Under the Skin (25 page)

T
HE
news of Konstantin’s death was all over the precinct by the time Patrick made it back to the station. He wasn’t surprised by that. He was surprised not to receive a call asking him to verify Alexei’s story. Yes, Alexei had said they hadn’t seen each other, but Patrick hadn’t expected that to hold. He’d expected Alexei to need his help.

When, two days later, he still hadn’t heard from Alexei or from any of the detectives assigned to Konstantin’s case, he got curious and pulled the file. To his surprise, it was marked closed. Konstantin Volkov had been shot to death by Alexei Boczar. No other notes, nothing about charges filed or pending or anything else. Just that one sentence.

Growing worried, Patrick tried Alexei’s cell phone only to get a message that the number was no longer in service. Despair deepening, Patrick swallowed his pride and went to see Lieutenant Graves.

“Excuse me, sir,” Patrick said, knocking on the door to the other man’s office. “Do you have a moment?”

“I might even be able to spare two,” Graves said, motioning Patrick inside and closing the door. “What can I do for you, detective?”

“It’s about Boczar, sir,” Patrick said. “We were working together on a couple of cases, and suddenly his phone’s disconnected, and when I looked at the file on Konstantin Volkov, it says Alexei killed him. That can’t be right. He’s done everything he can to
protect
Volkov for as long as I’ve known him.”

“Boczar’s been pulled.” Graves sat at his desk and indicated for Patrick to do the same. “Interpol has had concerns with his methods for a while, but with Volkov’s death they apparently felt he’d outlived his usefulness.”

Those methods had included saving the life of a Chicago police detective, but Patrick refrained from mentioning that. Graves wasn’t the one who’d made the decision. Patrick didn’t have to defend Alexei to him. “Do you know where he is?” Patrick asked, heart pounding at the thought of what “pulling” Alexei might mean. “I really need to talk to him.”

“You’ll have to find a new source for your Mafiya tips,” Graves said, shaking his head. “Interpol doesn’t share that kind of information with local working stiffs like us.”

“Can you at least tell me who to contact at Interpol?” Patrick asked, heart sinking at the thought that Alexei might be beyond his reach forever. “It really is important. Please?”

“Why do you care what happens to Boczar?” Graves asked, his tone sharpening.

Patrick scrambled mentally for an excuse he could offer the other man that wouldn’t land him in trouble. “He gave me something of his,” Patrick said finally, “something important. I told him I’d keep it safe for him, and I’d like to give it back.”

Graves looked suspicious, but pulled out his cell phone and jotted down a name and number on a Post-it note. “Hans Walther was my contact at Interpol. I don’t expect he’ll tell you anything, though.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said, taking the information. He suspected Graves was right, but the man had done what he could. “I owe you one.”

“What goes around comes around,” Graves said with a shrug. “You’re a good cop, Flaherty. Just be careful who you trust.”

“I always am,” Patrick replied, knowing to the core of his being that his trust wasn’t misplaced, but he had no acceptable way of explaining that Graves. Patrick had bent, if not downright broken, way too many regulations for that. “Thanks again.”

He tucked the phone number in his pocket and left Graves to the rest of his day, biding his time before calling Walther. As Graves had predicted, Walther was less than helpful when Patrick finally called, his accented voice monotone as he informed Patrick that Alexei Boczar was dead.

Patrick refused to believe it, but his heart ached as he searched the precinct records for a death certificate or case file or anything. He found it with far too little effort. Killed in a shootout with Konstantin Volkov. “But that’s not right,” Patrick whispered as he stared at the words on the page. “Volkov was dead when I left, and Alexei wasn’t. I know Volkov was dead.”

He clung to Alexei’s promise, though. Alexei wanted him to trust him, and Patrick would. When it was safe, when he was settled in whatever new life Interpol had created for him, he would find a way to contact Patrick. Patrick just had to hold on until then.

H
OLDING
on got harder and harder with each passing day until Patrick had to remind himself to eat. Even then, he knew he was losing weight. He only hoped no one else had noticed.

“Patrick, child, what is wrong with you?” Reba perched on the edge of Patrick’s desk, her manicured nail tapping the folder Patrick had been staring at but not really seeing for the last fifteen minutes. “You look like you haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep or a decent meal in weeks.”

“Yeah, it hasn’t been the best few weeks of my career,” Patrick admitted. “Things have been a little rough lately.”

“You are too young to be carrying so many troubles,” the older woman said sympathetically. “You want to tell me about them? My momma always said a trouble shared was a trouble halved.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Patrick said, “but I don’t think this is the best place for sharing troubles. Too many people who might overhear something I’d rather not share with the whole precinct.”

“How about you come with me tonight for a good home-cooked meal? I may not be able to do anything about your sleeping, but I can at least feed you. You were never big to begin with, but you’re nothing but skin and bones.”

“It’s a deal,” Patrick said. “I doubt I’ll be very good company, but it’s got to be better than moping around my apartment.  What time should I come over?”

Reba looked at the clock with a frown. “Honestly, as many hours as we’ve put in this week, we could leave now. I’ve got some chicken and dumplings in the refrigerator I just have to pop in the oven. You can follow me, but here’s the address.” She added her cell number and passed it to Patrick. “It’s straight down the Ryan in Hyde Park, but call me if you get lost.”

Patrick programmed the address into Google Maps on his phone. “I have one stop to make on the way,” he said, refusing to arrive at her house empty-handed, “but I shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes behind you.”

“You take your time,” Reba answered, locking her desk. “I’ll need to be sure Ty is settled with his homework, and then we can talk.”

Patrick had forgotten Reba had a son. “How old is Ty again?” he asked, thinking maybe he could pick up something special for the kid at the same time he picked up a bottle of wine as a thank-you gift for Reba.

“Fifteen, can you believe it? He’s a sophomore in high school. Gets good grades too.”

“That’s wonderful. You’ve got to be so proud of him,” Patrick said. He could get a two-liter of Coke. He’d bet Ty would love that, especially if Reba was as strict about what Ty could drink normally as his own mother had been with him.

“I am, but that doesn’t stop me worrying about him. Or about you,” she added over her shoulder as she headed toward the squad room door. “You look like you need someone to take care of you too.”

Patrick had wanted—had even begun to expect—that person to be Alexei, but that seemed less and less likely with each passing day. He’d tried telling himself it would take time for Alexei to settle in his new life and for him to feel safe enough to contact Patrick, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.

Gathering his jacket and wallet, he headed out to his own car and from there to Reba’s house by way of the nearest Jewel to pick up a bottle of hopefully decent wine and a two-liter of Coke for Ty. Traffic was snarled as always, but he went with the flow, trying to figure out how to explain everything to Reba in a way she could both understand and accept.

When he reached her house, he debated the jacket, finally leaving it and his tie on the seat of his car. He was having dinner with a friend, not working a case.

“You shouldn’t have, but thank you,” Reba fussed when Patrick handed her the wine. She introduced him to Ty, who accepted the Coke as eagerly as Patrick had expected. “Just one glass before dinner,” Reba admonished as the teen disappeared into his room with the bottle.

“Does that apply to us as well?” Patrick joked, trying to postpone the inevitable grilling a little longer.

“You’ll have to be sober enough to drive home,” Reba said as she opened the wine, pouring it into two glasses and carrying them into the living room. Setting them on a table, she sat on the couch and patted the cushion beside her. “Beyond that, you’re an adult, so I trust you to know your limits. Now sit down and tell me what has you so blue-deviled.”

Patrick took the glass and sipped it, trying to figure out how to begin. “You know I’m gay, right?” he said finally. If she couldn’t deal with that part, he didn’t even want to think how she’d react to the rest.

“I suspected, but it’s really none of my business,” Reba answered. “You’re a good man and a good cop and a good friend. Beyond that I don’t see that it matters.”

“Well, it matters for the rest of this story,” Patrick explained, relieved at her reaction to that much of his revelation. “Do you remember the contact who gave me the lead on Eddie’s murder?”

Reba nodded.

“He was a mole,” Patrick went on, balking at the final hurdle. “You really don’t want to hear this, do you? It makes me look like a fool at best. At worst… well, I don’t even want to think what the captain would say if he heard some of the things I’ve done.”

Reba cocked her head. “Is anything you did illegal? Because I’m still an officer of the law, and if you did something I’d have to act on, then maybe you shouldn’t tell me any specifics.”

“Not illegal,” Patrick said. “Against more regulations than I care to count, but I didn’t break any laws. If you’d rather not know, I’ll stop now, enjoy a good meal with a friend, and we’ll leave it at that.”

Reba smiled and patted his knee. “I haven’t spent fifteen years in the Organized Crime unit without understanding the things you have to do to get information. Trust me, Captain Jacobs is more interested in getting results than in how you get them. I could probably surprise you with a story or two of my own. So don’t worry, I doubt you can shock me by anything you’ll tell me.”

“I met my contact on a case,” Patrick said, “before I moved up to Organized Crime. He didn’t add up, you know? I’ve worked a lot of cases with a lot of gangsters, and there’s a pattern. It’s not one hundred percent accurate, but enough that you begin to know what to expect. Alexei didn’t fit those patterns.”

“Alexei Boczar, right? He was a bodyguard for the Volkov family,” Reba mused. “Dropped out of sight after the old man went down and the son was killed.”

“The old man went down because Alexei gave me the tip to find the gun, and he killed Konstantin to stop Konstantin from killing me,” Patrick revealed. “He played the role of a bodyguard, but he was working for Interpol. His file says he died in the shootout with Konstantin, but I know that’s a lie. I was there. Interpol was a dead end. And it’s been nearly two months since I heard from him.”

“Are you sure you will hear from him?” Reba asked softly. “If he was Interpol, they may have called him back to Europe.”

“He promised he’d call me,” Patrick said, lost in the memory of the last time he’d seen Alexei. “He told me he loved me, asked me to trust him, and promised he’d call.”

“I never met him, so I can’t judge how likely he is to keep his promise,” Reba said. “And I’ve never worked with anyone from Interpol before. But if he’s been compromised, and they have anything like our witness protection program, it could take months for him to be settled into a new identity.”

“It’s already been two months,” Patrick pointed out, “and how hard is it to find a pay phone and tell me he’s safe?”

“Until he’s settled in his new life, his handlers are going be sitting on him like a hen with one chick,” Reba countered. “They can’t risk anything linking him back to his old life, and as hard as it is to accept, Patrick, that includes you.”

“I know,” Patrick said with a deep sigh. “In my head, anyway. My heart isn’t nearly as cooperative.”

“Believe me, I understand,” Reba said. “But you have to take better care of yourself. Not sleeping and not eating are not going to help your Alexei any, and you’ll be a wreck by the time he finally does contact you. Now come in the kitchen and let me see about putting some meat back on those bones.”

Patrick followed her into the kitchen, relieved to have someone else know the truth. She was right, of course. Alexei would be horrified if he could see the state Patrick had worked himself into. It was time to stop feeling sorry for himself and start proving he trusted his lover to call him when he could.

“
M
ERRY
Christmas, Mom,” Patrick said, walking into the house he’d grown up in on Christmas Eve. A quick glance around the room revealed two of his brothers, three of his sisters, their spouses and kids, three of his uncles, and Sister Mary Joseph, his mother’s aunt, who spent most of her time in a retirement home but always joined them for Christmas and Easter.

“Patrick!” His mother wrapped him in an embrace before looking up at him with a searching expression. Eileen Flaherty’s head might barely reach his shoulder, the bright red hair threaded with strands of silver, but that look could still make him feel like he was six years old. “I was hoping you’d bring someone with you. Can’t you meet any nice men there on the North Side?”

He had met someone, but explaining Alexei to his mother, especially after hiding him for over a year, wouldn’t exactly be easy. “He couldn’t come tonight,” he said slowly. “He was called out of town on business.”

It wasn’t a complete lie.

“What kind of business is he in that he has to travel over Christmas?” Denis, the brother closest to Patrick in age, asked after clapping Patrick on the shoulder in greeting.

“What’s his name? How long have you been seeing him?” Katie, his oldest sister, interjected from across the room where she was feeding his newest nephew.

“His name’s Alexei,” Patrick said, returning his brother’s embrace and moving deeper into the room. He had barely gotten his coat off before his nieces and nephews swarmed around his ankles. “As for the rest, it’s complicated. We met a little over a year ago when he witnessed a murder I investigated with the gang unit. And his business is the kind you don’t discuss outside of the precinct.”