Faith and Fidelity (3 page)

Over the din of conversation Evan caught Matt's eye and shrugged at his friends’ nonsense, smiled again. He wasn't exactly sure why he was reaching out to this man— maybe force of habit. You see someone sitting that far down in the gutter, you lend him a hand.

Matt Haight let the conversational buzz and beer settle into his bones; it'd been a long time since he'd been drinking with anyone else around. While the conversation didn't actually include him, it was nice not to be completely invisible for awhile. And Evan Cerelli— well, there was something in his expression that Matt recognized. Neither one of them was entirely comfortable here, but, in the same breath, where else were they supposed to be?

So Matt smiled back.

The friends at the table continued their raucous banter. Matt felt his brain wandering again. He'd lost count of how many beers he'd consumed but knew he was nowhere near being smashed. His tolerance had built up to a pretty high level. More cops in and out the front door. More casual glances in his direction. More faint whispers of his name here and there, getting louder as the time got later and volume control was shorted out by cheap liquor. Matt's back stiffened up slowly, his shoulders creeping up towards his ears with tension and discomfort.

“Hey, Matt,” he heard from a distance.

Evan was calling him from across the table. He raised his voice to be heard over the enraged shrieks now emanating from Helena and Kalee— as Moses had said something particularly ridiculous. “I see Abe over there with Vic. Have you had a chance to talk to him yet?”

Matt shook his head no. “Then let's go over.” Evan stood up promising the table they'd be back.

Abe and Vic were leaning on the bar, nursing club sodas and wiping their brows. Judging from the noise, no one in the back room had noticed the guest of honor had left to get some air.

Looking up, Abe broke into a huge smile when he saw Matt and moved to give him a big hug. Matt returned the sentiment and felt a lump well in his throat. He always forgot how much he missed the old coot. It was a relief to see him retiring in one piece, the only one of Matt's partners to be able to do that. He tried not to think of himself as the Harbinger of Death.

“I was hoping you'd grace us with your presence.” He winked over at Vic. “Shoulda checked the table with the beautiful women as soon as I came in.”

Everyone laughed.

Evan stood discreetly to one side, watching the warm reunion. Nice. It looked like Matt needed someone to be thrilled to see him. He remembered how many times— you know,
before
, as he thought of it— after the worse possible day, he'd come home to have one of the kids greet him with a simple smile or hug and suddenly he'd forget the ugliness. Sherri standing at the stove, turning to flash him a big smile, glad to see he'd made it home before midnight.

'Cause ya know, Evan
, he told himself,
if you're going to have a memory, have a real one
. He'd made it hard on her, working so many hours, leaving her to manage the kids, the house, their life. She'd done it brilliantly, which had made it so much easier for him to stay that extra hour (or four), or take off to pursue something that could have honestly waited until morning. There'd been a million arguments over it. It was really the only thing they'd fought over which made it even more painful. A problem that he could have solved simply by leaving Vice. But he didn't, and if wishes were horses or however that saying went.

Vic was saying something about another drink and Evan looked down at his watch. It was almost nine, and he'd promised the kids he'd be home in time to say good night. Damn. Evan begged off then hesitantly interrupted Abe and Matt's conversation.

“Sorry guys. I need to get home. Abe— I just wanted to wish you the best.”

“Hey, Evan! Thanks for coming. I'm sure you'll see me around. This leisure thing is probably going to get old real quick, and I'll be stopping by to bug Vic here on a regular basis. Maybe impart some of my senior wisdom.”

Evan grinned. “And I know you don't want to miss any of Vic's meetings.”

Abe cracked up. “Oh yeah. That would be a shame. Why go out and look for the next Ms. Right when I can spend Thursday nights with you, Moses, and Vic?”

“Exactly. Take care. I'll see you soon.” They shook hands and Evan turned to go. He stopped and went back to shake Matt's hand.

“Good to meet you.”

“Hey, thanks.”

Evan understood the unspoken message.
Hey thanks for not treating me like a circus freak
. He felt exactly the same way.

“Uh, we should you know, get a drink or something sometime,” Matt said casually. “Just hang out.”

“Yeah. Give me a call at the station.”

Matt nodded. “Great.”

Evan gave Vic a small wave and headed for the table to collect his things. He said his good-byes and was gone quickly out the door, before anyone could protest too much.

Matt caught more frowns and whispers going on at the table, especially from Helena who rubbed her forehead, pushing off questions from the other two detectives with a wave of her hand. He turned to Abe and Vic, who was watching with worried eyes of his own.

“So what's the story?

“On Evan? Wife died about ten months ago— car accident. Left him with four kids. It's just all... heartbreaking.” He shook his head.

“Shit.”

“Yeah. He's holding it together, at least on the surface. I been there myself ya know, and frankly, I don't think he's doing as well as he claims to be.”

Matt grunted, looking down into his glass of beer.

Maybe that was the connection then. You grieve with every fiber of your being when the thing you love most is ripped out of your life.

Matt Haight found himself at yet another bar on yet another Friday night. Beer, check. Slight buzz going, check. No female company in sight, check. Yep, good to go. He watched his reflection in the warped mirror behind the bar. Jesus he looked like shit. Starting to get that puffy look. Time to go on a diet, get back in the gym. Something. Anything.

He needed to talk to someone, just to shoot the shit. Seeing his old friends a few weeks ago at Abe's made him wish he'd tried harder to stay in touch. He saw his ex-partner Phil O'Neill and his family on the holidays but that was it. He spent his time alone, in this bar (or one remarkably like it). He hadn't made a new friend in what... years? It was fucking depressing. He didn't know how to connect with anyone anymore— he was becoming a hermit. A drunk hermit. Matt started thinking about Abe's party and remembered the guy he'd met there. Evan Cerelli? The widower. Cop. Seemed nice. Vic Wolkowski and Abe both gave him high marks. Seemed like he would be cool to just hang out with.

Matt took a deep breath.
Resolve Matty, resolve. Get off yer ass and do something about your sorry state.

Checking his watch, he saw it was nearly nine. Evan was home by now but Matt thought he might leave a message. Maybe they could hook up next week. He walked over to the doorway to give himself some privacy and flipped open his cell before he lost his nerve and dialed up Vice from memory (mind like a steel fucking trap). Asked for Evan Cerelli. Absently looked around the nearly empty bar, wondering what loser picked a dump like this to get drunk in. Then he heard a voice pick up on the other line.

“Cerelli.”

“Uh, hey. Evan. This is Matt Haight.”

“Hey, Matt.”

“Oh, you remember... ”

“Well, yeah.” Evan laughed softly into the phone. “Mind like a steel trap.”

Momentarily distracted, Matt tried to put his thoughts together. “Kind of surprised you're still at work... ”

“My kids are at their grandparents’ for the weekend,” Evan said, and Matt could hear the distinct deadening of his voice. “I'm just catching up on some paperwork.”

“Well then I'll let you go.”

“Wait. Where are you?”

And the lie came out without Matt even considering why he bothered. “Manhattan. You guys are on the West Side right?”

“Yeah— you wanna come by? We could get that drink tonight.” A hollow laugh. “I could use it.”

Amen, brother
, thought Matt. “Give me an hour— I have, uh, an errand to take care of.”

“Great. Come up to the third floor.”

“I'll see you soon.” And he hung up the phone.

He stared at the receiver for a long moment then walked back to the bar, threw down a twenty for his last three beers and a healthy tip, and headed out the door. He had an hour to get from Staten Island to Midtown. Drive or ferry? He decided on the ferry since he presumed he was legally drunk and crossed the street, heading for the station.

See, that was easy
, thought Matt. Things were already looking up.

Evan hung up the phone and stared at the pin neat surface of his desk. The paperwork he'd finished an hour ago. Then he'd cleaned out his drawers, updated several files, sharpened some pencils. He was about to go clean the coffee machine— anything to keep him from having to go home— when Matt Haight provided him with an escape plan. A drink. Maybe a whole lot of drinks. Conversation with someone who didn't automatically affect the “poor Evan” expression when addressing him.

Haight was essentially a stranger. He wouldn't be searching for clues to Evan's mental state or checking on his eating habits. Or watching his hands to see if they shook. (Which they did, but maybe Haight wouldn't notice.)

The kids needed this break— the house was a living testament to Sherri's life and a constant reminder of her death, and he knew it got to them as much as it did him. He was exhausted keeping up a normal front and his in-laws had picked up on it last time they “dropped in” for a quick visit. How anyone “dropped in” to Queens from Long Island he had no idea, but these days he preferred to keep his relationship with Phil and Josie as politely distant as humanly possible. He had no interest in hearing another two voices comment on how they thought he was holding up.

They'd insisted on taking the kids for the weekend— picked them up from school and driven straight out to the Island. Promised to return them on Sunday night. That would give Evan “time to relax"—
oh yeah, ‘cause you know, sleeping in an empty house, feeling the absence of your dead wife and your children, that just screamed relaxation.

Evan sighed. He thought maybe, with a belly full of liquor, he might sleep for a few hours tonight. It was the best he could hope for.

Matt arrived at Vice in a record forty-two minutes. He'd spent the entire ferry and cab ride over sobering up and trying to comprehend the fluttery feeling in his chest. Staring up at the brick building, he swallowed back the rush of memories, the overwhelming sense of longing he felt. It was bittersweet— like seeing your ex happy in the arms of someone else.

He took the stairs up to the third floor and paused at the squad room's doorway. Evan was sitting at his desk, staring off into space, his head turned away from where Matt stood. He slumped in his chair, his hands lying limp on the surface of his desk. His posture spoke of exhaustion, defeat. Matt suddenly realized how gaunt the man was— pale skin, looked like he could stand to gain ten or fifteen pounds. A wave of sympathy pushed Matt through the door. He cleared his throat, giving Evan a chance to pull himself together.

Blinking, Evan turned to see who had entered the squad room. Except for the occasional uniform wandering through looking for leftovers, he had been alone all evening.

Matt Haight stood a few feet away, smiling broadly.

“Hey, you ready to get that drink?”

They ended up at a hole-in-the-wall Matt remembered called O'Malley's— one of about six hundred bars in the five boroughs with that name but this one had the distinction of being run by a guy who was Cuban on his mother's side and Jamaican on his father's.

The place was filled to capacity— ten people— mostly at the bar, a few at the tables and booths that haphazardly filled the place, one guy having a fight with someone on the pay phone near the bathrooms. The two men moved to the table furthest from the door, tucked into the far left corner, just far enough from the angry drunk at the phone to be able to talk.

Evan took off his overcoat and suit jacket, pulling his tie off as he sat down with a heavy sigh.

“You weren't kidding when you said you could use a drink.”

Evan shrugged. “Long week. I think I just need to unwind for awhile.”

“Beer okay, or you want something stronger?

“Beer's fine.”

Matt got up and walked over to the bartender, ordered them two pitchers. “Ya want food?” asked the burly man. His faded tattoos peeked out from under his shirtsleeves and collar. Matt spotted the USMC logo on his inner arm when he pointed out the short menu on the blackboard behind the bar.

“Give me one of everything,” said Matt. That should cover them for the evening. Greasy bar food and beer. He was going to have to start jogging in the morning.

The bartender grunted and slid the pitchers across the bar to Matt. “Tab?”

“Oh yeah. You want a credit card?”

“Nah, I trust cops.” He turned and went back to cleaning up some spills in front of a bleary-eyed businessman.

As he balanced the pitchers and two glasses and wove in and out of the small tables back to their spot, Matt absently wondered if it was a learned skill or natural inclination that made bartenders able to spot a cop at forty paces.

“Ta-da.” He put everything down on the table, impressed he didn't spill a precious drop. “I ordered some food, too.”

Evan was already pouring beer into the glasses. “Uh, great. Thanks.”

Matt sat down and took his beer, raising it to toast his partner in drinking to oblivion. “Here's to bad food, flat beer, and good company.”

Evan returned his smile. “Sounds perfect.”

They clinked their glasses and started the trip to numbness.

That was the first time.