Blind Spot (11 page)

“I mean, I’m twenty-nine. It seems like a perfectly respectable time to get married.”

“Absolutely respectable. So when’s the big day?”

Rachel stared down at her hand and flexed her fingers. “Haven’t set it yet. I figure there’s no rush, but we’ll probably do it down at city hall. Sam—” She paused dramatically. “Will you be my maid of honor?”

“Always a bridesmaid.” He rested his head on his hand and feigned a sigh. “Of course. I’d love to. Just remember, my best color is peach, and yellow washes me out.”

“I was thinking purple.”

“Purple works. Have you told the ’rents yet?” Sam sipped his soda again and keenly missed the alcohol.

“Nope. We’re waiting to tell both sets together. We figure that way they’ll be peer-pressured into acting socially acceptable. I’m not worried about my mom and dad, but Al’s folks are still weird about the whole interracial-girlfriend thing. At least I’m Jewish.” She frowned down at the ring.

“You’re perfect. And if they don’t see it, then fuck ’em.”

“That’s exactly what Alex said.”

Sam leaned forward and kissed her cheek. For some reason the news choked him up. It seemed like both an end and a beginning. They were still young, but they weren’t kids anymore. How had time passed so quickly?

An irritated customer called out, “Can I get some service,
please
?” and Rachel gave Sam an exasperated look.

“Gotta run. Let’s talk later. Okay?”

“Sounds good. Congratulations, Rach. And tell Alex congrats for me too.”

She beamed again and turned to serve the impatient guy. The place was getting crowded. Maybe the new karaoke night was a good call for business. Sam left a few bucks on the bar and went out into the night.

HE ENTERED
another bar, a few blocks away. Without thinking too much about it, he strolled up to the bartender, ordered a whiskey on the rocks, and paid for it in cash. He needed to quiet his mind a little. Going back to the empty apartment seemed a guaranteed recipe for a sleepless night, and he had to work in the morning.

He ignored the twinge of guilt and shame he felt on the first sip. It wasn’t illegal. One drink wouldn’t hurt. It hadn’t when he finished the martini.

Collins had apparently decided to cut and run. Sam wondered if he was fleeing from the cops, or if someone else was breathing down his neck. Sam couldn’t blame him for taking off, but he was still curious about what Collins wanted to tell him. In any case he was probably halfway across the world or hiding out in a Podunk town, somewhere off the beaten path. Sam didn’t care anymore, though he supposed he should. If the wrong person saw them together, he could be in danger. Nathan would be so disappointed if Sam got himself into trouble while he was away.

The whiskey went down so smoothly he regretted ordering a single. It had been a small pour, and the ice watered it down. He motioned to the bartender for one more—a double. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough for him to go home and sleep soundly, without any bad dreams.

He sipped his second drink. He didn’t want to be a disappointment, though he feared he wasn’t doing much to impede the process. But was he the only one to blame? What about Nathan? The missed calls and the quick chats were starting to grate on Sam’s nerves. Nathan was probably out doing who knew what. Or whom. Maybe he wouldn’t even tell Sam the truth.

The bar door opened with a jangle, and Sam turned around and was startled when he noticed a familiar face. He set down his glass—empty again.

Antonio Rivera was smooth-shaven, and he wore casual clothes. His smile took on a sardonic edge when he noticed the empty drink.

“Hello, Rivera,” said Sam, staring right back. He wasn’t about to hide from him, even if he was Nathan’s friend.

“Fancy seeing you here,” said Rivera as he took a seat next to Sam.

“I popped in for a nightcap. You come here often?”

“I’ve been renting a room in the building across the street.” Rivera gestured toward the window, and Sam recalled seeing a couple of nondescript brownstones when he came in.

“Oh.”

The conversation continued in stilted fits and starts until the bartender approached.

“I’ll have another,” said Sam.

“And I’ll have what he’s having,” said Rivera. Sam remembered what Rivera once said about trying to quit drinking when he was Sam’s age. Obviously it hadn’t worked, but Rivera seemed like a functional guy. He could handle his booze. And if he could, so could Sam. It didn’t have to be a big deal.

Sam closed his eyes and took a substantial sip. The whiskey warmed his insides predictably. It felt nice.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods?” asked Rivera.

Sam paused. They’d never met privately without Nathan, and they’d never socialized. He couldn’t tell Rivera the truth. “Just took a walk and found myself down here.”

“It’s a little out of the way for you.”

“I like to try new things,” Sam said with a shrug.

They were silent for a while, both nursing their drinks. The pleasant fuzz of inebriation softened Sam’s worries. He felt at ease again. Bolder. He didn’t have to answer to anyone. He turned to Rivera. “So, when are you heading back to New York?”

“A few days. I’ve got a new case. So that’s it. Good-bye, Stonebridge.” He lifted his glass. “You’ve been a real pain in the ass.”

“Hey,” said Sam. “She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s my pain in the ass.”

“You can keep her. So, any luck on your story?”

Sam was surprised he asked. “You mean on the mayor? Not so far. Who do you think did it? You think someone from his staff was involved? Is that why Collins took off?”

“You know I can’t talk about—”

“An open investigation. Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.” Sam drummed his fingers on the bar. “Nathan would say the same thing.” Suddenly he was suspicious. “Wait a second. Did Nathan ask you to keep an eye on me?”

Rivera didn’t flinch. “Nope.”

“But if he had, you wouldn’t tell me.”

“Probably not. But if he had, I wouldn’t be ordering you a drink.” Sam looked down at his glass, which was empty, and Rivera motioned for another round.

Panic started to creep into Sam’s gut. He had told himself just one, and then had two. And the next would make—four? He didn’t want to stop, and he wasn’t sure he could. A cold feeling of disgust settled over him, but he fought it and raised the glass to his lips.

He and Rivera continued their conversation as they drank. They talked about sports, and Sam realized Rivera was a pretty funny, self-deprecating guy under his gruff, FBI-agent exterior. Predictably he was a Yankees fan, since he’d gone to NYU and lived in New York ever since. Unlike Yuri he could at least admit the Sox had some good seasons. Sam was tempted to ask him about Donna Howard, but he figured that was too personal.

When he returned from a piss break, Rivera slapped him on the shoulder. Next to his cell phone on the bar, there was another drink. Sam picked it up with a feeling like relief.

“So, you off the wagon for good?” Rivera asked.

“Nope. This is a minor setback. I’d appreciate you not mentioning it to Nathan.” His words came out slightly slurred, but he knocked back the liquor anyway.

“Your secret is safe with me.” Rivera winked.

“’S not a secret.” He’d tell Nathan on his own terms, but he wasn’t about to go running to the phone, whining like a needy baby. Nathan would think he couldn’t even make it a few days without him. “What about you?”

“Me? My father was a drunk. I figure I’m doing better than he did, so why stop now? What about yours?”

“My father?” Sam thought. He’d often seen his dad with a glass of whiskey in hand, but not out of control. His father had never had a habit. “No.”

“Good on you, then.” Rivera tipped back the rest of his drink.

Sam hardly realized how much time had passed until the bartender flashed the lights for last call.

“Dammit,” Sam said, head swimming as he stood. “I gotta work tomorrow.” His stomach lurched in protest. Yuri would be so pissed if Sam called out. They were on a tight schedule to finish for Monday.

“Are you okay to get home?” Rivera asked as they exited the bar to the empty sidewalk. It had started to drizzle, and the oily pavement gleamed under yellow streetlights.

“M’fine,” said Sam, though he thought he might be sick. He squinted and tried to remember how many rounds they’d had. Maybe five. Six? Shit. Six was a lot, especially since he hadn’t had much for dinner. A trembly panic fluttered inside his chest.

“Good to see you, Sam.” Rivera patted Sam’s arm. “Take care of yourself.”

“Hey,” said Sam. “Don’t tell Nathan you saw me tonight.”

“I told you your secret’s safe with me.”

Those words dogged Sam’s footsteps as he made his way home.

SAM STABBED
at the radio dial and turned it to another station, where an annoying commercial droned on about some super savings discount at a mattress emporium. He sighed and switched off the damn thing. His head was pounding as he made the drive to Shady Brook to see Tim.

He stopped at a gas station to grab a coffee and fill up, and he chewed a couple of antacid tablets—his old standard breakfast. It wouldn’t do to show up with an obvious hangover.

It had been a week since the night at the bar with Rivera. He hadn’t gotten drunk again until Nathan called. Their conversation was brief—almost like Nathan wanted to get off the phone. He said he was tired from working long days, but Sam knew he meant long nights. The news wasn’t good either. Nathan still didn’t know how long it was going to take to wrap up the case, and he couldn’t tell Sam any of the details. For all Sam knew, it might be another month. Maybe two.

Sam only remembered the rest of the night in a blur. After hanging up with Nathan, he went to the corner store and bought a fifth of whiskey. He wound up watching sitcom reruns and drinking half the bottle before he even knew what he was doing. He was going to pour out the rest, but he didn’t. He would later.

There was a text on his phone when he got out of the truck.

Talk tonight?

Maybe. Might have plans
, he sent back.

He knew it was bitchy, but he was too grumpy to be pleasant. Nathan returned the text almost immediately.

I know you’re angry. I’m sorry I’ve been busy. Please talk tonight? We can Skype if you want.

You’re starting to sound like a broken record. There’s a reason they don’t sell.

Maybe I deserve that. But I think you’re being a little unfair. You know I hate this as much as you do.

Sam’s irritation grew, and he pocketed his phone without replying. At least he had been keeping himself busy, working at Manella’s whenever he got the chance—and writing. Apparently missing Nathan was turning out to be good for his output. He’d already done a couple personal pieces for his blog about the repairs to the Episcopal Church and his own scorched-out building, and he planned to get in touch with some of the families who’d been affected. Maybe it would give him some insight into the White case too.

He was also in the middle of revisiting his old piece on the Streets Clean incentive program for high school students and planned to slam White’s administration for hypocrisy. He’d already gotten Damon and the program director on board for an interview.

Still no amount of work could drown out his love for Nathan, or the intensity of his loneliness. Of course he missed the sex. But more than that, he missed the warm, casual touches they shared, the way Nathan laughed at his stupid jokes. He missed the crinkle of skin next to Nathan’s eyes when he smiled. He missed the steadiness of his breathing in the night. The way he felt like home.

He grabbed his phone again.

S:
Sorry. Got a lot on my mind. Miss you.

He thought about the half bottle of whiskey. He knew he was lying to himself about pouring it out. He had every intention of finishing it later.

SAM SET
down his glass on the coffee table, and Shadow gave him an irritated look from the floor near his feet and raised her head from where it was pillowed on her paws. The phone rang again. After another moment’s hesitation, Sam answered it.

“What’s going on with you?” Nathan sounded concerned. Sam had avoided his call the previous night.

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Yes, there is. You think I don’t know you?”

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. His visit with Tim the day before had been a disaster, and when he got home from Shady Brook, he went straight to the kitchen to polish off the rest of the whiskey. He had promised himself no more, but that only lasted until an eight-o’clock trip to the package store. He was only slightly buzzed, though, so there was no way Nathan could tell he’d been drinking. Sam had enough practice over the years to be able to fool people. “I don’t want to be a burden. I know you’ve been busy with the case.”

“Screw the case. Dammit, Sam. I feel like you’re hiding something from me. Is this about the mayor’s murder? Have you gotten yourself into some trouble?”

“No. It’s Tim,” he said. “He had a seizure yesterday when I was visiting.”

It was horrible. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his brother’s flailing limbs and gasping mouth. Though it seemed to go on forever, in reality it had lasted less than a minute. The doctors stabilized him, but they weren’t sure what caused the seizure or what it meant, and they practically kicked Sam out at the end of the day. He went back again that morning and stayed until the early afternoon. To add to his concern, even Lisa looked worried, though she tried to mask it for Sam’s sake.

Nathan sucked in a sharp breath. “Is he okay?”

“He is now. But it freaked me out. It could mean he’s waking up, or it could be something bad. The doctors don’t know. We have to wait and see.”
Wait and see.
The most hated words in the English language. They weren’t much comfort when you were the one waiting, as they basically meant, “we know fuck all.”

“I wish I was there,” Nathan said.