Never Alone (18 page)

twenty-eight

Megan sat in the
stairwell while colleagues, some familiar, some strangers, tracked through her apartment, excavating her personal space searching for prints, fibers—whatever would lead them to the person responsible for breaking into the lead detective's Carnegie Hill apartment.

Nappa stepped out of Megan's apartment into the hallway.
They looked at one another, silently acknowledging the same notion:
this is a different experience than last time we were here to
gether
.

“The doorman was on break. There's one apartment moving out today, so movers were using the service entrance, allowing direct access to the basement. Anyone could have come and gone without—”

“Being detected,” Megan interrupted. The look in her eyes wasn't filled with fear, or anger, but stout resolve. She remembered the declaration she'd made standing in the rain staring at her own image on the television
. I am no one's bitch.

“We need you to do a walk-through to see if anything was sto
len.”

“Who is
we
? I'm still a part of the
we
, aren't I?”

“Let's do the walk-through.”

“Nappa, what the hell?”

“Let's just do this and then deal with the next steps.”

She walked through her own crime scene, each step elevating her determination to hunt instead of being hunted. “I don't see anything out of place.”

“Are you sure?” Nappa asked.

“As far as I can tell.”

“Your super's changing the locks. Is he good—do you trust him?”

Megan waived his concerns away. “He's great. I've helped some of his family out of a few jams, a nephew with parole officer issues. He has my back.”

“So do I,” Nappa replied.

Megan glanced up at him. “Good, 'cause someone has their eye on it.” Megan never admitted it to anyone, but every so often she wished someone other than herself had her back. Her father did, as
much as he could, but it wasn't a foolproof plan. Rose had de
manded most of his attention when she'd become ill. Megan knew he was there in spirit, now more so than ever. But ever since finding her mother in the tub that one afternoon when she was young, she slept with one eye open, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. A killer breaking into her apartment sure sounded like a thud. She knew she couldn't stay in her own home that night, so it looked like she was going to have to acquiesce to her brother's request out of default: stay at her parents
' house. It's not as if she'd be getting much sleep tonight anyway.

twenty-nine

Megan sat in Tommy's
Pub, one block down from the home she grew up in. Her father and the owner, Mr. Wilson, shared many a pint over the years. Megan
inherited her father's respect from people on the job but also from the locals, Mr. Wilson being one of them, and she adored him.

He didn't utter a word when she first walked in. She sat at the end of the bar and he had the waitress bring over a shot and a beer, all the while he was viewing a sports channel. Irish culture is many things, but intrusive isn't one of them—at least not until the third shot.

Mr. Wilson was one of the kindest men of her father's friends Megan could think of, other than Uncle Mike, of course.

Salt of the earth
, Pat McGinn would say, and it was true.

“Sweet girl, how ya' holding up?” Mr. Wilson clinked his glass with her
s. “Beautiful funeral, and a lovely wake, he had.”

Megan nodded. “The one party you can never show up for.”
Her laugh was as inappropriate as most endearing comments were in regards to unprepared deaths.

“I've been reading the papers.” He poured her another shot.

“Yeah.” She threw it back, ignoring his inquiry. “Well, I'm off to start sorting through Mom and Dad's house tonight.” She smiled, they tapped shot glasses, and kicked back another.

“To you and yours, my luv.”

As Megan was leaving
, she noticed that Mr. Wilson had attached a laminated copy of Pat McGinn's obituary to the back of the bar wall, and that was that.

Done and dusted
, as her father always said.

She cried walking the one block to the house.

Megan felt she was trespassing for some odd reason as she en
tered the house, maybe because it felt so empty, deserted, and,
worst of all, lonely. She went into the kitchen for a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table. She recounted the countless family dinners the table held for the McGinn family: everyone talking, no one listening, but continuous banter nonetheless. It made her smile, until the silence crept back in and the thoughts returned of a murderer intruding on her personal space. Her sanctuary.

Son of a bitch.

She set the glass in the sink and headed upstairs to her parents' bedroom. She looked at her father's closet. She wasn't ready for his
personal things, their memories. She decided to start with her mother's closet, since Rose would have no use for those clothes any longer. Megan ran her hand across the row of dresses. The smell of her mother's perfume was ever present. Megan pushed the rack to the back and was shocked to find the dress Rose wore the day she tried to kill herself hanging in the back, dried blood covering it.

“Momma. Why? Why would you keep this?” For years Megan could never recall what happened after she opened the bathroom door that day. She sat down on the bed holding the dress in her lap,
unlocking the memory she worked so hard to bury.

She'd run to her mother on the bathroom floor screaming for
her.

Rose was going in and out of consciousness. “It's all just too much. It's all just too much.”

Megan in her hysteria remembered her father was waiting on the phone. She ran over to the receiver screaming, “Daddy! Daddy! Momma's cut herself! She's cut herself!” She remembered how her voice was trembling, but nothing compared to the shaking of her hands. “Daddy, come home! Daddy, come home!”

Megan recalled hearing, “Oh God,” then Pat telling her to get towels and wrap them around the wounds.
Clear as crystal Megan now remembered
: Tight, honey, really tight.

“Okay, Daddy.” Megan had dropped the phone and ran into the bathroom, slipping on some of Rose's blood. She got to her knees and did what her father instructed her to do; she tied the towels as tight as an almost-twelve-year-old could. Megan sat in the bathroom and started to hyperventilate, staring at her mother. Megan couldn't remember how long it was, but the first one to arrive, she finally recalled, was Mr. Wilson. He grabbed her and put her on Pat and Rose's bed. In a matter of minutes, flashing lights were outside of the house. Mrs. Wilson ran into the bedroom then, clutching Megan and rushing
her down the stairs and out of the house. Megan saw her father running toward the front door.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

Mrs. Wilson held her tight. “Everything's going to be okay, Megan. Your dad's checking on your mom. It was just an accident.”

It was just an accident
.

Megan now rolled the dress into a ball and curled up on the bed, tears streaming down the side of her face. “An
accident
with a razor on both wrists. Yeah, right.”

As Mrs. Wilson hustled Megan out of the house, Megan re
membered looking back at the bags of her birthday ornaments sitting on the dining room table, knowing they would never be used, not that year. And Megan never trusted another birthday to be celebrated ever again.

That day marked the moment Rose distanced herself from Megan. Maybe out of guilt, maybe out of shame. No matter the reason, theirs
would never be the model of a close mother-daughter relationship, like Shannon and her mother shared.

Megan remembered when Rose came home from the hospital her first words were, “You better have been taking good care of your father, missy.”

It had been arm's length love from that day on.

Megan's cell rang in the silence, forcing her up. She wiped her face and cleared her throat. “Nappa, what's up?”

“I just wanted to check on you, see that you're okay.”

“Yeah, great.”

“Are you sure? You sound different.”

“No, just a little tired. So, what's happening?”

“The cross on the McAllister's sympathy card? Two drops of blood were found. Very small drops, and rare,
AB negative.”

Megan transitioned from pained childhood mode to detective status. “You're kidding. Did anything match up in the computers? The Red Cross keeps records of people who've donated blood, especially if they have a rare blood type. Have you checked with them?”

“In the process of checking with hospitals and the Red Cross—and that's only
if
the unsub has donated.”

“Or had surgery somewhere.”

“Well, I just thought I'd let you know. Are you sure you're
okay?”

“Nappa, I'm fine. Seriously. It's just been a long day. I assume nothing was found in my apartment?”

Nappa paused. “Nothing.”

“I didn't expect there to be
.”

They hung up and within minutes Megan was fast asleep, hoping there wouldn't be any nightmares like the one she'd lived through today, or like the horror she'd endured years ago with her mother.

thirty

All four detectives reconvened
at the precinct the next
morning. Megan didn't want to speak about the most obvious story: the killer had been in her home. She could feel lingering looks when she walked through the office. The whispers were silenced when she slammed the conference room door.

“The lieutenant's door is closed. Am I waiting for a meeting?” she asked Nappa.

“Joanne said she'll be free in a few minutes. She'll find us.”

“Whatever.” She rolled up her sleeves. “Okay, let's keep going. Lauren Bell, the vic
's mentor, said McAllister had volunteered at something medical for a friend, flu shots, or something, right?”

“The list that Mrs. McAllister gave us is only of the counselors—no medical people or other staff are on it,” Nappa said.

Megan had had Shannon's month-to-month calendar from her datebook enlarged and pinned to the bulletin board in the conference room. “BD. Medical. BD,” Megan repeated. “Blood drive.” She tapped the board before circling the date with the red marker. “The mentor mentioned a blood drive. I bet BD is for blood drive. It's not a person—BD was what she was doing that day, not who she was seeing. Let's check the people volunteering that day and donating,
especially
donating. If that rare blood type shows up, I want that person brought in.”

“Where is the file we have on McAllister's volunteer work?” Nappa asked.

“You mean the list of agencies and organizations. I left that one on my desk. I'll be right back.” Megan went out to her desk, shuffling papers around to look for the folder.

“You fucking bitch!”

When someone yells obscenities in a police precinct, what usually follows isn't an FTD floral arrangement. A man's foot made contact with Megan's lower back before anyone, including Megan, could react.

“
Martin
!”
yelled Professor Bauer's attorney.

He swung her around by grabbing her jacket when his fist made contact with her jaw. Blood flowed like wild rapids through her mouth.

Surrounding detectives jumped on Bauer faster than women at a Prada outlet pouncing on the last size-eight heels on clearance, but not before Megan was catapulted forward, jamming her abdomen into the corner of the desk. The pain seared through her midsection. She turned to see who had the black belt in drop-kicking, and saw Palumbo slamming Professor Bauer's face to the floor.

“I'll get you for this, you fucking miserable bitch!”

Palumbo jammed his knee into the middle of Bauer's back, but that didn't stop Bauer from continuing his rant. “Because of you, the university has put me on a temporary leave of absence. You fucking bitch!”

“Martin!” his
lawyer yelled again.

By the time the second “fucking bitch” was spewed, Nappa was out of the conference room trying to help Megan, just as Walker opened her door.

“What in hell is going on out here?” Walker screamed.

Megan was doubled over grabbing her abdomen, but managed to grunt, “Lieutenant, meet Professor Love. He's the one on the floor.” She glanced behind, rubbing her lower back, blood-soaked drool seeping from the corner of her mouth. “I think he has a crush on me.”

“You're ruining my career, you bitch!” Bauer yelled up from his headlock.

“Palumbo! Rasmussen! I want him out of here right now!” Walker yelled.

“You're arresting him? For what?!” the lawyer yelled back.

“Assaulting a New York City police officer,” she screamed back. “That's a Class B felony, up to nine years in prison. I want him out! Now!”

Palumbo hoisted Bauer off the floor, holding the back of his neck, pinning Bauer's left arm behind him.

“You're going to break my fucking arm, you animal!”

“My client is going to sue this office for police brutality, the excessive use of physical force, and—”

“Shut up,” Rasmussen said calmly to both men while he cuffed Bauer.

“Now I'm adding verbal assault to the charge as well.”

“Shut up!” Palumbo and Rasmussen yelled in unison as they marched Professor Bauer out of the room.

“McGinn, Nappa—in my office!”

Megan grimaced in pain with each tender step as Nappa tried to act as a human buttress on one side.
I sure could have used that about sixty seconds ago
.

“Sit down,” Walker ordered as she poured a glass of water for
her.

Megan took a sip and then crouched over, putting her head into her lap. “So, how's your day?” she muttered.

Walker ignored the dry wit. “Are you okay? Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

Megan looked up. “Oh yes, please, because being assaulted at my own desk isn't embarrassing enough.”

“What the hell was that?” Walker asked.

“I stopped by during one of his lectures,” Megan answered.

“Why? I thought his alibi checked out?” Walker questioned. She handed Megan a tissue for her mouth.

Megan maneuvered her jaw, blotting the corners. “Everyone we've been speaking with said Bauer was the first person that came to mind when they heard the news about McAllister. I just wanted to put a little fire under him.”

“Where were you?” Walker asked Nappa.

“Checking out
The Catholic Times
.” He fumed at Megan, obviously recalling the conversation where he demanded she not go to see Bauer alone. She couldn't tell if he was angrier at her for going and putting herself in the position she was now in—bloody, pained, and still stubborn as hell—or at himself for acting like an overbearing parent.

Joanne interrupted with a knock on the door. “You might want to turn the news on.” She looked over at Megan. “Need a few ibuprofen?”

Megan nodded.

Breaking news flashed over the screen. Ashley Peters stood out
side Professor Bauer's office building with a two-line comment
about Professor Bauer being put on temporary leave based on his alleged involvement with the investigation of murdered student Shannon McAllister.

“I guess now you know why you have a size-eleven shoe print lodged in your spine.” Walker frowned.

“C'mon, I didn't have anything to do with that leak.” Megan nodded over at the television. “You know me better than that. That broad probably paid some college student for the information.”

Walker knew Megan had nothing to do with what they just wit
nessed on the news. But it had
damage control
written all over it in
order to avoid a lawsuit. “Are you sure you're okay?” she asked
again.

“Yeah, my children may be born with a Florsheim shoe
im
printed on their foreheads, but I'm fine.” She rubbed her side. “I'll let you know when he's been processed. The interview should be interesting.”

“Call the bomb squad for some protective gear,” Walker added.

“For Bauer or me?” Megan asked.

Walker's phone began to ring off the hook. They took it as their cue to leave.

“McGinn, Nappa, when you're done speaking with Bauer, get back in here. We are far from done.”