Over and Again Page 5

  “How do you even survive between assistants?” she asks, sitting herself down behind his desk before he straightens his head. “You’re one of those ‘bring back Windows 95’ types, aren’t you? You were sad when they took the helpful paperclip away.”

  “1995 was a stellar year!” he protests. “For operating systems especially.”

  Briony snorts, raising an eyebrow. “I was six,” she says. “You’re not going to get any support from me.”

  “Actual infants.” Brock sighs, leaning against the wall. “I’m surrounded by actual infants.”

  Cohen knew the six of them couldn’t turn off the blinking neon sign that screamed “we’re police officers and we know you know it!” Even in civilian clothes and trying their very best to fly under the radar, there’s something in their posture and faces that gives them away every time. Staking out the best spots in the open-air plaza didn’t help their cause, and Cohen has long since given up trying to make Harry Winters disguise his sidearm better. He’s said something a handful of times before, but Harry’s halfhearted attempts to disguise it always end up making it even more obvious he’s packing.

  None of those times had anywhere near as much riding on it as this time does, but Rhys steps in before Cohen has a chance. His body blocks Cohen’s line of sight, but when he steps away, straightening Harry’s sweater as he goes, it’s a hell of a lot less obvious.

  They might actually pass as civilians on a cursory glance around the plaza. The bigger concern is whether whoever they’re there to meet is going to bolt if they recognize the half a dozen cops, instead of just the one they’re expecting.

  Cohen shakes his head to clear it, curling his fingers around his own knee, tensing and digging into the cut where his quad muscles finish. It doesn’t hurt, but the sensation is enough to snap him out of whatever haze he’d drifted into. He’s not usually the point officer in the important cases, and he can count the amount of times he’s received a tip-off like this. If Daniel had been there to take command, Cohen is under no illusion he would be anything more than backup. The command structure in the precinct has certainly changed, James’s absence a gaping hole, and if anyone deserves the authority in the power vacuum, it’s Daniel. Even if it is in practice more than in name. Cohen would follow his orders in a heartbeat, but he’d be lying if he said that the chance to call the shots for himself wasn’t a thrill.

  “You done daydreaming?” Rhys’s voice fills his ears and he startles, jerking his head around before he remembers the earpieces. “Calm the hell down or you’re gonna be the one that gives us away.”

  “Shut up, Jones,” Martine says over the channel. “Bailey, other side of the road. Three, getting out of an old blue Datsun. They’re armed and look twitchy as hell.”

  Cohen’s gaze zeroes in on the blue car and the three men coming around it. Martine is right, he thinks, as soon as he takes them in. Twitchy as hell. One of them has a bulky coat on that sticks out like a sore thumb, too heavy for the temperature, and there’s a bulge at the second man’s side that screams he’s packing. The third has his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his lighter coat and keeps glancing around quickly. The city has an overwhelming pace most of the time, but there’s a frantic kind of anxiety in the movement of his head that acts like a beacon for the wrong kind of attention.

  “I don’t recognize any of them,” Cohen says, eyes tracking over each of the men again.

  “I’ve picked up the one in the big coat before.” Rhys’s voice is low. “Couldn’t make anything stick, but we busted up a hell of a distribution ring.”

  “The one who took concealment tips from Harry looks sort of familiar,” Martine chimes in. “Can’t place him, though.”

  Harry mutters something under his breath, and Andrew Nottage, a transfer officer from Staten Island, snickers.

  “Eyes on them,” Cohen says, leaning away from the table of businesswomen to his left and getting to his feet. “They’re crossing. Everyone to their corners, and Rhys, I want you with me.”

  “Roger that,” echoes back at him. He can see Guy West out of the corner of his eye, one of the older detectives who’d been paired with Andrew, as he settles into a seat.

  “On your left.” Rhys’s voice drops half an octave.

  The trio are halfway across the road now, all of them looking around the plaza. Cohen sees the moment one of them makes him, the one with his hands deep in his pockets. He removes his hands from his pockets as he steps up onto the sidewalk, something clutched in his left.

  “Watch the front one, Bailey.” Guy’s voice is tight. “They’ve made you and he’s holding something.”

  “I’ve got eyes on our friend in the coat,” Rhys says. Cohen can hear him through the earpiece and faintly from behind him too. He’s only a few feet away, a reassuring presence just off to Cohen’s left.

  “I’ve got eyes on the one that’s carrying.” Martine’s voice is steady. “He hasn’t so much as twitched a finger toward it.”

  “Watching the perimeter,” Andrew adds.

  “What’s that woman doing?” The sound of rustling comes through the earpiece with Harry’s words. “Dyed orange hair. Coming in from the far right.”

  Cohen keeps his eyes trained forward, unwilling to break the eye contact with the man coming toward him.

  “She’s going straight for the one carrying,” Martine says, and Cohen hears the scrape of metal against concrete. “I think this is about to go sideways, Bailey.”

  “I’m going to intercept.” Andrew is visible just on the edge of Cohen’s line of sight, ducking around a group of people. “Watch my back.”

  “More worried about your front, kid,” Guy mutters down the line. “I’ve got a funny feeling about that couple by the coffee cart.”

  “Twitchy fingers happening here.” Martine’s voice is overlaid by a sudden crackle and a loud rustle. Cohen fights against the urge to do a visual sweep of the area as she continues. “Nottage, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Too late,” Andrew says, and then his voice rises, changing tone. “Excuse me, ma’am—”

  Everything goes to shit simultaneously.

  Cohen breaks into a run right as the crack of a gunshot breaks over the hum of traffic. Andrew swears, right into all of their ears, and a shrill scream cuts through it. A dull thud, and then the three men scatter like birds bursting into flight. Cohen lunges with a grunt, snagging the man in the lighter coat’s sleeve.

  “Bailey, drop!” Martine shouts, and Cohen hears her both through the earpiece and over the chaos erupting in the plaza. He uses his grip on the man’s sleeve to yank him down. The concrete is hard against his knees, the impact rattling his bones all the way up to his teeth, and he tries to cover as much of the man under him with his body as he can. The cracking of bullets is a constant, booming refrain over their heads.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Guy’s voice bursts in Cohen’s ear. “I’ve got a civilian down next to me and a dead shooter by the coffee cart.” It gets quieter, dropping into a soothing register. “Breathe with me, sir, you’re gonna be fine. Looks like it just grazed your arm, I swear. You just need to stay down, here by me….” His voice trails off and gets lost in the cacophony.

  “This was a terrible, terrible idea,” Cohen says quietly, his mouth angled away from the microphone clipped to the inside of his collar. He pulls himself further over the man beneath him, darting a glance up at the chaos. “Stay down,” he demands, pushing himself up slightly to get a better line of sight. The woman with the bright orange hair is a few yards away, right on the edge of the sidewalk. Her hair is steadily darkening with blood, and there’s a gun in her slack hand, teetering into the gutter. There’s a flash of dark blue behind one of the cars, and he can see Martine kneeling on someone’s back a few yards away, their hands twisted up behind them and the cuffs glinting. People are screaming and shouting.

  “How did Murph know this was going to happen?” Rhys’s voice is breathless and low. “Who has ey
es on the shooters?”

  Two quick, successive cracks cut any further words off, and then silence descends.

  “Clear,” Harry says, his voice carrying across the now-quiet plaza.

  Cohen pushes up, getting his feet under him and hauling the man up with him. He keeps his grip on his shirtfront, jerking him closer. A couple days’ worth of patchy, dark stubble and bloodshot light brown eyes, wide with panic, greet him when he finally gets a closer look. The wailing of sirens starts to bounce off the buildings around them, and Cohen reaches for his cuffs with his free hand.

  “We’re going to have that chat down at the precinct,” he says, snapping the silver bands closed around the man’s wrists. “You can tell me all about what the hell just happened.”

  5

  “What the fuck happened out there?” Daniel asks, the office door ricocheting off the wall as he bursts through it. He ignores the bang and zeroes in on Cohen and Rhys, who are both hunched over the desk.

  “We had a tip,” Rhys says, not bothering to look up. He taps at the map spread over the desk. “Things went to shit, end of story. Bailey, they had to have come from that way, I’d bet my last dollar.”

  “Someone shot a civilian!” Daniel’s voice hits a new register, a distressed crack forcing him to swallow and wet his mouth. He resolves to buy James a fruit basket and never, ever tell him about this particular moment.

  Cohen looks up, eyebrows heavy and low. The frown is becoming too familiar on his face but Daniel pushes that thought away and crosses the rest of the distance.

  “That was unfortunate, but inevitable,” Guy says from the corner. Daniel half turns in surprise. “The guy will be fine, it was just a graze. I bet he’s singing a whole new tune at a bar tonight, showing off the whole three stitches he had.”

  “Why didn’t you just wait for me to get here?” Daniel demands, looking back to Cohen.

  “Murph authorized it.” Cohen drops his gaze back to the map. “There was a deadline.”

  “A deadline to a shoot-out?” Daniel snaps. His skin is prickling, goose bumps rising to the surface even in the warm office.

  “Someone sent a message to Bailey’s burner phone, everyone agreed it was likely a CI,” Guy says, slow and calm. “It was a wide-open, public place. Exactly like we suggest for information exchanges. There were six of us, and no signs that anything was going to go to shit until it was too late, Callahan. Cool it. Everyone’s alive except three shooters, and we’ve got three in custody, too. There were enough witnesses and enough security camera footage from surrounding buildings that every single weapon discharge is going to pass investigation. No harm, no foul, okay?”

  Rhys snorts, and Cohen’s fist makes impact with his shoulder, rocking him back on his heels. “Bad taste,” he mutters, his other hand still braced on the map.

  Daniel takes a deep breath, dragging the air into his lungs and holding it. “Not my circus, not my monkeys,” he says to himself.

  “Oh, they’re definitely your monkeys,” Kay says from the doorway. “Speaking of monkeys, I’ve got Demi from the animal shelter on your line.”

  “Not my monkeys,” Daniel repeats, turning to face her as Rhys snorts again. “What does she want? I signed the goddamn forms Peter gave me.”

  Kay laughs, loud and delighted. “Never mind, I’ll take care of it,” she assures him. “You’ll have your best feline friend waiting for you tonight, I’m sure.”

  “I can’t believe you adopted Sal’s cat,” Cohen says, shaking his head.

  “Me either.” Daniel pushes his way between Cohen and Rhys, deliberately ignoring the still giggling Kay loitering at the door. “So let’s pretend I haven’t. Walk me through what went down, and why Andy Nottage is limping?”

  Brock takes himself out for a late lunch. There’s a steakhouse within walking distance, tucked away just enough that you either have to know about it or be unbelievably lucky to stumble upon it. They serve a tomahawk steak that he dreams about sometimes, when he has to leave the East Coast for extended periods of time. Food is the best reason he can come up with for a break from staring at the computer screen and the endless scrolling. The walk is just long enough to clear the fog of numbers and affidavits full of doublespeak from his head. The air is as fresh as it ever gets this deep in the city and Brock tucks his hands in his pockets, his blazer folded over in the crook of his arm. He ducks around clusters of people on the sidewalks and loses himself in the relentless thrumming of New York’s heartbeat for the handful of blocks it takes to get there.

  The stained-wood door is still exactly where he remembers it, and the tarnished brass knob clicks open when he turns it. The door glides open under his hand, the sconce lights along the walls flickering. The walls are dark wood panels and the carpet is burgundy, and every time Brock steps foot inside it’s like stepping back in time. Mismatched though the modern menu and classic décor might be, it’s one of his favorite places in New York City.

  The woman hovering near the hostess stand has platinum blonde hair, pulled back in a sleek chignon, and her smile reveals intimidatingly perfect shiny teeth. The image of a K-9 he’d seen at the precinct his first day back in the city flashes across his mind and the few seconds it takes him to smile back are awkward and obvious. Her smile wavers, faltering and then brightening. “This way, sir,” she says. “Any others in your party?”

  “No.” Brock follows her around half a dozen bigger tables until she reaches one of the smaller tables in the corner. “Just one.”

  “This is the best spot in the house,” she says as she turns around, pulling the seat out.

  Brock likes the position of this particular table and has sat at it more than once, so the smile he gives her is more natural this time as he sits down. “I’ll have a glass of Glenlivet,” he says, “18 if you have it, no ice, and one of the tomahawks, medium-rare.”

  “Of course,” the hostess says. “Any sides?”

  “Just the baked potato with sour cream,” Brock says, laying his blazer over the back of the other seat.

  “Certainly.” She dips her head, the light reflecting off her hair, and disappears.

  Brock looks down at the table and the gleaming silverware. The blade of the steak knife is pristine, slim and sharp. No fingerprints or water stains. He picks it up, setting it sideways across the space between the fork and the side plate, and then pulls his cell phone out to set it off to the side of the table too. The notification light up the top is blinking but he doesn’t unlock the screen, gaze dropping back to the gleam of the knife.

  Soft, mellow jazz floats from speakers in the corners of the room, muted enough to barely be there if you were having a conversation, but just loud enough to pick up with the absence of other noise. Brock’s foot picks up the rhythm, tapping against the leg of his chair as he looks up and down the length of the knife. There’s an epiphany lurking just out of sight, he knows, and when it comes it’s going to crack the whole case wide open.

  “Banker,” he mutters, still staring at the knife, and then glancing at the fork. “Gang snitch. What the fuck brought you two together?” He frowns. “And then killed you?”

  The jazz picks up in tempo, just enough that his foot loses the rhythm for a second. Brock taps a fingertip against the flat of the blade. “Brought you together… to kill you?” The cold steel slides against the tablecloth, and Brock’s teeth catch on his lip. “Who’d benefit from that?”

  Something moves into his field of vision, just the edge, and he startles badly enough that the knife, fork, and napkin end up on the floor. The waitress is standing there with his drink, looking unimpressed and a little startled at the same time. She puts the tumbler down, out of his reach, and crouches down to pick up the cutlery and napkin.

  “Let me get you some new cutlery,” she says, and glances at the scotch as she straightens back up. “Please don’t spill that when I come back?”

  Brock buries his face in his hands as she turns to leave, willing down the embarrassed flush. “Jesu
s Christ,” he breathes against his palms. “Who even let you out in public?”

  James presses their palms together, interlocking their fingers, and then brings their tangled hands up to his mouth. He brushes a kiss against the bumps of Derek’s knuckles. “I never thought we were going to have this again,” he confesses, quiet and soft and not entirely sure he even wants Derek to hear, but unable to stop all the same. “There were too many close calls, and in the end our luck had to run out. I was so sure that was the moment it ran out.”

  “It did run out,” Derek says, bleak and equally quiet. He hasn’t looked directly at James since Clinton had helped him into the chair beside the bed and they’d been left alone for the first time in longer than James wants to think about. “For all of us.”

  “We’re still here.” James closes his eyes and holds their tangled hands to his lips again, breathing in and holding it for a long moment. “I’ve still got you and you’ve still got me. That’s a hell of a lot more than I expected when those charges went off.”

  Derek flinches hard enough that James feels it, eyes shooting open. He’s been turning over those last few moments in the boathouse for days, trying to figure out the disconnect between the surprise on Coy’s face and the detonation. In some of the darkest, quietest moments, he’d thought there was something he’d missed. Something that had slipped by him, unnoticed.

  “Derek?” His fingers tighten, holding Derek there even as he flinches again. He reaches out with his other hand, cradling the side of Derek’s face in his palm. A cold, sick certainty curls around his insides.

  James tilts Derek’s face up, and his eyes are still fixed stubbornly downward. “Derek,” he says again, his heart slamming against his rib cage.

  When Derek lifts his gaze, there’s horror and guilt and a stony conviction there, as plain as the stitches still cutting through the closely shorn hair behind his ear. “He was going to kill you,” he says. “Even if I stalled him and let him take me, James, you would have died out there. I rolled the dice and I’m sorry for the consequences, but I’m not sorry that you’re alive and he’s not.”