Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rav clocks out at around six on Tuesday, and though he’s spent the day telling himself he’s not going to lurk Vale’s charity event, he knows it’s a lie. The Pier 62 skate park is only a few blocks from his flat. He can’t not go.

On the way, he puts in his earbuds, and his phone automatically cues up the latest episode of Ana’s podcast, Graphic Girl . Rav is not into comics or graphic novels, but he wants to support Ana, and besides, he loves listening to her geek out over the latest installment of Deadpool or The Me You Love in the Dark .

“ You know I love me some queer shape-shifters ,” Ana is saying. “ And this one is just so deliciously dark…”

But it’s not Ana he plans to listen to just now. “Sorry, baby,” he murmurs, switching to a podcast called The Sound Board , which Spotify was thoughtful enough to recommend given his recent obsession with the New Knickerbockers. This week’s episode is devoted to dissecting the Nicks’ latest album.

“Personally, I was skeptical they could even keep going after Tommy Esposito died. He was just so insanely charismatic, and Jack—look, he was always a great singer, but as far as being front man goes—”

“He seems kind of reserved.”

“Reserved and unassuming, a bit of a wallflower, and I couldn’t see him filling Tommy’s shoes. But he’s proven me and all the other naysayers wrong…”

The skate park is full of music and press and that rarest of creatures, happy teenagers. Skateboards roar up and down a deep bowl while an extremely enthusiastic fellow on a PA makes jokes and encourages the skaters. Rav scans the crowd, and he immediately spots ángel Morillo’s bulky frame near some event security guys. From there it’s easy to pick out Jack Vale, in faded jeans and a knit hat, chatting with a couple of girls wearing T-shirts from the youth organization. Vale is wearing one too, over his long-sleeved shirt, and he somehow manages to make it look cool despite the alarming shade of orange.

Mo nods at the security guys to let Rav through. He looks surprised to see Rav, maybe a little wary. “You here in a professional capacity, Detective?”

Is he? Even Rav isn’t sure. “I live close by. Thought I’d drop by and see what the kids are up to these days.”

“Too bad you missed the boss.”

Rav glances back at the bowl, his eyebrows hiking. “He went on that thing? On a skateboard?”

“Right? He’s actually not bad. Did a grab and everything. Thought the kid he borrowed the helmet from was gonna pass out.” He crooks his chin in the direction of a group of teenagers clustered around an autographed helmet. The kid holding it wears a dazed little smile, as if this is the greatest moment of his life.

“You get the ballistics back yet?”

Rav sighs. No point in being coy. “I did. And yes, it’s clean. You’ll have it back soon.”

“Appreciate it.”

They’re playing a Nicks tune over the PA now. It’s from their first album, Alien Nation , one of the few songs Vale sang lead on. He sounds younger, edgier.

Fact that is fiction / Feeds your addiction / Opium for the masses / Covering their asses / Keep you high, keep you taking / Bloodshot and shaking / Too strung out to ask how much money they’re making

The sound is edgy too, gritty guitars and belligerent drums. Is this pop-punk emo?

Rav starts to ask, but Mo is distracted by something on the far side of the skate bowl. Three white males are getting in the faces of a couple of the event organizers. One of them, a tattooed guy with a bushy blond beard, shoves one of the orange shirts. Security is on them in an instant, ejecting them from the park; the whole thing happens so fast most people don’t even notice.

“Time to go,” Mo says, already shouldering his way through the security clustered around his client. He murmurs in Vale’s ear. The singer shakes hands with the organizers and waves to his adoring fans, and then Mo is herding him along the path toward a shiny black car parked in the street. “You coming, Detective?” the bodyguard calls over his shoulder.

“—need a walk,” Vale is saying as Rav jogs up. “Just a couple of minutes, to burn off some of this energy.”

“I don’t know, boss. I didn’t like the look of that scuffle. They were too far away to see their faces, but I thought maybe… Anyways, it looked like trouble brewing. That’s why I asked the detective here to walk us back to the gate.”

“Once around the block. Come on, Mo, this is the first time I’ve been out in ages. Hi, Detective,” he adds with an awkward smile.

Before Rav can reply, a skinny white guy cuts them off on the path. Rav recognizes him as one of the three who were harassing the event organizers. Vale stiffens, and Mo steps in front of him.

“I need to talk to you,” the guy says, trying to peer around Mo’s huge frame.

“You need to step back,” Mo counters, raising a hand.

“It’ll only take a minute. Please, Jack, you can fix this. You can make it right.”

Something about his demeanor puts Rav on his guard. He unbuttons his jacket in case he needs to reach for his sidearm.

“I got this, Detective.” Mo’s voice is low and soothing. Trying to de-escalate. “Everybody take it easy.”

“Just hear me out,” the skinny guy says.

“I’ve heard enough from you,” Vale replies grimly. “I know what you think.”

The guy shakes his head. He looks scared. Desperate, even. “No, that’s just it. If you’ll just listen—”

Mo advances a step, hand still raised. “Write it in the sky, Joe. Just step back. ”

Joe? Joseph Miller, the gunman from the Concord? Rav didn’t get a good look at him that night, but this guy is the right build, and there’s a warrant out for his arrest. He reaches for his sidearm.

It goes down in the blink of an eye. Miller lunges at Vale. Mo tackles him to the sidewalk. There’s a glint of metal and a grunt, and then Miller is on his feet and scrambling away.

“ Stop! ” Rav raises his weapon, but he doesn’t dare open fire in a crowded street. Mo is down, and that leaves Vale unprotected with two accomplices nearby. The car is just a few feet away, and in a split-second decision Rav is hustling Vale toward it, gaze raking the street for any sign of Miller’s friends. By the time he’s bundled Vale into the car, Mo is on his feet, hunched over a wound in his side.

“Little prick stabbed me,” the bodyguard growls.

“How bad is it?”

“Not sure.” He grimaces, drawing bloodied fingers away from his side.

“Did you see which way he went?” Rav is already calling it in, phone perched on his shoulder as he holsters his sidearm.

“Toward the High Line.”

“Let’s get you to a hospital.” Rav helps Mo into the back before jumping into the passenger seat. “Trivedi,” he says into his phone as the driver puts the car in gear. “Shield number 8–5–5…”

“Just breathe, man,” Mo is saying in the back seat. “You got your meds?”

Rav looks in the rearview. Vale is chalk white, his eyes squeezed shut. “I need to get out. I can’t breathe in here.”

Mo puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll just be a few—”

“ I need to get out right now. ”

Rav hesitates. “My flat is just up the street. Will that—”

“Yes.” Vale gives a desperate little nod. “Yes, please. Pull over.” He’s already reaching for the car door.

Mo grabs his wrist. “You’re not walking , Jack.”

“I’ll go with him,” Rav says. “You head on to the hospital.”

Mo checks the wound in his side. “I’m fine for a few minutes. We’ll go together.”

Five minutes later, Rav is unlocking his door and escorting Jack Vale out onto the balcony. Vale takes huge gulps of air, gripping the rail and dropping his head between his arms. Rav stays with him while Mo crashes around his half bath in search of something to patch himself up with. “Coat closet,” Rav calls, on hold with the NYPD. “Beside the fire extinguisher.”

Mo does what he can with the first aid kit, but he needs stitches, maybe an ultrasound to make sure nothing serious is going on. He clearly doesn’t want to leave his client unprotected, but Erika Strauss is in Philly with Ryan Nash, and the other CPOs aren’t on board yet, so there’s no one to step in.

“Get yourself sorted,” Rav says. “As soon as he’s feeling better, I’ll put him in a car.”

“I don’t want him going anywhere without protection. It’s too hot right now. I told him that skate park thing was a bad idea.” Mo swears under his breath. “Can I leave him with you for a bit?”

“Er,” Rav says, startled. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“A couple of hours. I wouldn’t ask if I had options.”

Rav glances over his shoulder. Vale is still on the balcony, head between his arms, but his breathing seems to have leveled out.

“You okay with that, boss?” Mo calls. “If I leave you with the detective for a bit?”

Vale waves an arm. Go.

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours, all right?”

And then he’s gone, and Rav has a rock star in his flat.

A rock star who is still technically a person of interest in a homicide. This particular situation is decidedly not covered in the manual, and Rav is at a bit of a loss as to how to deal with it. He waits until Vale has a little color back in his cheeks, and then he says, “I think maybe we should call your lawyer. I don’t want there to be any suggestion that I’ve violated your rights.”

“It’s okay, we just won’t talk about the case.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Vale, even the appearance of impropriety could be enough to damage any eventual case.” Not to mention my career , he doesn’t add, already scrolling through his contacts.

The next thing he knows, Vale has grabbed the phone and is taking a video of himself. “I hereby waive my right to have my attorney present while I recover from an anxiety attack on Detective Trivedi’s balcony.” He hands the phone back.

Rav feels like an arse. This guy has just been through a traumatic incident, and here he is acting like a robot, worrying more about the integrity of his case than the flesh-and-blood human in front of him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be insensitive. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you need. Is there someone else I can call for you? Claudia, or…?”

He shakes his head. “I just need a little space.”

“Of course. I’ll be inside if you need anything.”

Rav rattles around the kitchen for a bit, restless and frustrated. That’s twice now he’s let Joe Miller slip through his fingers. The feds will be pissed. No way he was going to open fire on a crowded street, but there must have been something he could have done. He wishes Mo had ID’d the guy sooner, but he understands why he didn’t. Mo’s priority was to protect his client, and the best way to do that was to de-escalate. Arresting the guy was Rav’s job.

Belatedly, he realizes Vale has drifted back inside and is hovering awkwardly in his living room. It’s not big, but it’s airy and stylish, and Rav quietly congratulates himself on being a fastid ious housekeeper. You never know when you’re going to have a celebrity in your flat. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I just ran the hundred-yard dash, but I’m okay. Thanks for this.” He gestures at the balcony. “I’m sure it’s weird for you.”

Weird is finding out you’re dating your ex’s ex. Rav can’t even begin to describe what this is. Is there a word for celebrity murder suspect you secretly want to unwrap like a birthday present? The Germans probably have one. “It’s no trouble,” he says smoothly. “Can I get you anything? Water, or…?”

“Water is great, thanks.”

Rav’s brain is still going a mile a minute. Should he call his CO? Charlie Banks, maybe?

“This is amazing.”

He turns to find his guest admiring a musical instrument hanging on the wall. It’s a lovely piece, resembling a cross between a banjo and a cello, elaborately decorated with a gilded floral pattern.

“It’s a sarod, right? Do you play?”

“Alas, I do not. To be honest, I’m not sure it does, either. I picked it up at an antique shop a few years back. I just thought it was beautiful.”

“Where is it from? Where in India, I mean?”

“No idea. I wish I knew more about it, actually.” He could say the same about a lot of things to do with his father’s heritage. His Lordship never talks about his childhood, or anything else that might be deemed sentimental . The only piece of family history Ajay Trivedi ever passed down to his son was a medal his great-grandfather earned in the First World War. Rav pawned it in a fit of adolescent spite and has hated himself for it ever since.

“I could look into it, if you like.” Vale takes out his phone and snaps a photo. “I know some people who are really into this kind of thing.”

“Thanks.” It’s a gracious gesture; once again, Rav is struck by how little this man resembles the pampered celebrity he’d imagined.

There’s a second instrument hanging beside the sarod, an antique banjo with mother-of-pearl inlay. Vale smiles up at it. “What about this old girl?”

“It seemed only fair to have something from my mother’s heritage as well.” It feels silly when he says it out loud. Like he’s still twelve years old, trying not to show favoritism to one parent over the other. As if they cared. As if anything Rav felt or did ever factored into the ridiculous melodrama that is the Eva and Lord Trivedi show.

Vale glances over his shoulder. “May I?”

“Please. Not sure it plays either, mind you.”

Gingerly, Vale takes the banjo down and turns it over in his hands. “She’s a beauty.” He plucks a string. It’s wildly out of tune, of course, but as he turns a peg, the note bends into something resembling a G. He settles onto the couch and adjusts another peg, plucking the string until it lands on D. Rav finds himself watching Vale’s hands, the gentle but confident movements as he coaxes the instrument back into tune. “Tommy had one of these,” he says, his voice distant with memory. “He played it on a couple of tracks on Alien Nation .”

Rav sets a glass of water in front of his guest. “I’m sorry for your loss. It must have been very difficult.”

Vale nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He withdraws into his task, turning the pegs until he arrives at a decent-sounding chord. He picks out a few experimental notes, and then he starts playing a gentle folk tune. Something old, by the sound of it, that wouldn’t be out of place on the soundtrack for O Brother, Where Art Thou? He’s curled over the instrument, in a world of his own, and gradually, Rav feels himself being drawn into its orbit. As if the gravity in the room is shifting, pulling him forward in his seat. The grace of those fingers, the intensity of his expression as he plays… It’s mesmerizing.

He’s not starstruck. Well. Maybe a little . Mostly he’s in awe of Vale’s talent, the ease with which he coaxes beautiful music out of something that hangs on Rav’s wall. He’s acutely aware that something special is happening here, and he tries to silence his whirring brain for once, to be present in the moment and just appreciate it.

Vale’s been playing for around twenty minutes when he gets a text from Mo. “The waiting room at the ER is totally packed,” he reports with a sigh. “Do you need me out of your hair, or is it okay if I hang for a bit?”

Rav hesitates, but the damage is already done. He’s well in it anyway. “You’re fine. Can I offer you a proper drink? Or, actually…” Actually, that’s a terrible idea. The situation is delicate enough without introducing alcohol into the equation. He feels creepy for even suggesting it.

Vale smiles awkwardly. “That’s okay, thanks, I’m fine with water.”

“Sorry, I’m…” He doesn’t know what he is. He’s not Rav Trivedi, that’s for sure. Rav Trivedi is smooth. This mumbling dork can’t even finish a sentence.

Vale smiles again, a real one this time, and it’s dazzling . “It’s okay, man, I get it. It’s a weird situation.”

It’s a fucking minefield, is what it is. Rav could use a Xanax himself right now.

Vale rises from the sofa and peels off the orange youth group shirt. It clings to the long-sleeved shirt underneath, hiking it up, and Rav gets a glimpse of inked abs. Is that the same tattoo as the one that keeps peeking out of his collar? Inquiring minds want to know.

He looks up to find Vale’s eyes on him. Did he just catch Rav checking him out? Fuck . Rav reaches for the empty water glass, and as he straightens, a pair of blue-green eyes flick away hastily. Wait, was Vale just checking him out?

This isn’t a minefield, it’s hell.

Rav is in hell.

Thank god for the bloody banjo. Vale settles in with it again, pausing to push a few strands of black hair out of his eyes. Then he starts strumming—a strong, up-tempo rhythm this time. His whole body moves with it, shoulders jerking, foot tapping. Rav knows this tune. Led Zeppelin? No, that’s not right. Vale glances up and sees Rav struggling to identify it, and he sings, “ Hope you guessed my name…”

Rolling Stones, then.

Vale abandons it mid-go. A cheeky grin curls his mouth, and he starts plucking out the unmistakable opening of that classic Who song, the one Rav can never remember the name of. He’s clearly amusing himself, turning classic rock into plinky banjo ditties on the fly, and seeing him like this—relaxed and happy, free of the white-knuckled grip of his panic attack—makes Rav a little melty.

By this point it’s past dinner, so they order some takeout and settle in to watch TV. Rav’s PVR comes up automatically, and he cringes when it outs his addiction to Top Chef . “Sorry,” he says, frantically mashing the exit button. “We, er, don’t have to watch that.”

“I don’t mind. I’ve only seen a couple of episodes, but it seems cool. I actually have a bit of a weakness for reality TV.” Laughing, he adds, “Not the respectable stuff, either. The trashy kind.”

“What, are we talking Real Housewives , or…?” He glances over, and Vale is wearing the most deliciously embarrassed grin.

“ Love Island .”

“Seriously?” Rav feels his own grin widening. “I mean, I’ve never seen it so I shouldn’t judge, but it seems pretty ridiculous.”

“Exactly. It makes my life feel half-normal, and that’s…” He trails off, his smile fading. “Normal is hard to come by these days. To the point where, as messed up as this day has been, it’s actually a relief to be here right now. Getting the chance to just chill—it’s air .” His gaze falls. “I’m sure that sounds weird.”

“No, I get it. I’d say you’re welcome anytime, but…” Rav smiles awkwardly. “Like you said the other day, it’s too bad about the circumstances.”

“Yeah.” Their eyes connect, and there it is again—that current running between them.

They look away at the same moment. Rav clears his throat. “Right, shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, he presses play .

“ Tonight, on Top Chef …”

They’re three episodes in when Rav gets a text from Mo. How’s he doing?

He looks over, and Vale is sound asleep, arms folded, chin resting against his chest. Passed out on the sofa , he replies. How are you?

Still at the ER. They want to do an ultrasound.

Rav sighs. Okay. I need to get some sleep, but I’ll set him up with a blanket. Call me when you’re here and I’ll buzz you in.

Mo gives him a thumbs-up. Thanks.

Rav grabs a blanket from the hall closet, drapes it over Vale, and heads off to bed.

He stares at the ceiling for a while. Then he picks up his phone and pulls up the video Vale recorded of himself. He watches it on mute, over and over, as if he’s studying a suspect on an interview video. If there’s guilt in those eyes, he doesn’t see it. All he sees is fear, exhaustion, and the unmistakable shadow of grief.

When he finally drifts off, it’s with those blue-green eyes burned into his brain.