Do Not Go Gentle (11 page)

Again, a moment of silence stretched out and again, Choate did not speak. Finally, Cal stood, saying “Well, Mister Choate, you've been very helpful. Please contact us if you remember or learn anything that might be helpful to our investigation.” He handed Choate his business card. Choate rose to his feet in a small avalanche and took the card.

Jamie got up as well, but swayed slightly, grabbing on to the arm of the chair. Neither of the other men seemed to notice. “Thank you for your time, Mister Choate,” he managed.

Choate shook hands with both detectives. “My pleasure, detectives.” He waved a fleshy hand toward the door, where Mrs. Fanning had silently reappeared, reminding Jamie of the creepy way the nuns always had of appearing out of nowhere, especially when you were up to no good. “Mrs. Fanning will show you out. Good day.”

“This way, gentlemen,” Mrs. Fanning croaked.

Jamie and Cal walked out and went back to their car before speaking. Once they were inside, Jamie said, “Well, that was a bust.”

“Yeah,” said Cal, pulling into traffic. “This whole case is going nowhere fast.” After a couple of seconds, he added, “It would be helpful if you'd just tough it out and get back to work.”

Jamie looked at Cal—he could see this was not banter. His partner was serious. “Tough it out? Really? You think I'm just wussing out on you here?” Jamie tried to keep his voice level, but hurt and anger leaked into his words.

“No, not wussing out. I'm just frustrated, by the case and by not having you along, with your usual bull-in-a-china-closet energy. I've seen you work through illnesses before.”

Jamie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to deal with Cal's words without getting angry. “Cal,” he finally said in a soft voice. “I don't know if you can understand. You're right. I've always been energetic and damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead, but now, it's an effort just to get out of bed and put one foot in front of another. It's a bone-deep fatigue I've never felt before, and my head always hurts. Not like one of Eileen's migraines—although it can get that bad if I get too tired—just a nagging, draining pain that never goes away. I think those cause my balance problems and my inability to focus. It's like I'm trying to push my way through a thick fog that's trying to smother me. I know I'm letting you down, but I can't seem to find a way to fight through it, and believe me, pal—I've been trying.” Jamie looked out at the passing streets and waited for Cal to respond. They were on their way to police headquarters south of Northeastern University. Jamie had an appointment with his father.

At length, Cal replied. “I just don't know what to make of it, Jamie.” Cal groped for words. “You're not letting me down, exactly, but it's getting more difficult by the day to juggle all of our casework and keep Sully off my back.” He looked at Jamie. “It's a real bitch right now, man.”

Jamie held Cal's gaze for a second, and then looked away. “I know, buddy, I know. I wish this wasn't happening. I'm falling down on the job, at home, with my family and friends—this shit has got to stop.” He spoke harshly, bitterness and anger infusing each word.

Cal was silent again for a moment. “I know it's hard for you too, Jamie,” he said. “Don't pay any attention to me. I'm just bitching and moaning. Same shit, different day.”

They said nothing during the rest of their drive. As he pulled into the small open-air drive-through area at the front of the massive glass and steel monument to ugly American architecture, Cal said, “Here you are, sir. Thank you for using Cushing Cabs.” He smiled as he looked at Jamie.

Jamie chuckled humorlessly. “I appreciate it, Cal. Seriously.” He looked out at headquarters, but saw his father's office within. “After my Da is finished lecturing me, Eileen'll pick me up.”

“Hey,” Cal caught Jamie's gaze as he was exiting. “Hang in there. It's all going to work out.”

Jamie nodded. “I sure hope so.” He closed the door and pounded lightly on the door frame, then waved and turned to go confront the dragon in his den. The rain and cold seeped into every pore of Jamie's body as he plodded into the building.

Jamie walked through security and was waved past the front desk. He didn't come to headquarters often, but often enough to be recognized.
Being the son of the Deputy Superintendent of the Bureau of Investigative Services doesn't hurt either,
thought Jamie wryly as he got off the elevator.

He made his way to his father's corner office and smiled at his father's administrative assistant. “Hey, Cathy. How's it going?”

The petite brunette who had been his father's admin for the past half dozen years smiled. “Not bad, Jamie—I could complain, but we both know that doesn't do any good, so why bother?”

“Is himself in his office?”

Cathy nodded. “Yes, but he's wrapping up another appointment. Have a seat,” she motioned to some standard, government-issue type chairs outside his father's office. “Coffee?”

“Nah, thanks. I've had my limit today.” Cathy turned back to her workstation and began typing.

After a few minutes, the door opened, and two men appeared. The shorter man was somewhat plump. He held out his hand and said, “Thanks for your help, Frank. The Mayor will greatly appreciate it.”

Frank Griffin took the man's hand and gripped it in the vise handshake that Jamie knew all too well. To his credit, the shorter man did not wince. “No problem, Stanley. Always glad to help out.”

Jamie stood and held out his right hand to his father, steeling his grip for what many in the department called “the handshake from hell.” Frank Griffin put all of his six foot two, two hundred ten pounds into his handshake. At 63, Frank was still a “hard man” as many referred to those who had been tough and fierce in their patrol days. His close-cropped hair was now more silver than dark blonde, but his icy blue eyes were still renowned for their penetrating gaze. “Jamie. Come in, son. Come in.”

As his father closed the door behind him, Jamie recalled the many “fatherly talks” he'd received over the years. Frank Griffin was tough and demanding, on himself and on his children.

“Sit, sit.” Frank walked over behind his desk, behind which the rain now pelted against the glass panes. Frank seated himself in a simple chair that might have been found in the office of a man of much lower rank. It was in keeping with Frank's belief in toughness and fortitude. His only concession to the many injuries his body had suffered in service to the city was a back support cushion. In one of his last cases as a detective before being promoted, Frank had vaulted a ten-foot fence while running after a perpetrator. He had almost made it, too—but his trailing foot had caught the top of the fence and he had fallen hard to the pavement on his back. According to department mythology and his father's many retellings, Frank had leapt up, run down the fleeing man, and tackled him, restraining him until his partner caught up. Frank had three operations on his back, but still worked out daily.

Jamie sat silently, waiting for his father to begin. He'd learned over the years that it was best to determine which way the wind was blowing before sailing into the storm. After a few seconds, Frank fixed his gaze on his second son. “How are you feeling, Jamie? I've heard from your mother and Bobby Sullivan that you're still not able to work.”

Jamie turned over several answers in his mind and rejected any that might come off as flip or sarcastic.
At 42, you'd think I wouldn't be afraid of my Da. Of course, he's also way the hell up the food chain from me, so there's that.
“You've heard right, Da. We can't figure out what the hell is wrong with me, but I'm seeing a crapload of specialists trying to figure it out.”

“I read in an incident report that you actually passed out at a crime scene?” Frank asked.

“Yeah, the fatigue and balance issues are severe. I'm also having trouble with even simple things like walking up and down stairs.”

“Well, something's got to be causing it. What have the doctors checked so far?” Frank had unknowingly adopted his interrogational voice.

“Lots of blood tests, looking for things like Lyme disease, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, that sort of thing. Nothing. The rest of this week, I'm seeing a parade of doctors. I told Doctor Jasinski to run any and all tests he could think of to find out what the hell's wrong with me so I can get back to work.”

“I see.” Frank pursed his lips and put his hands behind his head, leaning back, as he always did when considering what to say next. “Sully tells me you're out of sick time and chewing up vacation time. Couldn't you just find a way to push yourself through it and stay on the job? This is getting serious.”

Jamie counted to five silently, and then he replied. “Da, the fatigue is way beyond anything I've ever experienced. It's like my whole body becomes limp and filled with aches and pains. If I try to push myself and ‘work through it,' I'm going to collapse again, or risk making the headaches and fatigue even worse. I don't know if I can describe this well enough to make you understand.”

“Oh, I think I understand,” said Frank tersely, leaning forward in his chair and placing his hands palm down on the desk with a soft slap. Jamie could tell his father was getting angry.

When he was a young man, fighting in the tough streets of the Irish neighborhood in which he'd grown up, Frank had gotten into a fight with a street hood with a knife. Frank had beaten the other boy into submission, but not before the boy cut him from just below his right ear, down his jaw line almost to his chin. The resulting scar had made Frankie Griffin the stuff of neighborhood legends. Years later, whenever he became angry, the skin along the scar flushed like a thermometer gauging his fury. “I understand that this is starting to reflect badly on both Paddy and me. I understand that you are really sick, Jamie. I don't for a moment think you are faking it. I know you better than that, but I don't understand why you can't just suck it up and tough it out until the docs find a solution? I didn't miss a single day of work….”

“After any of your injuries, even your back surgeries, which you scheduled on late Fridays so you could be back on the job Monday morning.” Jamie knew he was waving a red flag in front of the bull, but his own temper was getting the better of him.

Frank Griffin's scar flared red from ear to chin, a warning light that Jamie was ignoring. “You keep your smart mouth to yourself, boyo.” Frank's eyes now blazed as he pointed a finger at his son. “Keep in mind that I'm your superior officer as well as your father.”

Jamie stood. “You rarely give me an opportunity to forget it.” Jamie's face was now turning red, and his voice rose in volume. “Is there anything else,
sir
?” Jamie stood to attention.

Frank Griffin exhaled loudly. “Don't do this, Jamie. Don't make this about what kind of father I've been or how I treat you. This is strictly about your performance and the fallout if you don't straighten up and fly right. I only have all our interests at heart.” Frank stood to face his son, matching Jamie's angry gaze with his own. “I only want you to succeed, son.” His tone softened at the last words.

Jamie stood stock still at attention and did not respond for a few seconds. “I understand,
sir
. Will there be anything else,
sir
? Request permission to leave,
sir
.” Jamie knew he wasn't making the situation any better, but he couldn't help himself. He could also feel his fatigue threatening to overwhelm him and his headache pounding ever louder in his head.
I'll not show weakness here, even if it means I fall flat on my face once I reach the street.

Frank said nothing for several seconds. Then he shook his head and harshly said one word in his gravelly voice: “Dismissed.”

Jamie snapped off a crisp salute, which his father returned easily, with no emotion. Jamie pivoted and walked erectly out of his father's office in measured paces, not too fast, not too slow. He was glad for an empty elevator, so he could slump against the elevator wall on its way down. There were black spots in front of Jamie's eyes, but he walked without weaving out of the elevator. As he left the building, he collapsed onto a nearby bench. Jamie closed his eyes and leaned his head back, feeling fatigue wash over him in large waves. His headache bored through his head like a rusty hand drill.

After a few minutes, his cell phone rang, and Jamie popped his eyes open. At the same time, he saw Eileen entering the drive. “Griffin,” he answered with as much energy as he could muster.

“Jesus, you sound like shit.” It was Cal.

“Yeah, and feel worse. What's up, Cal?”

“There's been another body found matching our profile.”

Jamie stood unsteadily and slogged to the van, where Eileen watched him, worry clouding her face. “Alright, I can have Eileen drop me off after lunch.”

“No, you can't, Jamie.” Cal spoke carefully, as if he could not speak freely.

“Why not?”

“Because Sully just got orders to put you on leave and restrict you from participating in
any
departmental activities.” Cal knew where the orders had come from as well as Jamie.