Behind The Veil: A Gina Harwood Novel Page 14

  He glanced over at Jake again, and his eyes skittered over the stain on the blanket. Marcus forced his eyes back to the road. I-64, east. Marcus was fairly certain they were in Kentucky now, thanks to a few signs they'd passed. Geography had never been his strong suit, so he hadn't known which state to expect after Indiana. He wondered how Jake knew the route, but figured maybe Peter had told him how to get there. Jake had said to stay on I-64 until he woke up; Marcus hoped he had it wrong, and maybe the highway would turn south, or north, or something, and take them away from their destination. That way, he wouldn't be at fault. It's not like he knew the route.

  Ever since Jake had finally fallen asleep, Marcus had been rehearsing conversations in his head, thinking up questions to ask that maybe wouldn't set his friend off again, but might shed some light on exactly what he hoped to find. Did he just expect to waltz into some crazy commune and say hello? Would it even be there anymore? How would they find it, if it wasn't on the maps? Maybe the cops already found it. Marcus thought back to his too-short phone conversation; the cop had sounded concerned. He really thought they'd follow up on it. He expected a police barrier every time he passed a new mile marker, and was disappointed when it didn't materialize. Surely they'd have to stop soon, go through some checkpoint or something. Or he'd hear the unmistakable sound of chopper blades and they'd have to pull over. Twice now, he'd seen highway patrol cars speeding up behind the car, and he screamed at them in his mind, hoping some psychic connection might penetrate the glass and metal. Both times, Marcus had considered weaving across the lanes, or driving erratically, or doing something that would grab their attention; but both times, he lost his nerve, and they zoomed by. He couldn't get over his innate fear of the police. The detective he'd met, the lady, she was okay. It seemed like she cared. Harry had liked her, and he trust Harry's judgment. But these cops – Kentucky cops, now – who knew what they would do?

  He wasn't sure which danger was worse. Marcus glanced over at Jake again, and again his gaze was drawn inexorably toward the thick red stain. 'Okay,' he amended to himself. 'That's worse.' Glancing in the rear view mirror, Marcus prayed that, if he saw another cop car, he wouldn't lose his nerve again.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Harwood was not in the plush leather office chair. She wasn't in the office at all.

  Morgan spun around, calling out as loudly as he dared for her. “Harwood!” he hissed. “Dammit, Gina!” No answer.

  He ran back down the stairs and out the door; a quick visual sweep didn't reveal his partner or the feds, so he paused to catch his breath and forced himself to maintain a steady but slower pace back to the station building, ducking around to check out the parking lot. He gave up the walking and jogged past the rows of black and whites, surveying the civilian cars behind.

  With a sigh of relief, he spotted the tiny green Civic with the bald tires. She was still here, or at least, hadn't driven anywhere.

  Morgan frowned in irritation with himself and fished his cell phone out of his pocket. Why hadn't he called her immediately? He quickly punched in her number and hit call, wondering why he'd never programmed her number into his speed dial either; he supposed it was some fleeting arrogance that speed dial was for more important personal contacts. Though he rarely got personal calls.

  He strode resolutely back into the building while holding the phone up to his ear.

  No rings – it went straight to voicemail.

  Morgan snapped the phone shut and quickened pace to their office, throwing the door open. No Harwood. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath.

  “What?” came a voice from behind him.

  He whirled around to see his partner coming up the hall, looking considerably less frazzled than he felt. “Where were you?” he demanded.

  Harwood cocked an eyebrow at his tone. “I was on the phone with the Chief, sorry. I asked for time off. He gave me a week.”

  “No, listen.” Morgan explained his run-in with the feds, detailing the conversation perfectly from memory. “I agree with you now, okay? I don't think everything's on the level here. But you can't go. No way.”

  Harwood pushed past him and dragged her chair to the computer. “I already found airplane tickets,” she answered.

  Morgan gaped at her. “Did you HEAR what I just said?”

  She continued as though she hadn't heard him. “Look, here. If I take the red-eye to Baltimore, I can get this transfer to Wicomoco Regional, it's not even that expensive. And that's in Snow Hill. It'll be way faster than driving, and I have a ton of reward points from when my car was screwed up last year and I had to drive that rental car for like two months. I bet I can even get the car for free.”

  Reaching out and forcibly swiveling her chair to face him, Morgan crouched on the carpet in front of her and stared up into her face. A small part of him told him to just let her go. Any other partner would be less aggravating. But for all her annoying traits, he couldn't do it. “Earth to Gina. Something is rotten in Denmark. Those feds, if that's what they even are, they want you to go. And they think you're going to your death. I don't know what's going on here, Harwood, but it is way over us. We have to tell somebody else. It's somebody else's problem now. This is beyond us.”

  Harwood smiled sadly. “I know all that,” she said simply.

  “Let me try again,” started Morgan, narrowing his eyes and grimacing. “You...”

  “Whose problem is it, Morgan? Who do we tell? The Chief?” Her voice was unusually soft, and Morgan let his hands drop. “The Chief got his orders to drop the case. All he'd do is revoke my vacation. So what, we go above him? That's career suicide, and you know it. And for what? How long will that take? Will they even believe us? How about the local cops, do you think they'll drop everything and run out to a cornfield or whatever? After what Parker called a fairy tale? She's right, that's what it sounds like. Meanwhile, that kid is scared to death, and the one remaining O'Malley family member is driving toward something in Maryland. Does it exist? I don't know. But I would like to find out. And I'd like to keep them both from getting into any more trouble, if possible. It feels like this whole family's blood is on my hands. I can't turn away from it.” Her smile faded from her face. “Maybe they do want me to go, maybe they want me to do the leg work so they can get the glory. I don't really care if they do. If I can solve this, and keep those two from getting their fool heads knocked in, it's worth it. If I can't...” she shrugged. “Then at least I tried.” She swiveled back to her computer and shut it down. “My flight leaves in five hours. I need to go pack some clothes.”

  “Gina!” he huffed, exasperated. “We don't have jurisdiction. We're not on the case. We cannot do this.”

  She grabbed her purse and started packing some of the items on her desk into it.

  “Gina...” he started again.

  “Do what? Check out a field in Maryland? Stop saying 'we.' There is no 'we.'” She stood, and Morgan stood to block the door. “I don't see you fitting in to any of this. You haven't bought a ticket. You aren't worried about those two at all, and you heard the call, same as I did. You're cold as ice, Snyder, talking about regulations. Do what you want to do. Tell the Chief if you want to. I don't care. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm not cut out for any of this.” She walked up to him, but he didn't move out of the doorway to let her pass; there was only a centimeter of highly charged particles between them. Morgan felt sudden warmth heat his face. “Get out of my way,” she challenged.

  “No,” he answered, quietly. Their noses were almost touching.

  There was a moment, some inexplicable moment, when Morgan wondered what it would be like...

  Then he felt a sharp elbow in his ribs and doubled over.

  “Jesus, Snyder,” she chuffed as she pushed him aside, and walked briskly toward the exit. “Enjoy your career.”

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  “No, I know, I'm sorry,” Gina chattered lightly as she flopped her old overnight bag onto her bed, cradling her cell between her shoulde
r and her ear. “You're right. It's just been crazy at work.”

  “Well, it's good to hear from you, anyway. When are you going to come visit? Can you make it for Christmas this year?”

  Gina set her jaw. “I don't know, Mom, I'm gonna try. It's hard to get time off, you know. The holidays are always busy.”

  She heard her mom cluck her disapproval over the line. “Terrible line of business. I don't know why you couldn't be a doctor or something.”

  Gina pursed her lips. “I think doctors are usually busy over the holidays too, and for the same reasons.” She folded a pair of jeans and placed them into the case.

  “I think you need to see your Dad before too long, honey.” Her mom's voice had lost some of its harshness, and Gina closed her eyes for a moment.

  “Has he gotten worse?”

  There was silence for a moment. “He has good days and bad days. Some days he thinks I'm his mother.” She chuckled, but it fell flat, far from genuine. “Sometimes he doesn't know me at all.” Her voice hitched, but when she spoke again it was clear. Gina had only ever seen her mother cry once, in the hospital, just after her grandfather passed. Even the hitch was more than she usually gave away; it must have gotten much worse, though she'd never say directly. “But he still has some good days,” she finished.

  “How is he today?” she ventured.

  Her mother hesitated a moment before answering, which was really all the answer Gina needed. “Probably shouldn't try today, honey. Maybe if you call tomorrow?”

  Gina bunched up a shirt,tossed it carelessly into the bag, and sat down on the comforter, squeezing her eyes shut. “Okay, I'll try... Mom, I'm being sent on assignment, I may be out of touch for a little while.”

  “Always work, work, work,” her mother clucked again, but she sounded relieved to chide her daughter instead of discussing her husband.

  “Yeah, it's life,” replied Gina, making sure her steady voice didn't belie any of the emotion bubbling up in her chest. “Anyway, I'll call when I can, and I'll do my best to make it up there for Christmas, okay?”

  “Okay, sweetie, it was good to hear your voice again.” Gina waited. “I'd almost forgotten what you sounded like.”

  Gina smiled wryly. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  “Pass it on to Dad, okay?”

  That momentary silence again. “I will, dear, as soon as I can.”

  Gina held the cell phone for several minutes once the call was wrapped up. Her body felt heavier than usual, like she was slowly sinking into the mattress, and it would forever swallow her up. Emotions warred within her. It was possible this trip would have serious repercussions, especially if her bosses found out. She didn't put it past Snyder to drop it into a conversation with the Chief, and then she might be out of a job entirely. Maybe instead of endangering her job for this case, she should just take her vacation and head up to Chicago, see her Dad and hope that he'd recognize her? Spend some time with her Mom. Neglect someone else's family, not her own, for a change. Mechanically, she picked the shirt back up and began folding it neatly.

  It wasn't too late to change the tickets, she considered. Chicago would probably be cheaper. She sighed. She had just wanted to call and hear her Mom's voice again (and preferably also her Dad's), just in case something bad did happen, in case Snyder was right.

  Snyder. Gina enjoyed telling him off at the time, especially that last line - “Enjoy your career.” It felt so... so right, at the time. Now, she felt awful, as usual. He was right, technically – 'but I am too,' she thought. 'No one else is going after those two.' What would he think if she just ran back to her parents instead of following through on her lofty mission? Since when did she care what he thought, anyway? She looked down at the cell phone again. She had always failed her parents in her own mind. Not calling tomorrow or coming for Christmas would be par for the course. Even getting killed in some cornfield due to her own stupidity would probably not be entirely unexpected. Her vision blurred as hot tears splashed onto her cheeks, and she felt her chest tighten, metal bands contracting across her lung; a glance at the clock told her she only had a few hours to make her decision – she'd need to leave for the airport sooner rather than later.

  'I've already bought the tickets,' she thought, but that rang hollow. 'Marcus sounded terrified,' she continued, and that felt truer. She could easily recall his high-pitched tone, the pounding sound behind him, his insistence that they were going to follow that crazy story to its end. The quick puff-puff of adrenaline-laced breathing. Those things were more real than the money, and they strengthened her resolve. So did the memories of the bodies – Susan O'Malley with the word “Mine” carved into her abdomen. Harriet Fowler, hung upside down from a bridge. And Peter O'Malley – all she could see was his face contorted in agony, and the blood splatters on the wall. Vital organs lost their vitality when they were scattered across the floor. The room glistened with liquid. She hadn't had the chance to examine the body more closely, because the one encounter with Parker and Hanagawa was the only time she'd been allowed to enter the scene. The body had been deemed off-limits, classified. Anger replaced sadness, and its edge was sharper.

  Gina stood and continued to pack her small suitcase, the cell phone staring up at her accusingly from the bed.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  It only took about ten minutes for Morgan to realize his error – he should have bought a case of beer and taken it home instead of hitting the bar, but his preference for draft sidelined him. It started out okay. The bartender didn't give him any sideways looks or try to make conversation; he just served him a Heineken and let him slink off to a booth in the corner. Even the waitress seemed to sense his wish to be alone, occasionally circling nearby so that he could catch her eye for a refill, but otherwise leaving him alone.

  Billy and Roger didn't seem to see it that way, however. Morgan shrank into the shadows, but it didn't matter – the two boisterous men noticed him and bee-lined for the booth. He found himself wondering why old college buddies (or girlfriends, or distant family members) always managed to find the least possible convenient time to pop back into his life. First came they “Hey!”s and the “Look who it is!”'s, and then the questions about his family (none), work (off-limits for discussion), and the inevitably chipper declarations about their own lives (both married, Roger with three kids). Morgan felt pressure building inside his temples and looked longingly at his beer, still nearly three-quarters full.

  “I'm sorry, guys, I have to go,” he said, indeed feeling sorry, but only for the half-drunk glass. “We'll catch up later, huh?” He then slid out of the booth, slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar, and walked out the front door without waiting for his change, and without looking back to see their befuddled reactions.

  There were two or three more bars down this strip of road, he knew, but upon considering it, he decided to go home. The interruption felt like a sign. He was obviously meant to go home tonight.

  Glancing at his watch, he didn't see 8pm. He saw three hours until her flight left.

  He drove home on autopilot, replaying the overheard whispers in his head. Why did Parker say he wouldn't go, and she would? Was he a coward? Or just a straight-shooter? Maybe smarter and more rational. But he remembered her saying “The guy's not much,” and he bristled against it. 'Not much, huh?' he thought. 'Let's see how far Harwood gets without me to ground her to reality.' He knew she got lost in loops of thought, gradually losing orbit and flying further and further away from the issue at hand. He thought grimly of Parker's last comment. “Then she's dead.” That, he could visualize easily, and it brought him no comfort.

  Morgan pulled into his apartment complex and quickly found a spot near his building. He fished for his cell phone and manually dialed Harwood's, cursing himself again at neglecting to program it into his phone. 'There's still time,' he thought grimly. 'I can talk her out of this.'

  The rings went to voicemail and he glared at the device in irritation. “Wh
y do you even HAVE a phone?” he asked her aloud before flipping it shut. He turned off the ignition and replaced his hands upon the steering wheel, leaning forward to rest his forehead on them. When he was a little boy, and his parents or teachers would ask him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he'd say “Police Officer” (well, until he was ten or so, he'd say “ossifer,” but the intention was clear). Other than a brief period of time when he'd strongly considered psychology – mostly because the girl he wanted to date was a psych major – he'd never wavered from the belief that he would be a police officer. When he got old enough to appreciate the distinction, he knew he wanted to be a detective, and not just any detective – a HOMICIDE detective. The man's man. The guy that caught the killers. The serious stuff.

  His criminology degree was criminally easy for him; schooling had always been second nature, and he had a disciplined mind when it came to study and tests. He passed the civil service exam with flying colors, but had more trouble with the physical exam; he passed it, but it was daunting. He excelled during his time as a patrol officer. In other words, he followed the path exactly as he'd seen himself doing since he was a youth.

  Harwood made detective before he did. Morgan initially blamed it on some sort of sick affirmative action joke; she didn't seem disciplined, and he knew she had trouble with the exam. She'd passed the physical test okay, maybe scoring as well as he did, he wasn't sure. But she didn't pass the service exam the first time, and had trouble as a patrol officer. When she made detective, he dismissed her entirely. Honestly, he initially thought she might have been screwing the Chief.

  A few months later, he made detective. It was the best day of his life. He'd gone out with some colleagues to celebrate the promotion, and someone had invited her along. At first, he chafed at her very presence, but he noticed something at the bash. She didn't like the Chief. And he didn't like her. What's more, he surmised that the only reason she'd been invited, by her then-partner, was to rub in the fact that no one had celebrated her ascension with her. He felt bad then, and made a promise to himself to try to get along with her, which felt like a martyr promise at times. After all, she was just a Juvie detective, and he'd been immediately promoted to Narcotics, with a line into Homicide within a year or two.