Ghosts of Christmas Past (11 page)

Chapter Ten

Al made fresh coffee while the four of them tossed ideas around about how to get Matthews to flip (assuming he was guilty and confessed) or how to acquire more evidence on Schneider and the others involved in the theft of the artwork.

He didn't like any of them. Too tricky and complicated. Artists. Bah. Always wanting to do things with a flourish. And Noir was on their side. This was it. This was the beginning of the end to losing her to another world.

“Look, step one, get Matthews. Step two, contact the FBI, then go from there. This is not complicated,” Al said. “In the meantime, you two stay here. Do. Not. Leave. Call it protective custody. If you do leave, I'll consider Salvatore a fugitive.”

Salvatore grimaced but nodded.

“When do we go after Matthews?” Noir asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Because I'm exhausted, you all are dead on your feet, and we can't half-ass this. Police work isn't done in a flash, not if you want the case to hold up in court.”

“
I'm
not tired,” Noir said.

“Figures,” he said.

Lucy settled Salvatore and Cassandra in another section of the warehouse set up as a bedroom. It was the only regular bed in the place, but Al had suggested giving it to them. Lucy suspected that was not out of kindness but because the bedroom had no exits.

He might believe Salvatore was innocent, but he was taking no chances. Made sense. He'd spent most of his career not knowing who to trust. He often said she was the only one he trusted unconditionally.

But that obviously didn't stop him from being angry with her. He'd gone so still when she threatened to stop him from arresting Salvatore. He hadn't come near her since then, either.

When she came back to the living area, Al was sitting in the easy chair, holding a bottle of Coke loosely between his fingers. He very deliberately didn't look at her. The lamp's glow behind him seemed to only spotlight his dark mood.

Okay, his anger definitely hadn't worn off. “Al?”

He took a swig of Coke and glared at her. “Yeah?”

“You're still angry.”

“Yeah.”

“Why? It's all resolved.”

“Not likely.” He slammed the now-empty bottle of Coke on the coffee table and stalked over to her. “You accused me of railroading your friends, you took their side and you threatened me. The only question you should be asking is how I held my temper while they were around.”

“Maybe you should ask how I held
my
temper. You were hostile too. Anyway, I don't know what the big deal is, since we're all agreed now.”

“You think turning your back on me isn't a big deal?”

“Turning my back? Are you kidding? I disagreed with you. Hell, that happens. What's the friggin' problem?”

“You sided with
them
. You threatened me.” He punched his chest.
“Me.”

“I only wanted you to see their side.”

“I was doing my job. You should know that better than anyone.” He grabbed his coat and shoved his arms in the sleeves so hard that she thought he might rip the fabric. “I've some things to arrange. I'll be back in the morning.”

Her chest tightened. His rage made her feel small, as if she should crawl into a little ball or, like a kid, run away and cry into her pillow.

No, she hadn't been a kid in a long time.

“One wrong move and we're done? What the fuck, Al?”

“You're supposed to back
me
.” He strode over to her.

“You arrogant ass.” She put her hands on her hips. “It's not like you didn't shut me out. You didn't tell me about Salvatore being at the museum near the time of the murder.”

“I wanted to make sure of my facts before I let you know,” he said.

“We usually investigate together.”

“Really? Then how do you explain going to find Salvatore on your own when I asked you to stay here?”

“You want unquestioning obedience, you have the wrong girl.”

“Maybe I do.” He turned to leave again. “It's clear where your loyalties are.”

“Don't you dare.” She grabbed his arm and turned him around. “Don't you fucking dare walk out on this. You claim to love me. Stick around and fight for it. Unless you think I'm not worth it.”

“Never that.” He stepped back but made no other move to leave. She couldn't read him. “Maybe I'm the one who's not worth it.”

“Are we back to my supposedly using you as some sort of starter boyfriend that I'm going to toss aside when I'm magically all better?”

“Aren't you?”

“Screw you, Al.” She took another deep breath. “If you think I view you as some sort of savior figure, you've got it wrong. I saved myself long before I met you.”

“Yeah, I guess you did,” he said in a quiet voice.

“This is on you. You've made this way bigger than it needs to be.”

“This whole day has been bigger than I wanted.” He shook his head. “Do you have any idea what kind of a risk I took today to get you out of that basement safely or the kind of risk I put my people in?
For you.
Because I trust you
.
And then I come here to find out the truth about a murder and you stand in my way. That's about as big as it gets.”

“You came in here hostile and mad at the world.”

“You should trust me.”

“And you should trust me, not immediately assume I'm working against you, just like you should trust what I feel about you.”

“You sided with them. You always will.”

“Did you ever think that just maybe you were wrong and that's why I sided with them?”

He didn't answer.

She grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “It was a long day. I had to fight off a thug at city hall. I got hit with a flashbang sent by people from your department. I lost my hearing for a while, or did you forget that? Give me a break and tell me why we're about to break up over a misunderstanding.”

She took a deep breath and let go of his shirt. His shoulders slumped. “It's not just the misunderstanding.”

He smoothed down his shirt, loosened his tie and turned away from her. “Fuck,” he whispered, and it seemed like he was talking to himself.

“Talk to me, Fixit,” she said.

“You weren't the only one who had a tough day.” He turned around again, tossed off his coat and removed his tie. “I made a mess. I need to solve the museum murder. ASAP.” He sighed.

“We'll figure it out.” She swallowed and took his hand. “I love you, you dumbass.”

“Why?”

She slid her arms around his waist. “Because every time you look at me, you smile.”

“Not every time.” He didn't hug her back. “You know, this is the longest relationship I've ever had.”

“What? Six months is your longest relationship?”

“Longest one sober.”

“So you think we're due for a breakup?” she asked.

“I guess I figure it'll happen sooner rather than later. Why prolong the agony?”

“Do you have that little faith in me?”

He shook his head. “That little faith in myself. I was just about to lose my temper big-time with you. I'd rather leave than hurt you like that.”

“You smiled even though you were shocked to see me at Rickey's. You stayed just now even though you were angry. And now you're talking to me. This isn't agony, Al.” She slid her hands lower. This part of the relationship worked. And she desperately needed something to work between them right now. She put her head against his chest and slipped her hand under his shirt. “It's the opposite of agony.”

“You think I'm in the mood for that?” he asked.

“You want me to stop?”

He shook his head.

She put her hand down his pants. “You keep worrying how long I'm going to stick around. That's why you overreacted to my disagreeing with you. You need to stop that, Al.”

“I doubt I could if I wanted.” His voice was thick and deep and she knew he wasn't talking about their argument. He was talking about them.

He bent his neck, kissed her and pulled her tight against him. Their first time making love had been quiet, slow and intense. Al had wanted to make sure she was as into it as he was. Since then, they'd made love every way she could imagine, but this kiss?

It had a desperate edge.

She clawed at his belt, unbuckled it and heard the buckle clink on the concrete floor as she dropped it. Like the mug earlier, the clink echoed from the high ceilings.

He trailed kisses down her neck, claiming her as his hands removed her jacket, shirt and then bra. They broke apart for a moment, and his shirt and pants joined the rest of his clothes on the floor. She ditched her jeans, tossing them over the couch, staring at him the whole time.

Every now and then, Al joked about being older than her. But he was a man in his prime, all hard muscle, with a few scars here and there on his chest and one on his back. Knife wound, he'd said, from years back.

He was
fine
.

He grabbed her again and lifted her off her feet.

“Guess we're about to find out how make-up sex works.” She wrapped her legs around him.

“Hell yeah.”

He looked around for a moment, apparently decided something and carried her over to the kitchen area. She thought for a minute he'd set her on the counter (no objection there!) but he pushed her against the industrial-size refrigerator. The stainless steel chilled her back but then he curled one hand around her thigh and everything was hot.

“You ready for me?” he whispered in her ear.

She was more than wet, even though she usually needed more foreplay. “Yeah.”

He pushed inside her. She muffled a scream by burying her mouth in his neck as he entered her, over and over, pushing them closer and closer.

Her nipples brushed against his chest. Her legs tightened around him. He moaned. She lost control first and the orgasm had her digging her hands into his back.

He came with a quiet sound of satisfaction, so at odds with the feral way he'd taken her. She willed her breathing to return to normal. The stainless steel of the fridge was slick with sweat from her back.

“That was a new kind of thing,” she whispered.

He brushed the hair back from her face. “You okay?”

“Hell yes.”

He carried her over to the couch and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “Warm enough?”

“Hot enough to do that again.”

He gathered up his clothes from the floor. “I have to go. I have a lot of things to set up.”

“You're still angry?” She let the blanket fall off her shoulders.

He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I caused a mess today with SWAT and I have to make sure my people are protected from blowback.”

That didn't answer her question.

She lay down on the couch and watched him finish dressing or, as she thought of it, cover up what he really was with the cop clothes and the too-big overcoat.

“When are you coming back?”

“Not sure, but keep Giamatti here until I call.”

He walked out, and she wondered if the sex had solved anything.

How did you prove to someone that you wouldn't stop loving them?

Chapter Eleven

Al would have pounded his dashboard as he drove except he was sure the dried-up, old plastic would crack and splinter. Instead, he bashed the steering wheel with the flat of his hand.

This was not how he wanted to behave with Noir. He was supposed to be the mature one. He was supposed to be the calm one.

He wasn't supposed to get that enraged, he wasn't supposed to use sex as some sort of…he didn't know what to call it, but it had been fueled by desperation. He knew it. She knew it too.

He was terrified of losing her and even more terrified she'd be better off without him, so he'd tried to end it quick and dirty. Fuck. Absolutely amazing that she'd called him on it.

He slipped into the precinct, deliberately avoiding the desk sergeant on duty, and took the steps up one floor to Major Crimes. His offices were more attic than second floor, but he'd grown used to it.

His desk, such as it was, sat at the top of the steps. He could see his crew coming and going and have a full view of anyone who might try to enter his domain.

His desk drawers stuck, the wood in the middle sagged, and the less said of his duct-taped-together chair, the better. On the positive, his desk was neat, had a newish computer and, finally, a flatscreen instead of the CRT monitor he'd had until just a month ago. Noir would like this place. He wished she were a cop.

The other desks, only one of which was occupied, were as neat as his. He liked neat. He demanded his crew like it too.

Detective Jacobs leaned back in his constantly creaking chair and looked over his reading glasses at Al.

“Ever going to trim that mustache?” Al asked.

Jacobs grinned and smoothed his impressive handlebar mustache. “And give up my good looks, Fixit? Never.”

“So what's the story going around about my confrontation with SWAT?” Al sat on the edge of Jacobs' desk.

“Let's see. Either, one, you beat Petit to a pulp for no reason; two, you threatened him with a shotgun and tried to kill him before his team dragged you off; three, you two threw down and had an epic fight, which he lost because you cheated; or, four, he attacked you and you took him out. Which is it?”

“None of the above. He spit at me because I got in his face, then I bashed him with the shotgun. He went down after one blow.”

“He
spit
in your face?”

“Yeah.”

Jacobs put up his hands. “Say no more, Captain.”

“How bad is he hurt?”

“Your doctor buddy, Leslie, said he was just staying overnight for observation. Said Petit's got a hard head, just like every cop he knows.”

“Hah.”

“So what's our next move?”

“I write up what happened and send the file to the chief of Ds and the new commissioner right this second, and see what happens.” Al shook his head. “Petit had SWAT ready to assault an off-the-books restaurant with civilians inside. In full riot gear.”

“Asshole.”

“Yeah.”

Jacobs pointed at his computer. “On the nonasshole front, I pulled Alvarez's department file, like you asked. So far, she's clean. Oh, she's got some marks against her in the precinct.”

“What kind?” Al came around to look over Jacobs's shoulder.

“The ‘we don't like you because you're trying to be a good cop' kind. Stuff like not having shoes to department regs, or improper touching of a witness. Nitpicky stuff.”

“About what I thought. She did good with me today. She's green but trainable. We're pulling her in.”

Jacobs nodded. “She'll pretty up the place. It could use it, between you, me and Zircher. But do we have the authority?”

“The commissioner said he'd give it to me if I solved the museum murder.”

He filled in Jacobs about the murder, the suspects and his plan for a confession. To his credit, Jacobs didn't laugh in his face. But it was close.

“That plan all depends on the assumption that Matthews will confess, that he'll flip and that we can use him to get the others. That's a lot of assumptions, Fixit.”

“It's my job on the line, Detective.”

Jacobs pinched the edge of his mustache. “But involving the Feds? Ouch. It looks like we can't clean up our own messes.”

“And we can't, not yet. You know another way these clowns won't slide free?”

“The new mayor will shit about a federal investigation.”

“He can spin it like he's cleaning up corruption, especially if we can get the Feds to say ‘joint operation'.”

“Fucking Feds,” Jacobs said. “Better bypass the Double C FBI office if you want these charges to stick. Our local Feds could be on the take too.”

“I've some strings to pull with the regional special agent in charge.” Al sure hoped they'd work. “Can I leave you in charge of setting up some covert surveillance of Schneider? I don't want her disappearing while we pull this together.”

“Oh sure, Fixit. Not like I have a life.”

“Yep, your busy life is why you're here at oh-fuck-thirty while everyone is gone.”

“I'm meeting my guy in the a.m. He works nights.”

“At a strip club, right?” Al grinned.

“Fuck off.” Jacobs gave him the finger.

“That's no way to talk to a superior officer.” Al gave him the finger back.

“What about your girl?” Jacobs asked.

“My girl?”

“Your unofficial partner who's been helping with cases. Can she help with this?”

Al stared at him. “Just what are you talking about?”

“All right, if you want to still keep her a secret, fine, but there are some weird rumors going around about a mysterious girl helping you obtain evidence that you had no business obtaining,” Jacobs said.

“It's me. I'm a ninja.”

“I bet,” Jacobs said.

But he let it go, and Al settled at his desk to write the report.

He should have known there would be rumors about Noir. Cops weren't stupid. He wouldn't be able to keep her a secret much longer. Maybe it was for the best they wouldn't be working together much in the future.

But the thought of being alone soured his stomach all the same.

Once he sent the email, he called and reached out to the Feds. He only found one live person to speak with, an underling in the department he needed, but the agent promised to pass on the message. Al made sure to use buzzwords like
high-profile corruption bust
.

Next, he called Alvarez. She should have gotten at least five hours sleep by now.

She picked up after two rings, her voice full of tired. “Yes, sir, Captain, sir.”

“Want to work an interrogation?”

“Yes, sir!” Her voice snapped to attention and he imagined her body doing the same, ponytail bouncing.

Alvarez, bright-eyed and ponytailed, met him outside the shiny glass condo building in the Double C's downtown. He wondered if he'd involved Alvarez only because she reminded him of Noir.

He should've asked Noir to come instead. But this had to be a by-the-book confession for the FBI. That meant no civilians.

They walked into the building. A decade ago, as the city was in the midst of falling apart, someone had built this monstrosity to “revitalize” the downtown. Instead, it sat uneasily between older, stately buildings and was only half-f. Still, the condos were cheap, and he wasn't surprised a young guy like Scott Matthews set up shop here, especially since the museum was only a few blocks away.

The condo lobby made it clear the Double C was remaking the glass box in its own image. The marbled tiles were already cracking and the unoccupied security desk had what could only be bullet holes in the base. If Al remembered right, the original owners had gone bankrupt several years ago. Like many of the empty, decrepit houses in the Double C, the condos were probably owned by a bank that didn't give a damn.

“It doesn't fit the outside image, does it?” Alvarez said. “But some of the interiors are nice.”

“You've been inside?” he said as he pressed the elevator Up button. Matthews was on the twentieth floor. He could have hiked it, but he was curious if the elevators worked.

Alvarez shrugged. “Had a girlfriend who lived here for a while.”

“Ah.” Al thought about asking if that meant girlfriend/girlfriend or girlfriend/lover and decided it was none of his damned business where that ponytail spent the night.

The elevator doors opened with nary a squeak. The interior walls contained graffiti and the carpeted floor looked stained, but Al had seen worse. The elevator started moving.

“Did you have any problems at your precinct when you reported back last night?”

She shrugged. “A few taunts. And they busted into my locker.”

“Ruin anything?”

“Naw. I know better than to keep anything of value there.” A pause. “Will I have to go back again?”

“It all depends on how this goes.”

She nodded. He supposed he should explain what that meant. Alvarez might view this interrogation as a test she had to pass before being brought into Major Crimes. That was okay with him. Let's see how she did.

They stepped off the elevator into the twentieth-floor hallway. This was more like the luxury originally promised when the place was new. The blue walls were unblemished and the shiny floor reflected the fluorescent lights.

“Sir, why aren't we interviewing him at the precinct?” Alvarez asked.

“Because…reasons.”

“I would appreciate knowing them, Captain.”

He glanced at her. That sentence had sounded friendly enough, but after a day in her company, he was beginning to have some idea of her personality. That was her being polite because she wanted to be pissy.

“I'll tell you after we get a confession.” No sense explaining yet they might have to hide a killer from their own people in order to deliver him to the FBI.

“A confession?”

“Yep.”

“You're sure, Captain?”

“No, that's why I'm going to get the confession.”

He let Alvarez knock on Matthews' door, which was decorated with what seemed like a hand-knitted Christmas stocking. Matthews had a lot of faith in his neighbors if he hung up something that nice where it could be stolen.

The door was answered by a young woman wearing sweatpants and a sheer, pink T-shirt, no bra. Al immediately felt bad for noticing her chest because her eyes were bloodshot and there were dark circles around them.

Alvarez didn't notice the sheerness of the pink T-shirt. One question answered. A girlfriend/friend, then, for the rookie.

Al drew out his badge and explained to the young woman that they were police looking into Johns' murder. Pink T-shirt wearily let them in and introduced herself as Matthews' fiancée, Rose.

“Scott's just getting out of the shower. I'm sorry for my mess.” She smoothed down her spiky, half-blonde, half-pink hair. “Neither of us slept well last night. I don't know what you want from Scott but he's not going to be very helpful today.”

“We just have a few questions,” Al said. Really just one big question: did her fiancé kill his boss.

“Can I get you something? I have coffee brewing.”

Al smiled. “Sure, coffee would be great, ma'am.”

“Oh God, please don't call me ma'am.”

Rose led them into a cavernous, modern kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a dining island in the middle. She poured two mugs and set them on the marble countertop of the dining island. “Milk's on the counter. I'll let Scott know you're here.”

Al sipped the coffee as Rose left. This was not only infinitely better than the precinct coffee, it was better than his own.

“Why did you accept coffee?” Alvarez asked.

“To keep things friendly. Contrary to what you see on television, threats are usually less effective than empathy.”

She nodded, set her hat down on the island, straddled the stool and took a long swig of the coffee. “This is great.”

“Yeah.”

Rose arrived back in about five minutes, Scott in tow. She'd put on a UMass college sweatshirt over her pink shirt and brushed her hair. Nice-looking kid, and he didn't mind the scenery, but she was no Noir.

Matthews wore sweats and a Yale hoodie. Yeah, he should have pegged that about them right away. Idealistic college kids lured to the Double C by the promise of cheap housing and the chance to be part of rebuilding. “We're moving forward!”—so went the pitch by the Charlton City Chamber of Commerce. This pair looked like they'd taken the bait hook, line and sinker.

“You also work in the city?” Al asked Rose.

“At the community gardens,” she said. “I have a degree in agricultural science from UMass.” She looked down at her sweatshirt. “We came here to do some good.”

Al nodded. “UMass? The University of Massachusetts?”

“Yeah, my parents couldn't afford Smith.” She smiled.

A public university. Okay, so maybe he wasn't dealing with completely naïve kids.

Matthews smoothed down his still-wet hair. His eyes were red, bloodshot and unfocused. He stumbled getting onto the stool, only steadying himself with Rose's help.

“I told you everything I knew yesterday, Captain,” he mumbled.

Rose stuck coffee into his hand. He drank down half of it and then held the mug in a Vise-Grip.

“To get to the point, it has come to my attention in the course of this investigation that your boss may have been involved in some illegal activity,” Al said. Formality often relaxed people.

Matthews slumped over his coffee, hiding his face. “So?”

“Did you suspect anything like that?” Al asked.

Matthews closed his eyes for a second, then shook his head. “Why should I?”

“Because you're smart and seem to care about your job,” Al said. “I can't find who killed your boss if I don't know what he was into. I need your help.”