Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1) (25 page)

Jamie stared at her hands, shook her head. "No. He likes to brag. He has power now. He has something we want, something he knows we need desperately."

No one spoke for a minute.

"Shit," Hailey finally whispered.

"But a cop?" Mackenzie croaked.

Jamie and Hailey exchanged glances. Neither spoke. Hailey wanted to believe Marchek was just screwing with them. The confirmation that a cop had killed Natasha was unsettling. "How did he find Mackenzie? Why her?" she finally asked.

Jamie paused, glanced at Mackenzie without answering.

"Jamie?" Mackenzie pressed.

"Yeah," Hailey continued. "I'm the name on the case. You, I understand. But why Mackenzie?"

Mackenzie furrowed at Hailey. "He attacked you, too?"

Jamie glanced at Hailey. Turned to Mackenzie. "There have been other incidents. We appear to be the focus for him—whoever he is."

Jamie was quiet a moment. "She found Devlin. He'd obviously seen Devlin that night. We know that from the picture, so maybe he saw Mackenzie, too. He probably found that exciting. The murder of a beautiful woman then Mackenzie is there..."

No one spoke for a moment.

Mackenzie shifted against the sheets.

Hailey moved the pieces around in her head. "If a cop killed Natasha, how was Marchek there that night? Coincidence?"

Jamie shook her head. "I'd bet he followed her. He hoped to catch her alone, but she never was."

Hailey considered that Natasha might have been raped that night if someone hadn't killed her. Christ. "The photograph," she whispered. "Marchek took a picture of Natasha with Scott Scanlan. Maybe he just assumed Scanlan was her killer."

Jamie shook her head. "I thought about that. It doesn't work. He knows the identity of who killed her."

Hailey frowned. "How do you know?"

"Because Marchek followed them to her office. He left a perfect fingerprint on the sign with her name." She looked up at Hailey. "That is his way of taunting us. He has something we want and he's not going to give it up."

No one spoke for a minute.

Hailey broke the silence. "How do we work it from here?"

"I don't know," Jamie confessed. "But if it was a cop who killed Natasha—Scanlan or someone else—then we have no idea who we can talk to because the killer most likely has access to the case."

Hailey considered that. "There's you and me."

Mackenzie made a sound. She raised the hand that wasn't in a cast and pointed to herself. "Me," she said.

"No way," Hailey said.

"You're going to be out of commission for a while, Wallace," Jamie told her.

"After."

Jamie focused on Mackenzie, but Hailey saw her raise a brow.

"I could use the help," Hailey said.

Jamie met her gaze, nodded. Hailey knew they were both thinking Mackenzie might be safer if she weren't on patrol for a while.

Jamie nodded. "She could help."

"I'll talk to Captain James about getting you a temporary stint in Homicide." Hailey turned to Jamie. "That okay?"

"Perfect," Jamie said.

"But nothing goes outside us. Not until we know who we're homing in on," Hailey said, directing the comment to Mackenzie.

"Or until we can nail Marchek on the rapes and force him to tell us who he saw," Jamie agreed.

Hailey thought about what Mackenzie had been through. Jesus Christ.

But Jamie was right about something else, too—they were going to nail this bastard. She just prayed they could do it before someone else ended up in this place.

Or worse—down in the basement where they stored the cold bodies.

Chapter 25

Jamie didn't leave the house Sunday afternoon. She made calls to every member of the Rookie Club who had been at the dinner the other night and every woman on the scene the morning after Devlin was murdered. She gave each a modified version of the truth, which included Mackenzie's attack and Barney's and warned them each to be especially careful. She left messages for the ones who weren't home. The few she spoke to hadn't taken her warning as seriously as she would have liked. How could they?

If a cop worried about every threat, she would never leave the house. A cop's job was to put herself in constant danger. The fact that Jamie thought the risk was higher today than usual didn't mean she was right.

She also convinced Captain Jules to sign off on another eighteen hours of surveillance on Marchek to cover through tomorrow. A meeting was called for first thing in the morning to discuss how to proceed, both with the case against him and with Devlin's murder investigation. In the meantime, Jamie just prayed the tail on Marchek was enough to prevent another rape. God, she wanted this case to be over.

And seeing Mackenzie this morning had only made things worse. Damn it if she didn't look like shit. At least the doctor thought they'd release her in the morning. They wanted to keep her another night because of the head injury.

All of Jamie's victims were recovering. According to one of the local trauma psychologists, Emily Osbourne had come in for counseling. The subject matter was protected by patient confidentiality, but Jamie was always relieved to hear that victims were seeking help. Emily's father left Jamie a message at least once a day. Her mother had called the rape crisis center for resources on therapy. Jamie had also followed up on all the call-in tips the department had gotten. She had nothing to show for the effort.

She thought about Marchek as she watched Barney circle the floor until he found a comfortable spot to lie down. He appeared to be favoring his right leg, but the vet was confident he'd recover. Barney had been the lucky one.

At half past four, Tony entered the living room juggling her car keys. "I thought I'd pick up some fixings for chicken parmesan."

She sat up. "I'll come."

"Don't," he said. "I can do it. I know where the store is."

Jamie closed her eyes. She didn't want to go, yet she felt responsible for him. What would he do if she didn't come? Get drunk again? Total her car with him in it?

"You need some smokes?" he asked.

She shook her head. Stopped. "Okay, just a couple Marlboro Lights—hard packs. And get something sweet—some of that Phish Food or something."

He frowned. "Fish Food?"

"You know, Ben and Jerry's. Ice cream."

Tony shrugged. "Never heard of it, but I'll find it."

The door clicked closed and she sat up, suddenly anxious. She ran to the door, pulled it open. "Tony."

He looked back, a half smile on his face. It was the expression of a kid about to be let out on his own.

Don't call him back. Don't do it. "Please be careful, okay?"

"I won't scratch the car, I promise."

Jamie shook her head. "I don't give a rat's ass about the car."

He smiled, turned with energy in his step.

She stepped back into the house, watched him go, knowing it was the right thing to do. At the computer, she signed into the chat room and exchanged a few brief messages about the case in Chicago. After knowing someone had been online, posing as her, it felt weird to be there—exposed—and she signed off after a few minutes.

When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, Jamie assumed it was Tony.

She pulled the door open and said, "You have a key—" She halted mid-sentence.

Tim stood on her doorstep.

"Sorry. I thought you were—" She shook her head.

"Can I come in?"

Jamie hesitated. Looking at Tim, she didn't feel angry. She realized it was the first time since she'd found him with Natasha that anger wasn't her first emotion. "Okay. For a few minutes."

"Thanks." Tim followed her to the kitchen. She could feel his gaze stop on Tony's shoes, which sat just inside the back door.

"You want some coffee?"

He nodded. "That would be great." He sat down and traced the wood grain on the table. Watching him, she had a vision of them lying in bed together, Tim reenacting a car chase with his fingers on the pillowcase. She searched her mind for the moment when things had gone wrong. She couldn't find it. Never could. One day it was just bad.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I'm not back to work yet. I went by and there's a bunch of picketers in front."

"Picketers?"

"Protesting my release."

Jamie poured two cups and sat down. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "It's my own fault."

Jamie thought about the question that had bothered her from the start. "Why did you move her?"

He met her gaze, shook his head. "She looked asleep—a little pale, maybe, but not dead." He turned the coffee cup in his hands, stared down at it. "I'd been hit in the head and I came to a little dizzy. When I saw her, I just picked her up instinctively. I knew she was hurt. I didn't get far before I realized..." He stopped, blinked.

She could see the emotion in his eyes and had to look away. She took a drink of coffee, felt the liquid burn her tongue.

"Maybe I knew she was dead and didn't want to accept it," he added quietly.

Maybe she should have asked more questions, but she couldn't. She already knew Tim had slept with Devlin before she died. That was enough. Plus, the murder wasn't her case.

Jamie didn't know what to say, couldn't find the words.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Tim stood up. "Thanks for letting me talk, Jamie."

She started to stand, but he stopped her. "I'll let myself out." Then, before she could stop him, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek and was gone.

Jamie dumped the coffees in the sink and stared out the window, trying to discern exactly how she felt. The very absence of anger felt so foreign. She wasn't even sure she could say it felt good. The anger was easy. This—forgiveness maybe—this was hard.

Upstairs, she showered, lingering under the scalding water. She tried not to think about Tim. Or even about Marchek or Scanlan or Tony.

Out of the shower, she dumped dirty clothes off the chair in her bedroom and dragged it to the window. Sitting in the natural light, she brushed her hair with the wood-handled brush she'd had for a decade. She fought with the gnarled bits. Eventually, she won and the knots came loose. She turned her head over and brushed the underneath and then flipped it back up. It was cool on her neck. She passed the brush through the smooth strands, daring it to catch.

She held the brush in her hands, ran her fingers across the smooth wood. For some reason, brushing her hair reminded her of the first female friend she'd had. Marisa Caltabiano was Italian, her father a police officer in the Bronx. She and her family—parents and two younger brothers—had moved in down the street from Tony and Jamie. They hadn't come from far, just from somewhere else in the Brooklyn. As a kid, though, a couple of blocks seemed like across the world. Marisa had lived near them for four years, beginning when Tony and Jamie were nine or maybe ten. No, it would have been nine.

She had moved away when they were thirteen—after the attack. Her father had been the one to find them. It had been his call. Jamie pushed those memories aside and thought about the early days.

Tony had discovered Marisa playing jacks down the street and brought her home like a stray puppy. Jamie had disliked her immediately. She had thick curls and olive skin and perfectly almond-shaped eyes. She was nice, not sweet, and held her own from the start. Tony and Mick were so taken with her that Jamie's Irish temper had been thrown into overdrive.

Jamie had been so protective of them, especially Tony. She wasn't used to sharing him. Marisa was the first time it had ever come up. Marisa and Tony had dated a bit; she was his first girlfriend. All of it before the attack, the rape. Before everything had changed.

Jamie glanced at the clock. Forty-seven minutes had passed since Tony left—not nearly enough time to get groceries and get back, especially on a Sunday.

Her throat closed. She ignored it, found the pack of cigarettes on the floor by her bed. As she walked across the room, she shook one out. She opened the window and lit the cigarette, curling back into the chair. It was cool outside and she set the cigarette on the edge of her table to grab a sweatshirt off the floor and pull it over her head. She retrieved the cigarette and inhaled with a hissing Darth Vader sound, exhaled.