Chapter 6
After spending an excruciating hour with his grieving staff, Nick sent them home with orders to be back to work at nine in the morning to meet with the detectives and to plan the senator’s funeral. He instructed them not to discuss the case or the senator with anyone and to avoid the press in particular.
He lowered himself into his desk chair, every muscle in his body aching with fatigue as the sleepless night and agonizing day caught up to him.
“Have you eaten?” Christina asked from the doorway.
Nick had to think about that. “Not since the bagel I puked up this morning.”
“There’s pizza left from before. Want me to get you some?”
Not at all sure he’d be able to get it down, he said, “Sure, thanks.”
“Coming right up.”
She returned a few minutes later with two slices that she had warmed in the microwave.
“Thank you,” he said when she handed him the plate and a can of cola. Her blue eyes were rimmed with red, her face puffy from crying. “How’re you doing?”
With a shrug, she collapsed into a chair on the other side of his desk. “I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs, and I can’t seem to breathe.”
“I know you cared for him a great deal,” Nick said haltingly. They’d never discussed Christina’s feelings for John.
“For all the good it did me.”
“He loved you, Chris. You know he did.”
“As a friend and colleague. Big whoop.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I because now I have to live the whole rest of my life wondering what might’ve happened if I’d had the courage to tell him how I felt.”
“I’m kind of glad you didn’t.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said with a laugh.
“Not because of work. I loved him like a brother. You know that. But he wasn’t good enough for you. He would’ve broken your heart.”
“Probably,” she said. “No, definitely.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I was confronted with a blast from my romantic past today. We spent a memorable night together six years ago, and I haven’t seen her since—until she walked into John’s apartment this morning as the detective in charge of the case.”
Christina winced. “Awkward.”
“To say the least.”
“Do you trust her to handle the case?”
“Sam’s a damned good detective.”
“I thought you hadn’t seen her in six years.”
“Doesn’t mean I haven’t read about her.”
“Hmm,” she said, studying him.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” Her eyes widened all of a sudden. “What’s her last name?”
“Holland.”
“Oh my God! She’s the one who ordered the shoot-out at that crack house where the kid was killed!”
“Yes.”
“But, Nick, do we really want her investigating John’s murder? Couldn’t we get someone else?”
“I trust her,” Nick said. “She has one blemish on an otherwise stellar career. And think of it this way, she’s got something to prove right now.”
“I guess you’re right,” she said, still wary. The phone on Nick’s desk rang, and Christina reached for it. “Nick Cappuano’s office.” Once again her eyes widened, and she stammered as she said, “Of course. One moment please.”
“Who is it?” Nick asked.
“The president,” she whispered.
Nick quickly swallowed a mouthful of pizza and reached for a napkin and the phone at the same time. “Good evening, Mr. President.” He had met President Nelson on several occasions—mostly in receiving lines at Democratic Party fundraisers—but a phone call from him was unprecedented.
“Hello, Nick. Gloria and I just wanted to tell you all how sorry we are.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll pass that along to the staff. And thank you for the statement you issued to the press.”
“I’ve known John since he was a little boy. I’m heartbroken.”
“We all are.”
“I can only imagine. I also wanted to make myself available for anything you might need over the next few days.”
“I appreciate that. I know Senator and Mrs. O’Connor would be honored if you could speak at the funeral.”
“I’d be honored.”
“I’ll work with your staff on the details.”
“Let me give you my direct number in the residence. Feel free to use it.”
Nick took down the number with a sense of disbelief. “Thank you.”
“I spoke earlier with Chief Farnsworth and made the full resources of the federal government available to the Metropolitan Police. I’m sure you’ll be close to the investigation. If there’s anything you feel they could be doing that they’re not, don’t hesitate to contact me.”
“I won’t, sir.”
The president released a deep sigh. “I just can’t imagine who would do such a thing to John of all people.”
“Neither can I.”
“Do you think Graham and Laine would be up for a phone call?”
“I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. God bless you and your staff, Nick. Our thoughts and prayers are with you all.”
“Thank you so much for calling, Mr. President.” Nick put down the phone and looked over at Christina.
“Unreal,” she said.
“Surreal,” he added, filling her in on what the president had said.
She began to cry again. “I keep waiting for John to come bounding in here asking why we’re all sitting around.”
“I know. Me, too.”
“I actually had a few people ask me today how this affects their jobs,” she said with disgust.
“Well, you can’t blame them. They have families to support.”
“Couldn’t they have waited a day or two to bring that up?”
“Apparently not. I’ll talk to them about it tomorrow and tell them we’ll do our best to get them placed somewhere in government.”
“What’ll you do?” she asked.
“Shit, I don’t know. I can’t think about that until after we get through the funeral. The two of us, maybe a couple of others, will be needed for a while until the governor appoints someone to take John’s place. Whoever it is will want to bring in their own people, so we’ll help with the transition and then figure out what’s next, I guess.”
Christina looked so sad, so despondent that Nick felt his heart go out to her. “Why don’t you go home, Chris? There’s nothing more we can do here tonight.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be going soon, too.”
“All right,” she said as she got up. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Try to get some sleep.”
“As if.”
He walked her to the door and sent her off with a hug before he wandered into John’s office. The desk had been swept clean and the computer removed. If it hadn’t been for the photo of John with his niece and nephew on the windowsill, there would’ve been no sign of him or the five years he’d spent working in this room. Nick wasn’t sure what he hoped to find when he sat in John’s chair. Swiveling to look out the window, he could see the Washington Monument lit up in the distance.
Resting his head back, he stared at the monument and finally gave himself permission to do what he’d needed to do all day. He wept.
Sam arrived home exhausted after a sixteen-hour day and smiled when she heard the whir of her father’s chair as he came out to greet her.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Late tonight.”
“I’m on O’Connor.”
The side of his face that wasn’t paralyzed lifted into a smile. “Are you now? Farnsworth’s got you right back on the horse.”
She kicked off her boots and bent to kiss his cheek. “So it seems.”
Celia, one of the nurses who cared for him, came out from the kitchen to greet Sam. “How about we get ready for bed, Skip?”
Sam hated the indignation that darted across the expressive side of his face. “Go ahead, Dad. I’ll be in when you’re done. I’ve got a couple of things I want to run by you.”
“I suppose I can make some time for you,” he teased, turning the chair with his one working finger and following Celia to his bedroom in what used to be the dining room.
Sam went into the kitchen and served herself a bowl of the beef stew Celia had left on the stove for her. She ate standing up without tasting anything as the events of the day ran through her mind like a movie. Under normal circumstances, she’d be obsessed with the case. She’d be thinking it through from every angle, searching out motives, making a list of suspects. But instead, she thought of Nick and the sadness that had radiated from him all day. More than once she had wanted to throw her arms around him and offer comfort, which was hardly a professional impulse.
Deciding it was pointless to try to eat, she poured the rest of the soup into the garbage disposal and stood at the sink, her shoulders stooped. She was still there twenty minutes later when Celia came into the kitchen.
“He’s ready for you.”
“Thanks, Celia.”
“He’s been kind of…”
“What?” Sam asked, immediately on alert.
“Off. He hasn’t been himself the last few days.”
“The two-year anniversary is coming up next week.”
“That could be it.”
“Let’s keep an eye on him.”
Celia nodded in agreement. “What do you know about Senator O’Connor?”
“Not as much as I’d like to.”
“What a tragedy,” Celia said, shaking her head. “We’ve been glued to the news all day. Such an awful waste.”
“Seemed like a guy who had it all.”
“But there was something sort of sad about him, too.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason in particular. Just a vibe he put out.”
“I never noticed,” Sam said, intrigued by the observation. She made a mental note to find some video of O’Connor’s speeches from the Senate floor and TV interviews.
“Go on in and see your dad. He so looks forward to his time with you.”
“The stew was great. Thank you.”
“Glad you liked it.”
Sam went into her father’s bedroom where he was propped up in bed, a respirator hose snaking from his throat to the machine on the floor that breathed for him at night.
“You look beat,” he said, his speech an awkward staccato around the respirator.
“Long-ass day.” Sam sat in the chair next to the hospital bed and propped her feet on the frame under the pressurized mattress that minimized bedsores. “But it feels good to be doing more than pushing paper again.”
“What’ve you got?” he asked, reverting to his former role as the department’s detective captain.
She ran through the whole thing, from the meeting with Chief Farnsworth to reviewing the tapes the Watergate had finally produced. “We only got traffic in the lobby. Nothing jumped out at us, but I’m going to show them to his chief of staff in the morning to see if he can ID anyone.”
“That’s a good idea. Why do you get a funny look in those blue eyes of yours when you mention the chief of staff? Nick, right?”
“I went out with him once.” She spared her father a deeper explanation of what “going out” had meant in this case. “A long time ago.”
“But it was hard to see him?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I found out he did call me after that night. Guess who took the messages and never gave them to me?”
“Oh, let’s see, could it be our good friend Peter?”
“One and the same, the prick.”
Skip’s laugh was strained. “You able to be objective on this one with your Nick from the past part of the mix?”
Surprised by the question, she glanced up at him and found him studying her with sharp, blue eyes that were just like hers. “Of course. It was six years ago. No biggie.”
“Uh huh.”
She should have known he would see right through her. He always did.
“You need to get some sleep,” he said.
“Whenever I close my eyes, I’m back in that crack house with Marquis Johnson screaming. And then I break out in a cold sweat.”
“You did everything right, followed every instinct.” He gasped for air. “I wouldn’t have done it any differently.”
“Do you ever think about the night you got shot?” She had never thought to ask that until she’d been haunted by her own demons.
“Not so much. It’s all a blur.”
Her cell phone rang. Sam reached for it on her belt and checked the caller ID. She didn’t recognize the 703 number. “I need to take this.”
“Go on.”
She kissed her father’s forehead and left the room. “Holland.”
“Sam, it’s Nick. Someone’s been in my house.”
Her heart fluttered at the sound of his deep voice. This was not good. “Has it been ransacked?” she asked, making an effort to sound cool and professional.
“No.”
“Then how do you know someone’s been there?”
“I know. Stuff’s been moved.”
“Where do you live?”
He rattled off an address in Arlington, Virginia.
Even though it was out of her jurisdiction, she grabbed her coat. “I’m on my way.”