, and then got up unsteadily from the chair. “Turns out I
do
have something important to do—I have an appointment to see what the department wants to do with the sick guy.”

“Fine, be angry,” retorted Cal as Jamie started to walk away. “This is on you, Griffin. Don't lay it off on me. I'm not the one who's sick.”

“No,” said Jamie turning back to face Cal. “You're the one who's giving up on his partner.” Then Jamie walked out of the coffee shop. Cal let him walk out with no further words.

* * * *

The District C-11 police station was a long, red brick, two-story building, stretching a full city block. Jamie pulled into the station lot and parked. Leaning back and closing his eyes, Jamie had to admit that he felt like crap because of his sickness as well as the way he had parted company with Cal.

Jamie felt the sun beaming through the glass, but he still he felt cold. Jamie felt frosty dread of what he knew faced him inside the district station. Never one to shirk from difficult duty, however, Jamie opened his car door and walked as steadily as he could into the station house.

Anne-Marie Boyle was working the reception desk. A woman about Jamie's age, they always had some bantering words for each other. As she saw him, however, Anne-Marie's face took on the sympathetic cast that Jamie hated whenever people saw him these days. “Jamie,” she said brightly. “Good to see you. How are you feeling?”

There it was—the omnipresent question. No one knew what else to ask, what else to say, and really, could he blame them? Jamie, however, was sick to death of being defined by his illness. There had to be more to him than being sick. “About the same, Anne-Marie.”

“Sorry, Jamie. Everyone's hoping and praying they'll find an answer for you.”

“Thanks. I'm here for a meeting with Sully and Mark Valdez, my union rep.”

“Yeah, I know.” Anne-Marie's face was revealing. Cal was right—the entire station would be discussing his situation. “They're expecting you.”

“Thanks.”

Jamie walked slowly down the hallway toward the commander's office. Several people stopped him and he was forced to replay the conversation he just had with Anne-Marie. Sully's door was closed, so he rapped on the door, then opened it after Sully called out, “Come in.”

Valdez stood and greeted him, as did Sullivan. The three men sat, and an awkward moment of silence ensued. Jamie decided not to break the silence. He knew the waiting game too well.

“Well, Jamie,” Sully finally began, “I'm sure you can guess why we're meeting today.”

“Not really,” lied Jamie. “What's up?”

Sully cleared his throat. While not shy about confrontations, Sullivan had worked with Jamie for years. He liked and respected Jamie. “This isn't easy, but we have to face facts—the fact is that you're still not better and you've run out of sick leave and vacation time.”

“Tell me about it,” groused Jamie. “My wife just had this conversation with me the other day. Is there a problem with my leave of absence request?”

Now Valdez spoke. A small, handsome man, with dark skin and a clear voice, he said, “Yeah, I'm afraid there is, Jamie.”

Jamie's gut tightened, but he didn't let it show on his face. “Why? Didn't I sign in the right places? Missed dotting an ‘i' or crossing a ‘t'?”

“It's more than that,” replied Sully. “After reviewing the reports from your doctors, the department has decided to deny your request for a leave of absence.”

Jamie felt like the rug had been pulled out from beneath his feet. “What do you mean they've denied my request?” Jamie tried to stay calm, but he felt his anger rising.

“Just that,” said Sully. “It's up to the Chief, and after discussing your situation with legal counsel, medical experts, and other officials, he denied your request because there was quote, ‘no reasonable expectation that Detective Griffin would be able to resume duties within the foreseeable future.'”

“Other officials? You mean my father agreed to this?”

“Now, Jamie,” Sully began.

“Bullshit. Don't ‘now Jamie' me.” Jamie turned to Valdez. “Can they do this to me?”

Valdez dipped his head and frowned. “Well, while it's unusual for a leave of absence to be denied, it's not unprecedented, and it doesn't violate any terms of our collective bargaining agreement.”

“Jaysus,” exclaimed Jamie. “Spoken like a true lawyer.” He turned back to his captain. “Sully, c'mon man. You've known me for years. How does this square with you?”

Sully sighed. “I don't have to like it, Jamie, and frankly, I don't, but I've been given clear orders by my superiors.” He looked back down at the document, his tone of voice indicating that he was once again reading from prepared text, in an official capacity. “Detective Griffin, do you have any evidence contrary to the evidence presented by your primary care physician that would lead the department to believe that your condition could improve in the immediate future?'”

Jamie bit back a savage reply, knowing it would do no good to get into a shouting match. “No, Captain Sullivan. You know that, so does the top brass.”