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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Three weeks later…

Rav stares out over the river, watching the long line of aircraft on approach to LaGuardia and trying not to wonder if one of them is carrying the Nicks. The band plays Madison Square Garden this weekend, their first performance in New York since the incident at the Concord Theater. It’s the talk of the town—which makes it extremely difficult to put a certain someone out of his mind. “It’s the worst,” he grumbles, adjusting his Prada aviators against the bright June sunshine. “Just when I was finally starting to get over it.”

He is so over not being over it.

“Give yourself time,” Mags says in his earbuds.

“I think the problem is that I’ve had too much time on my hands. Admin leave is torture. I’m climbing the walls.”

She hums sympathetically. “It must be hard, not having closure on your last case. They won’t let you keep looking into it, even on your own time?”

“Strictly off-limits. Aside from the jurisdictional issues, I have too much personal baggage. So instead I mope around like a bloody teenager. Honestly, what is happening to me? All this drama over a guy I hooked up with once .”

“Physically, maybe, but you spent hours talking on the phone. More than kisses, letters mingle souls. ”

“What?”

“It’s John Donne, darling. The point is, physical intimacy is not the only kind of intimacy. Take Jason and me. We spent hours online before we ever met in person, and by then, I was head over heels.” Rav hears the click of a makeup compact. He pictures her seated at her antique boudoir table, running a contouring brush under her cheekbones. “If you like him that much, maybe it’s worth fighting for. When are they going to make a decision on your case?”

“Any day now, but it won’t change anything. I basically accused him of murder. You don’t come back from something like that.”

“Shouldn’t you let him be the judge of that? So you doubted him for a moment. Can he really blame you? After all, he didn’t trust you enough to tell you about the bass player.”

“Exactly. Mutual distrust is hardly an auspicious way to begin a relationship.”

There’s a long silence. Faintly, Rav hears Edith Piaf on scratchy vinyl in the background.

“Something you want to say?”

“I’m just trying to recall the last time I heard you talk about a relationship . Frankly, I’m drawing a blank, and I have to ask—”

“Please don’t.”

The question hangs in the air. Are you in love?

There’s a beep in his ear. Rav looks at his screen. “That’s the union. Love to Jason, and break a leg tonight.”

The news is more or less what he was told to expect: as long as the relationship was consensual and Jack wasn’t involved in anything criminal, nothing in the rules prohibited them from seeing each other. The rep informs Rav that the investigators are now satisfied on both fronts, and he can expect to be cleared for active duty within the week. “It took a little longer than we hoped, but they wanted to be thorough, which is in your best interests as well.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

There must be something in his voice, because the rep says, “This is good news, Detective.”

It’s great news. So why doesn’t he feel like celebrating?

He’s just stuffing his phone back in his pocket when it buzzes with a Twitter mention. He still gets tagged in posts about Jack now and then, and though he tries to resist reading them, he never can.

Jenna Zhang @JenZee

NOOOOOOO! WHERE WAS @RavT WHEN WE NEEDED HIM???

When we needed him to what? Rav pulls up the thread—and his heart stops.

Breaking: New Knickerbockers’ Jack Vale in Shooting Incident

The singer and his bodyguard have been taken to a hospital in New York City following a shooting outside the Palace Hotel.

Rav scrolls frantically through the timeline. The report is less than half an hour old, so there’s virtually no information. It’s not even clear who’s been shot, let alone what condition they’re in. Without thinking, he fires off a text.

Are you OK?

It’s absurd, of course. There will be a thousand people trying to get ahold of Jack right now, and nine hundred and ninety-nine of them will be more entitled to hear from him than the cop he hooked up with that one time. Rav knows this, but he can’t stop himself. Please let me know if you can.

He texts Eloise next, though he’s not sure she’ll recognize the number. He tries to reach Charlie Banks, too, but it goes straight to voicemail. He must look like a maniac, stalking up and down the waterfront, feverishly texting and refreshing Twitter every few seconds. This goes on for about twenty minutes until he can’t take it anymore; he jumps in a cab and heads uptown, reasoning that they’ll be at Manhattan General. He figures maybe he can flash his badge and get some proper information, and he’s halfway there before he remembers he doesn’t have a badge right now.

A small crowd of fans has already gathered outside the emergency entrance when he arrives. Hospital security is willing to let him through, but the woman at the admissions desk is not so accommodating. “I’ll need to see a badge,” she tells him. “Otherwise, family only.”

He loiters in the admissions area for a bit, scrolling through the NYPD alerts on his phone, but there’s even less information than on Twitter. Then his screen lights up with a text. It’s from Eloise.

Hi just to say that Mr. Vale is OK so not to worry

Rav drops onto a chair and lets out the breath he’s been holding. He goes to compose a reply, but then he spies the PA in the flesh not twenty feet away, hurrying toward the admissions desk. She’s got her nose buried in her phone when Rav walks up, and she jumps when he says her name. “Oh! I didn’t realize you were here.”

“I wasn’t sure if I’d hear anything by text.” As if that’s a legitimate explanation for him showing up here. It probably looks pathetic, if not downright creepy, but he’s too worried to care. “Is Mo all right?”

“He’s been shot,” Eloise replies, and she bursts into tears. Rav grabs a tissue from the desk. “Thanks,” she sniffles.

“Have they said how serious it is?”

She shakes her head, dabbing delicately around her false eyelashes. “They’ve barely said two words to Jack at all.”

“He’s not by himself in there, is he?”

“Mr. Banks is on his way, but Jack didn’t want the others coming around, with all the fans and the media and everything. He asked me to bring his medication.”

“Is he having an attack?”

“I don’t think so, but he wanted it just in case. I’d better hurry up and get it to him.”

“Of course.” Rav swallows the rest of his questions. He’ll just have to wait for answers like everybody else. “Thanks for the update, and tell him if he needs anything…”

He leaves her at the desk, his head swimming. Was this Miller? It must have been. You were wrong about him. You were wrong and you let him get away and this is on you.

“Detective?” He turns to find Eloise hurrying over, brandishing her phone. “Jack says if you want to come back…”

Rav experiences the strangest swirl of emotion, a mixture of relief and butterflies and dread . “Sure. Of course.”

They find Jack sitting alone in an auxiliary waiting room, head between his knees, phone buzzing away on the seat beside him. At first he has eyes only for Eloise—more specifically for the orange plastic bottle in her hand. He tosses back a pill and gulps down half a bottle of water. “Sorry,” he says as he catches his breath. “I should have had them on me. The nurses won’t give me anything without talking to one of the doctors, and I didn’t want to bother them.” His phone buzzes again, and he looks at it dully. “It hasn’t stopped since I got here.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Eloise says, picking it up and unlocking it with a practiced motion. She uses a code rather than biometrics, and Rav catches himself being annoyed about it. Really, Mo? Is that your idea of security? What’s that saying: How you do anything is how you do everything?

It’s a stupid reflex. Whatever happened out there, it isn’t Mo’s fault.

Eloise walks away, texting, and it’s just the two of them. “Do you want to sit?” Jack asks.

Rav perches on the seat beside him. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay.” His body language tells a different story. He’s almost doubled over, hands knitted in front of him.

“I hope I’m not intruding. If you’d rather be alone…”

“I wouldn’t have invited you back here if I wanted to be alone.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Jack just stares at the sparkling vinyl floor. “It happened so fast,” he murmurs. “I was signing autographs outside the hotel, and he stepped out of the crowd. I didn’t even see the gun until…”

“Miller?”

Jack nods. “But it was different this time. He was different. Before, he seemed… I don’t know, scared, I guess. But this time, he just looked blank. Like he was past scared. Mo stepped in front of me, and…” He shudders. Rav’s reflex is to put an arm around him, but he’s not sure it would be welcome.

“Has someone taken your statement?”

“A preliminary one.” His glance falls to Rav’s belt, where his badge should be. “Are you here officially?”

“I came on my own,” Rav says awkwardly. “I’m sorry for just showing up like this.”

“No, it’s just… You got here so fast.”

“Twitter. I still get the occasional mention after that whole TMZ circus.”

“Right, the skate park memes.” Jack shakes his head. “First the Concord, then the skate park, now this. It’s like we’re destined to keep colliding.”

Colliding is the right word for it. Ricocheting off one another in the margins of violent incidents. If it’s fate, it’s a strange kind.

“How did it turn out with your job?” Jack asks.

“I just heard today. They’re putting me back on active duty.”

“That’s great.” A faint smile flickers across his face. “That’s really great, Rav.”

A doctor arrives with an update, informing them that Mo is being prepped for surgery but is expected to make a full recovery. “The bullet lodged in his shoulder, but we don’t anticipate complications removing it. If you leave your number at the desk, someone can text you when he’s ready to receive visitors.”

Jack thanks her, and then he’s on his feet, shoving his hands through his hair, and this time Rav follows his instincts. He touches Jack’s shoulder— I’m here if you need me —and Jack throws his arms around Rav. “Thanks,” he whispers into Rav’s neck. “Thanks for being here.”

They’re just drawing apart when Charlie Banks and Ryan Nash show up, along with Nash’s bodyguard. Jack fills them in on the latest.

“How the fuck did this happen?” Erika Strauss growls. “In what parallel universe does some ninety-pound tinfoil hat get the drop on a seasoned field agent?” She composes herself quickly, her tone turning coolly professional. “I’m going to need you to stay in this room,” she tells Jack. “If you have to use the bathroom, I’ll escort you. If you want something to eat or drink, we’ll have Eloise get it. Just give me a minute to secure the room.” She corners one of the hospital security guards and starts talking to him. Rav has to hand it to her: she takes charge of a scene like a pro. It’s a comfort knowing there’s someone capable to step in while Mo recovers.

“I thought we agreed you weren’t coming,” Jack is saying to his bandmate.

“ You agreed I wasn’t coming,” Nash returns. “No way I was letting you go through this alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“I see that.” Nash’s gaze flits over Rav, not especially friendly.

Eloise reappears, and as soon as she sees Ryan, she rushes into his arms. “It’s so awful .” She sniffles. “Isn’t it awful ?” Nash pats her back awkwardly and agrees that it’s awful.

Charlie Banks fishes a bottle of scotch out of his messenger bag. “Compliments of Sarah Creed,” he tells Jack, grabbing a paper cup from the water cooler. “She figured you could use some chill-out juice. How ’bout you, Detective?”

“Thanks, but I should get going.” Jack’s real friends are here now; he doesn’t need a stand-in anymore. “I’m glad you’re safe,” Rav says, squeezing Jack’s shoulder in farewell. “Please give Mo my best.”

By the time he passes through the automatic doors, the crowd outside has swelled to perhaps fifty. Rav hails the first cab he sees and ducks in before anyone notices him. Then, because he’s learned from his mistakes, he calls his CO. Howard is up on the news, both of Rav’s reinstatement and the shooting. “Have you heard anything from Vale’s people?” she asks, not unkindly.

He fills her in on the latest. “What are they saying on the radio? Is Miller in custody?”

“Unfortunately not. He was last seen fleeing into the park on foot.”

He won’t get far , Rav tells himself.

“Is that what you were calling to find out?”

“That, and to let you know that I’d seen Jack. I wasn’t sure if that was allowed.”

There’s a pause. He can’t tell if she’s pissed or just thinking.

“Your relationship with Jack Vale has already been the subject of a thorough review, and the investigators found nothing inappropriate. That being the case, I see no reason why the department should have any further interest in the matter.”

“Okay. That’s…”

Great news? Too little, too late? He really doesn’t know how to feel about it.

Maybe she hears it in his voice, because her own is surprisingly gentle. “We’ll expect you in the squad room tomorrow, Detective,” she says, and hangs up.