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CHAPTER TWENTY

Rav is still churning over the conversation from last night. He just can’t get his head around it. That Jack is somehow willing to put everything behind him, just pick up where they left off. I like you , he says. As if meeting someone you like is so very extraordinary that it’s worth overlooking that one time they accused you of being a murderer. It wouldn’t make sense for anybody, let alone a bloody rock star. Jack could have anyone he wants. He could have everyone he wants, all at the same time. And he wants Rav? It’s mad.

The good kind of mad, obviously. The kind that might, just possibly, be worth putting your heart on the butcher’s block for. Part of him just wants to say sod it, jump in a cab and go over there. He pictures it: Fantasy Rav striding slow-motion out of the elevator, nodding at Mo as the bodyguard opens the door for him. Jack is surprised to see him, barefoot with a sparkling water in his hand, but he’s good to go, his mouth already seeking Rav’s as Rav hoists him off the floor and carries him bodily out onto the terrace. They tumble into the pool fully clothed, and Rav’s suit is plastered to his body and Jack is all over him like a wild animal and maybe the neighbors are watching from a nearby window and Rav doesn’t care , he lights Jack up like a pinball machine until he begs for release and then he fucks him right there in the pool, gazing into those magnificent eyes, the same aquamarine as the water, until they start to flutter closed and Jack throws his head back and—

“ Rav. ”

“Sorry, what?” Rav scoots his chair forward until his lap is hidden by the desk.

Will frowns at him across a stack of paperwork. “Dude, where are you today?”

Fucking in the pool. Please do not disturb. “Could you repeat the question?”

“I asked whether you’d heard the news about Novak. You remember, the missing PI?”

It’s like a bucket of ice water in the face. “Don’t tell me.”

“Afraid so. They found him three days ago, in a shallow grave upstate.”

Rav swears under his breath. “Have they released a cause of death?”

“Not yet. You were in touch with missing persons before you went on leave, right? Were they getting anywhere?”

“Last I heard, they were still trying to convince Fuse to release his data so they could put together a list of his clients.” He wonders if Aisha could help. It seems like she’s given up on the Russian hacker thing, or he’d have heard something by now. On the other hand, he’s officially spent all his chits with her. “Apparently, phone records had him upstate quite a bit, so I guess he was working something up there.”

“Something that got him killed.” Will sighs and tosses the pen he’s been chewing onto his desk. “You called it.”

“Not much of a leap, unfortunately. The real question is whether his death has anything to do with Vanderford.”

“Should we flag it with the Bureau?”

Rav considers that. “The only evidence we have of a connection between Novak and Vanderford is a business card.”

“Yeah, but if it turns out he was shot, the feds would probably be faster on the ballistics. If the gun matches the one that killed Vanderford and Miller’s roommate, we’d know for sure.”

“So it’s confirmed? The gun that killed Greg Watson is a match?”

“Yup. Rice called up the LT to let her know.”

So the Bureau is playing nice, sort of. In which case, it behooves the NYPD to do the same. “All right, let’s fill them in on Novak. I’ll reach out this afternoon.”

He gives Jack a call on his way out of the office that evening. He’s not ready to put his cards on the table, but he can’t deny he’s craving the connection, and besides, Jack needs him right now. The call goes to a generic voicemail, but he gets a text a few minutes later.

Sorry in studio. Call you in a bit?

“Oh, just in the studio, making another platinum record.” As though he needs the reminder that this isn’t Jack Random, gorgeous and slightly neurotic musician, but Jack Vale , award-winning, chart-topping, stadium-filling rock god, as seen on the cover of Hot Wax Magazine . It’s mad .

He can feel the doubt creeping in again. Does he really want to be pulled back into Jack’s orbit, knowing he’s just going to end up burning up in the atmosphere?

He needs a distraction, so he decides to take it out on the MMA bag hanging in his spare room. He jabs and hooks and crosses until his shoulders ache, and by the time his phone rings, he’s so winded he has to let it go for several seconds before picking up.

“Sorry I couldn’t take your call before,” Jack says. “We’re recording some new material for a special edition of Background . Couple of bonus tracks, remixes, that sort of thing.”

“Ho hum. Just another Thursday.”

He laughs. “How are you? You sound out of breath.”

“I’ve just spent the past half hour pummeling an innocent boxing bag, so that probably tells you everything you need to know.”

“Rough day at work?”

“Not especially,” Rav says, ripping the Velcro on his gloves. “I’m just rammed rather thoroughly up my own arse at the moment.”

“Been there. You should try writing songs. Extremely cathartic.”

“That sounds like something that requires talent. Though I did attempt a love poem or two as a teenager.”

“Oh yeah? Were they any good?”

“Awful. I did the world a favor and burned them in the most melodramatic bonfire. Nearly set His Lordship’s favorite gazebo on fire. The gardener came after me with a weed-whacker, howling profanities in Turkish.”

He can hear the grin in Jack’s voice. “I don’t even care if that story is true, it’s amazing. Who were the poems about?”

“Oh no. We are not even close to the stage where I start discussing my romantic history.” He grabs a coconut water from the fridge and downs a couple of big gulps from the carton. “Besides, if you’re that curious, you can probably find some of it online.”

“I may have come across a photo or two.”

Rav feels a blush creeping up his neck. “What about you? How do you manage to keep your love life out of the tabloids?”

“What love life?”

“Seriously. The whole time I was investigating you, I didn’t come across a thing about it. Granted, I wasn’t expressly looking…”

“I don’t give many interviews, and I’ve made it clear that my personal life is off-limits. Most journalists respect that. The real ones, anyway. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before some trash tabloid runs something.”

Rav is still too sweaty for the couch, so he stretches out on the rug by the coffee table, phone resting on his chest. “Does that worry you?”

“Kind of? It’s not like I have anything to hide, but like you said, having the media poking around your life is pretty unpleasant. I can’t imagine having to go through that as a teenager, like you did.”

“It’s my own fault. I leaked the most outrageous photos myself.”

“Really? Why?”

“Part of the war of escalation between my father and me. His Lordship had a very clear idea of who he wanted me to be, and I didn’t exactly conform. That was true even before I came out to him, and you can imagine how that went.”

“He wasn’t cool with it?”

“He claimed to be, and I think he wanted to believe it. But he’s the kind of stodgy traditionalist that would make most Tories blush, and if there’s one thing he has in common with my mother, it’s a pathological need for the approval of others. What I did in private was my own affair, but he asked that I not, quote unquote, rub people’s noses in it. Be careful what you say on social media, no public displays of affection, that sort of thing. For a while I did my best to indulge him. Then a mildly compromising photo started doing the rounds on the local gossip blogs, and my father lost it. Accused me of doing it on purpose just to undermine him. As if my entire existence revolved around him. So I decided to show him what some really shocking photos looked like. Boys, drugs, the lot. I set my own life on fire just so I could flip him off by its pretty orange glow. Speaking of melodramatic.”

“Wow.” Jack’s voice is subdued. “That’s shit, Rav. I’m sorry.”

“It was eons ago. I’m over it, though we’re not. I don’t know that I’ll ever truly forgive him for that period in my life. Or myself, for that matter. I did some things I’m not proud of.” For reasons he can’t fathom, he finds himself telling Jack about the medal he pawned, the one his great-great-grandfather earned in the First World War. “It was stupid and spiteful, and I regretted it almost immediately, but by then it was too late. That’s when I knew I needed to leave London for good. Get out of my father’s space before we made each other any more toxic.”

“So you moved to New York and became a cop.” A pause. “Can I ask you something?”

“Why did I decide to become a cop?”

“Sorry, is that rude? It’s just… you could have done anything you wanted. Or nothing at all. You could have just lived off your trust fund, like Dick Vanderford.”

“Well, we’re not talking that kind of money. Four years at Columbia pretty much drained the tank. But it’s a fair question.” Rav takes a moment to consider his answer, but it’s a comfortable silence. He can’t imagine why he felt nervous about this call. It feels so good to talk to him like this again. Like coming home. “Honestly, I just thought I’d be good at it. Maybe there was a bit of rebellion in it, too, knowing my parents would hate it.” He pauses. “No, there’s no maybe about it. I was a very angry eighteen-year-old when I started college. My choices were definitely filtered through that. And back then I had a pretty romanticized view of law enforcement. A privileged kid’s view.”

“What about now?”

“Now, it’s complicated. You have the opportunity to do a lot of good in this job. Helping people get justice, getting dangerous criminals off the streets. You’re a part of something important, but that’s the double-edged sword. You can’t pick and choose which bits you’re associated with. There are times when I’m incredibly proud of this department, and times when I’m so angry and ashamed I can hardly drag myself into work. It’s hard to reconcile that, and there are days when I get very, very tired of trying. I struggle with it. Lots of us do. The answer I keep coming back to is that the world needs good cops. If all the good cops walked away, who would be left? Maybe doing some good in the world isn’t just about getting terrible people off the streets, but about getting them off the force, too. Maybe it’s about getting the right people into the right positions who are actually serious about reform.”

“Is that what you want? To be top brass someday?”

“Maybe? Part of me wants to zoom out even farther. The problems with our criminal justice system go way beyond the police.” And now he’s babbling about politicized judges and mandatory minimums and the prison-industrial complex, as if he’s back in college solving the world’s problems over cheap wine and weed. “Sorry, I’m rambling. My friend Ana would call me a narcissist about now.”

“I think it’s amazing, Rav.”

“Really?”

“I’ve been trying to imagine what your job is like. The things you must have seen, things nobody should have to see. On a good day, you put the people responsible away, but even then, you can’t really fix it, because somebody’s already dead. The toll that must take… I think it would make most people really cynical and depressed. But I hear all this optimism and passion from you, and it’s amazing.”

Rav’s heart thrums. “I wasn’t sure you’d… A lot of people feel the way Ryan does. About cops.”

“Ryan plays bass for a living,” Jack says flatly. “I sing songs about how sad I am. We’re not exactly slogging it out in the trenches.”

“You bring joy into the lives of thousands of people. And you shine a light on the world through music. That’s amazing.”

“I don’t know if I’m shining a light so much as having a very public rant, but yeah, a lot of our songs are calling out the problems I see around me. Actually, what you said a minute ago really resonated. About the double-edged sword. I love this country, but it is deeply fucked up sometimes. I look at some of my fellow citizens and think, how can we be part of the same journey? It’s hard to reconcile, like you said. So I guess I don’t personally see any contradiction between being pissed with the NYPD as an institution and having warm fuzzy feelings about Detective Rav Trivedi.”

Rav is blushing again. It’s a good thing no one can see him, or his rep as a smooth operator would take a serious hit. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this since I was put on admin leave. I had this master plan, or at least I thought so. But I’m starting to realize that it was incomplete. I’m racing up this ladder, but to what?”

“I get that.” A rueful laugh. “I so get that. Back when we started the band, all I wanted was to make it, but I never really stopped to think about what that would do to our lives.”

“You wanted to be famous?”

“I wanted people to love our music as much as I did. I still want that, but I have a better idea what it costs now.”

“In terms of your personal life?”

“In every way. It almost cost us the band.”

“Really? I never knew that.”

“It’s not like we advertised it. But yeah, we had a really rough time after Alien Nation came out. It turned out we weren’t all on the same page about what the Nicks should be. Ryan wanted us to be really activist, offstage as well as on. Tommy wanted to let the music speak for itself. They butted heads about it a lot. Sarah thought we were going too mainstream, and Claudia was just tired of all the conflict. Plus, Tommy didn’t like being the center of attention as much as he thought he would. Before we even signed our first deal, he tried to get me to take over as front man, and I wasn’t having it. He had so much charisma, it just didn’t make sense to me that I would be the one in the spotlight. I just kept saying, It’s gotta be you, man, it’s gotta be you. If I could take that back…”

Later, Rav will wonder where the thought comes from. “Tommy’s accident… was an accident, wasn’t it?”

There’s a long silence.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. It’s none of my business.”

When Jack speaks again, his voice is so quiet Rav can hardly hear him. “The police think he drove off that ledge on purpose. His family doesn’t believe that, but I do. Looking back on it now, how unhappy he was…”

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“No one does. Just the band and his family. They’re the ones who asked the police to withhold the details. It’s not some shady cover-up. They just want privacy.”

“Of course.” And then it hits him, the lyrics he’s been mulling over for weeks. “That song in your notebook, ‘Prism.’ That’s what it’s about, isn’t it?”

Another long silence.

Rav sits up a little. “That’s none of my business, either. I can’t seem to keep my questions to myself today. Bad detective habit.”

“It’s okay. I should run, though. We’re just on a break, and I should get something to eat before we go back in.”

“Jack, wait.”

“It’s okay, Rav, really, I just have to go.” And before Rav can say anything else, he hangs up.

“ Fuck. ” Rav flings his phone into the sofa. What was he thinking? He knew what a sensitive subject it was.

Inevitably, he finds himself reaching for the little black notebook of song lyrics.

All those little moments I recall

Hang like pictures on my wall

The truth just out of frame

Gallery of my shame

And I can’t go back

Can’t take it back

A gilded mask, a siren song

I heard the lie, I felt the wrong

But still I didn’t see

And now I can’t get free

Can’t take it back

Just wanna get it back

He aches for Jack, for the guilt he’s obviously putting himself through. Raking his memory for the signs he missed, like a beaten-down detective going over the evidence again and again. In the shattered glass I see you / In the shattered glass I see…

His phone rings. He has to dig it out from between the sofa cushions.

“Hey,” Jack says. “We’re about to go back in, but I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I have a feeling you’re beating yourself up right now, and you shouldn’t. You caught me off guard, that’s all. Those lyrics are…”

“Incredibly personal, and none of my business.”

“I gave them to you, Rav. I wanted you to have them. I just felt a bit exposed there for a second.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not on you. I just forget what it’s like to feel safe sometimes. It’s okay, though, because you’re reminding me.”

Rav melts into a puddle on the sofa.

“Look, I really do have to go, but would you be interested in dropping by the studio tomorrow after work? I could show you around.”

“I’d love that.”

“Great. I’ll text you the address. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Rav echoes, and the flutter of nervousness that accompanies those words seals it. His heart—his stupid, reckless, masochistic heart—is ready to give this a second chance.

That doesn’t make it a good idea. His heart hasn’t exactly been making great decisions lately, and his head… He doesn’t know where his head is at.

He supposes he’ll find out tomorrow.