Vacant (25 page)

The sun was
setting as Loyola and I made it to the crime lab, one of the small, flat buildings with tall trees behind them. Inside, it smelled like brick and chemicals, and we had to pass through security again to enter the main hall. Sridarin from the sheriff's office was sitting in a bench about halfway down.

He looked up, circles under his eyes. He'd been sent away from the judge, he was thinking, and was feeling guilty despite his duty to get the shell casings over here after the attack. Jarrod was walking toward us from the other end of the hall.

“Hi,” Sridarin said.

“Hello,” Loyola said. “Any news on the ballistics?”

He stood from the bench. “Yes. They're running it again to confirm since it was such a rush, but right now it looks like at least two of these are stolen weapons, one used in a robbery a few weeks ago. The gun found in possession of the attacker at the scene is a clear match to one of the shell casing sets, so between that and the witnesses, we have him cold. His is not in the system, but there's a clear registration trail and the ATF is looking into it.” He took a breath. “With any luck, the idiots bought all of the guns at the same place and brought a couple of stolen items besides.
Sheriff's department is on protective duty with the judge and assisting Metro PD in the search.”

Jarrod reached us, his bootheels thudding against the floor. “Mendez is set up to coordinate out of one of the spare rooms, Metro PD dispatchers on assist. I'm going to need some help with phone calls.”

“Whatever you need,” I said, feeling like the world was already falling out of place.

Jarrod frowned at me. “I meant Loyola. Sridarin if he has the time. You can help, but if there's something you can do that we can't, now's the time.”

I shook my head.

“Another vision with more detail might be useful about now.”

I sighed. “I'm pretty burned out right now. Give me some phone calls and I'll see what I can do after that.”

Next to me, Loyola's disapproval swelled. I was too tired to really care. There was more than one way to find Tommy, and give it another hour and I'd try the connection again.

*   *   *

I limped up the stairs to my hotel room, anxious and feeling defeated. I could still feel echoes of Tommy's fear in my head occasionally, and I'd called half the city. I'd even begged my stupid difficult precognition to help me figure out the future and how to stop it, but no exercise I could give it produced anything but a reprise of that old, terrible vision. I'd sleep and try again, and pray that Tommy was still alive at the end. If he wasn't, I didn't know how I'd live with myself.

I unlocked the hotel room door with shaking hands, telling myself I could have another cigarette, hell, I could have four if I needed them, but I had to calm down, and I
couldn't have my drug. I stopped two steps inside the room. The door shut behind me with a bang.

The room smelled different. Moldy, yes, but something else . . . something like gun oil and cedar. Someone had been here.

I hunted for the lamp's light switch, anxiety spiking. It was probably just the maid, I told myself. I was being an idiot.

When the lamp switched on, no one was there, and I took a breath. I could still feel another presence here like perfume. I went over to drop my coat on the desk—and saw it.

A box. A intricate wooden puzzle-box, something I'd never seen before but that somehow looked familiar. Its dark mahogany surface was vaguely the size and shape of a cigar box, with a more intricate pattern. Deep grooves like the lines of a map were set into its surface, along with small metal balls in the grooves. It was sitting on the freshly made bed, at its foot, with a folded piece of paper that read
Adam
.

The hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

I looked around the entire hotel room, first in Mindspace, then in the real world, pulling the shower curtain aside, opening the closet door with heart beating. No one was here. Not anymore.

I opened the box then, slowly, with a square of the sheet between its side and my hand. It clicked, the metal balls rolling, but it was open; it opened.

When I saw what was inside, I cursed and dropped the lid. Then, with a deep breath, opened it again.

Sitting in the recess of a red satin-top pillow were two things: one, a small vial of what looked like purple liquid against the red fabric, and two, a needle still wrapped in
medical-grade packaging, a small needle with marks up the side in exactly the denominations one would need to use the vial.

My hand shook as I picked up the note, no longer caring of potential contaminants. I knew what that box held. I knew it, and it was far worse than any bomb. It was high-grade Satin, by the chemical formula on the label, a bluish drug that hit the sixth sense like a freight train. My drug. My poison. The thing I'd battled long and hard to be free of, and here it was, sitting there, for free, all too available. Blood rushed in my ears; my heart beat all too quickly.

I opened the note.

Imagine my surprise when you became involved in this minor judicial matter in Savannah,
it said.
I have adapted. Here is a gift for you, your drug of choice. Rest assured it will not be my last gift via my associate.

Remember, you were the one who made this personal.

It was not signed, but I knew who it was. I half fell, half walked backward, pulling out the chair in front of that desk and sitting with shaking knees.

Fiske had found me. Not just Sibley, who some of the time I'd assumed had been hired by Pappadakis, but Fiske. Cherabino and I had attacked his house and forced our way in for a reason that seemed to make sense at the time. He'd let us go, but he'd said he'd remember what we'd done.

Apparently he was the kind to hold a grudge, hold it for months, and then play with the source of that grudge. And he'd promised me gifts.

Somehow I doubted any of those gifts would be pleasant. Not when he'd started this way.

I sat there and looked at the box, at the vial, at my drug. I wanted it so badly I couldn't . . . quite . . . think. My palms sweated, my heart beat, and I felt drawn to it, like someone had a piece of string attached to it, reeling me in.

I closed my eyes so I couldn't see it. I turned away, literally turned away like a small child. And I breathed, deep breaths designed to calm my nervous system so I could think. I had to think. If I didn't I'd jump in headfirst, and whatever I decided, I couldn't throw away almost four years of being clean on an impulse. It wasn't allowed.

My hands shook, and the strongbox of all my emotions shuddered, the locks holding, but only just. If I could just fall off the face of the world . . . If I could just take my drug . . .

A breath. Two. My problems would still be there waiting for me when I got back, I heard Swartz's voice tell me. Just because it was here didn't mean I had to use it.

I wanted to! I turned back around, then took a step back. I wanted to so much.

But Fiske wanted me to as well, or he wouldn't have bothered to send it. My worst enemy—the person—had sent my worst enemy—the drug—to torment me. And though I wanted it with everything in me, I couldn't just hand Fiske a victory.

Because for all my want, all my need, it would be a victory for him, a failure for me. A last, permanent failure on top of the dozen he'd already forced down my throat. It was pretty, that vial, but it was poison. Swartz had always said it was my poison.

Tommy could still be alive. Maybe. Somewhere. And if I was in a drug stupor in a corner somewhere when he died, when I could have done something about it . . .

There was no choice, not really.

I breathed for approximately forever, in and out, pushing down my internal demons. It was a battle, a real battle, with real blood and sweat. But I already knew its conclusions, and the part of me that wanted the drug did too.

So I closed the box and tried to think what to do with it.
I was exhausted, now worse than ever. I could break the vial and throw away the glass, destroying the drug—part of me felt actual pain at that thought—but I didn't want to expose the hotel staff to the glass, and I didn't want Jarrod or anyone else finding the vial if I threw it away. The dumpster outside had been overflowing already.

After a few minutes of temptation one way and the other, I wrapped up the box and the note in a pillowcase and stuck it in a desk drawer. Probably no one would look there, and it would give me some more time.

Then I called Swartz. Selah picked up.

“Yes, it's an emergency,” I said, and waited while she got him.

A minute later, Swartz's gruff voice picked up. “What's wrong?”

I closed my eyes in relief. Such relief. I didn't have to do this alone. “It . . . it's a bad time, Swartz. I need you to talk me down.”

And he did. With no hesitation, for an hour or more, Swartz sat there and talked to me. Reminded me of all the things I believed in now that I wanted more than just a drug, reminded me of Cherabino, and the department, and being an interrogator. Reminded me of the program, and him.

Reminded me that I really wasn't alone.

After it was all done, I stripped off belt and shoes, pants and shirt, and fell into the bed.

I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

*   *   *

I woke to the sound of a ringing phone, high pitched and loud. I groped for the phone, somewhere on the nightstand, and found the lamp instead.

RiiiiiIIIIiiiiing,
the thing rang, horribly loud, as I switched on the light. There . . . there was the phone.

I picked up the receiver. “Mmmph?”

“A-a-adam?” Cherabino's voice came through, wobbly.

“Isabella?” I asked, sitting up. Every fear I had rolled over me, all at once. “What's going on?”

She took in a wobbly breath, and I could hear the tears she was suppressing. “They did it. They put the whole damn system so much in knots—they found me guilty.”

I rubbed my eyes, heart beating far too fast now. “Guilty of what exactly?” I asked, afraid.

“Police brutality and wrongful death. They said I'm lucky the family's not suing and I don't get a murder charge. Lucky!” She laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “I'll have police brutality and wrongful death on my permanent record for the rest of my life.”

My stomach knotted. “What? Are you sure?”

Now she did cry, long sobs into the phone, no words. It broke my heart, and I didn't know what to do. Isabella didn't cry. She just . . . she didn't cry.

“You didn't do anything wrong,” I said, hurting for her, hurting for me, afraid for her. “I was there. You didn't do anything wrong.”

“It's on my record.” She sobbed again, the crying taking on an angry, frustrated tone.

“But you didn't do it.”

“It doesn't matter! IA determinations can't be appealed. If it wasn't for the union . . .” Another angry sob. “Bastards.”

“But I know what really happened. Branen believes you, right?”

It took her another few breaths to be able to speak, and when she did it was heavy with defeat. “It doesn't matter what he believes. It's the determination, and it's in the papers now. His hands are tied.”

I felt hollow. “What will they do? You can't—” I couldn't even bring myself to say it out loud. Her job was everything to her, literally everything, her whole life. And her job was a big part of my life too, a part of the system that kept me on the wagon and sane. “Will you still be a detective?” I asked finally, unable to help myself. What would she do if she wasn't?

“I don't know. I don't know. The brass are reviewing the files. They'll have a decision in the next few days. Branen said he wanted to do it out of the media limelight, that it would be better for everyone that way.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, worried for her.

“I don't know.” She took a breath. “Maybe they bust me back to traffic, maybe I'm Michael's assistant now. I don't know how in hell I'm going to earn my way back, not after this kind of mark, but I'm going to try. I have to try. This is the kind of thing that destroys people's careers.”

“You have the highest close rate in the department,” I protested, trying to make myself believe they wouldn't fire her. They couldn't. It might destroy her.

“It doesn't matter. The mayor wants to be seen as against brutality, at least that's what he said at the press conference today. I made the mistake of watching it. People forget the commissioner is appointed, but times like this . . .”

“If he doesn't keep the mayor happy, he loses his job.”

“Yeah. Branen told me.”

She'd stopped crying, but the silence on the other end of the phone—and the other end of our weak, distant Link—was still vacant, devastated.

“If this goes badly for me . . .” She trailed off.

“What?” I asked.

“When you asked about the private eye thing, us opening one on our own, was that a joke?”

I paused. “Not if you don't want it to be.”

She took another shuddery breath. “Let's keep that on the back burner for now.”

I took a breath. If she was thinking next steps, that was a good sign. Maybe she wouldn't fall apart. Maybe. “I know you'd rather be a cop, even if they bust you down to traffic,” I said. “It's okay. I know your job is your life.”

“It's not my whole life.” Then, after a second: “I feel bad. If I'm not at the department, I don't know if they'll give you the hours.”

I tried to figure out what she was really asking. “Branen hasn't let me work with you in six weeks anyway. He already doesn't like me. He decided that I was worth the aggravation, or at least he has so far.”

“Let's hope he keeps thinking that,” she said.