Fear Nothing (3 page)

“What?”

“The color fuchsia. Why do you care? About my clothes, what color I wear, whether or not it makes others find me attractive? Why do you care?”

Shana frowned at me, clearly perplexed by such a question. “You,” she said at last, “are a fucking retard.”

“And that,” I observed, “is the most sisterly thing you’ve ever said to me.”

A winning barb. Shana rolled her eyes but finally, grudgingly smiled. The tension in the room eased at last, and both of us could breathe again.

Shana might talk a good game, but according to the prison superintendent, my sister seemed to genuinely look forward to these monthly meetings. Enough so that during extreme episodes of disorderly conduct, the threat of losing my upcoming visit was often the only punishment severe enough to bring her round. Hence, we continued our monthly dance, which had been going on now for nearly a decade.

Perhaps as close to a true relationship as one got with a born psychopath.

“How are you sleeping?” I asked.

“Like a baby.”

“Read anything good?”

“Oh yeah. Complete works of Shakespeare. Never know when iambic pentameter might come in handy.”

“
Et tu, Brute?
”

Another faint smile. Shana relaxing further into her chair. And so we went, another thirty minutes of conversation both pointed and pointless, as we did the first Monday of each month. Until Officer Maria rapped on the window, and just like that, our time was up. I rose to standing. My sister, who wasn’t going anywhere, chose to remain in her seat.

“Fuchsia,” she recommended again, as I undraped my black jacket.

“Maybe you should follow your own advice,” I said, “and introduce some color into your artwork.”

“And give the shrinks more to study?” She smirked. “I think not.”

“Do you dream in black and white?”

“Do you?”

“I’m not sure I dream.”

“Maybe that’s a perk of your condition. I dream plenty. Mostly bloodred. Only difference is sometimes I’m the one with the knife and sometimes it’s dear old Dad.”

She stared at me, eyes suddenly flat, like a shark’s, but I knew better than to take the bait.

“You should keep a journal of your dreams,” I advised.

“What the fuck do you think my artwork is?”

“A disturbing explosion of deep-seated violence.”

She laughed, and on that note, I headed out the door, leaving her behind.

“She okay?” I asked a minute later, following Officer Maria down the corridor. There were no visiting hours for the general population on Monday, so the halls were relatively quiet.

“Not sure. You know it’s nearly the thirtieth anniversary.”

I gazed at the CO blankly.

“Shana’s first victim,” Officer Maria filled in. “The twelve-year-old neighbor, Donnie Johnson? Shana killed him thirty years ago next week. Some local reporter has been calling for an interview.”

I blinked. Somehow, I’d managed not to connect those dots. As both a therapist and a woman dedicated to self-management, later I’d have to ask myself why. What pain was I trying to avoid? A moment of ironic self-reflection.

“She won’t answer any questions, though,” Maria was saying. “Good, if you ask me. I mean, that boy can’t very well talk now. Why should his killer?”

“Keep me posted.”

“No problem.”

At the front, I collected my purse, signed out and headed for my car, parked in the vast lot hundreds of yards from the sprawling brick-and-barbed-wire compound that served as my sister’s permanent home.

In the passenger’s seat lay the rich purply-pink cardigan I’d been wearing when I arrived. Except I’d changed tops while still sitting in my car, removing my jewelry, per visitation rules, and opting for a more subdued look given the environment.

I’d set aside my new sweater, purchased just two weeks ago, and I swear, the only fuchsia-colored item that I owned.

Now I looked up at the brick corrections facility. There were windows everywhere, of course. Even a narrow slit in my sister’s segregation cell. But from this distance, myself hunched awkwardly behind the steering wheel, further obscured by my SUV’s tinted windows . . .

I could never explain everything about my sister. But then, I suspected she often thought the same about me.

Putting my Acura into gear, I drove toward downtown Boston, where I had a busy afternoon ahead of me, filled with patients seeking relief from their various afflictions, including a new patient, a Boston detective recently injured on the job.

I loved my job. I looked forward to the challenge, as I greeted each patient, then said, as befitting a woman with my condition, “Please, tell me about your pain.”

Chapter 2

I
N HER HEART
, D.D. knew she was a lucky person. Her head just couldn’t seem to accept that fact yet.

She woke late. After ten, which confused her. If someone had ever told her she was capable of sleeping till ten on a Monday morning, she would’ve called him a liar. Mornings were for getting up and heading out. Guzzling black coffee, catching up with her squad and possibly attending a fresh homicide.

She liked black coffee, her fellow detectives and interesting homicides.

She didn’t like yet another restless night of fitful sleep interspersed with even more disquieting dreams. Where shadows sang and sometimes grew arms and legs before giving chase.

And she fell down. Each and every time. In her nightmares, the great Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren plunged to her doom. Because her heart knew she was a lucky person. But her brain just couldn’t accept it yet.

The child monitor remained on the nightstand next to her. On, but quiet. Alex had most likely delivered Jack to day care. Then Alex could head to work at the police academy while D.D. . . .

D.D. dedicated her day to getting out of bed.

She moved gingerly. Any movement of her left arm and shoulder still led to instantaneous shooting pains, so during the past few weeks, she’d perfected the art of rolling onto her right side. From there, she could swing her feet down to the floor, which helped heave her torso into the vertical position. Having achieved sitting up, she would then spend the next couple of minutes regaining her labored breath.

Because what happened next really, truly
hurt,
and heaven help her, but six weeks later she was growing more averse to the pain, instead of simply resigned to it.

Strained muscles. Inflamed tendons. Overstretched nerves. And the winning injury, an avulsion fracture. The ripping away of a piece of bone in her left humerus. In a matter of seconds, D.D. had sustained enough damage to her forty-four-year-old body that she now moved like the Tin Man, unable to turn her head, lift her left arm or rotate her torso. No surgical options, she’d been told. Just time, fortitude and physical therapy. Which she did. Twice-weekly appointments followed by daily homework assignments that made her scream in agony.

Because forget ever holding a gun again. Right now, D.D. couldn’t even pick up her own child.

Deep breath. Counting to three. Then she stood. The movement was abrupt, nearly impossible to perfectly balance. Meaning she instinctively countered with a shoulder shrug here and a neck rotation there, as her teeth gritted and her right hand clenched and she used the worst, most vile words she could think of, which after twenty years as a Boston cop included curses that would make a long-haul trucker with a kidney stone blush, and even then, she nearly vomited from the pain.

But she was standing. Sweating. Swaying slightly. But fully vertical.

And she thought, not for the first time, what the hell had she been doing at that crime scene at that hour of the night? Because six weeks later, she still couldn’t remember a thing. She’d suffered the worst injury of her life, put her career in jeopardy and her family in crisis and she still didn’t have a clue.

One day, six weeks ago, she’d shown up for work. And life had been a mystery ever since.

Another thirty minutes while she managed to brush her teeth, comb her hair. Showering required Alex’s help. He’d been gracious about it. Saying he’d do anything as long as she was naked. But his deep blue eyes maintained a watchful look. As if she were suddenly spun from glass and needed to be handled delicately at all times.

The first day home, she’d caught him staring at the dark bruises welting her back, and the look on his face . . .

Stricken. Horrified. Appalled.

She hadn’t said a word. After a moment, he’d resumed rinsing the shampoo from her short blond curls. Later that night, he’d reached for her, very carefully, but she’d hissed reflexively in pain and he’d snatched his hand back as if slapped, and that was the way it had been ever since.

He helped her with the day-to-day tasks of life. And in return, she felt herself slowly but surely turn into a shadow of herself, a second child for her incredibly patient spouse to tend.

In her heart, she knew she was lucky. But her brain just couldn’t accept that fact yet.

Time for clothes. She couldn’t move her left arm enough to pull on a shirt. Instead, she stole one of Alex’s oversize flannel shirts, slipping her right arm into the sleeve but leaving her left arm tucked against her ribs. She couldn’t manage all the snaps but enough to get her through breakfast.

Walking wasn’t so bad. Once she’d achieved vertical, as long as she kept her shoulders square and her torso straight, her neck and shoulder didn’t mind so much. She took the stairs carefully, right hand glued to the railing. Last time she’d dealt with stairs, they’d clearly won, and she couldn’t bring herself to trust them again.

Rockabye, baby, on the treetop . . .

Excellent. Another morning, same old creepy lullaby still stuck in her head.

Upon arriving in the living room, D.D. became aware of voices coming from her kitchen. Two men, hushed tones. Maybe her father-in-law, over for a cup of coffee? Alex’s parents had moved to Boston six months ago in order to spend more time with their only grandson. D.D. had been nervous at first, preferring her own parents’ living arrangements in Florida. But Alex’s parents, Bob and Edith, had quickly proved to be as easygoing as their son. Not to mention that little Jack clearly adored them, and given her and Alex’s work schedules, a couple of grandparents on speed dial was never a bad thing. Of course, she’d liked it better when they’d been helping out with Jack because of her job, not because she was a complete and total invalid who couldn’t even dress herself anymore. Details, details.

Both men were clearly making an effort not to wake her. She took that as an invitation to enter.

“Morning.”

Alex immediately looked up from his seat at the round kitchen table. Not his father, but her squad mate Phil, was slower to follow. Alex’s features were already politely composed. Clearly he’d been up for hours, having showered, shaved and taken care of their three-year-old. Now he was dressed for work, a navy blue academy shirt tucked into his dress khakis. The shirt emphasized his dark eyes, salt-and-pepper hair. A good-looking man, she thought, not for the first time. Handsome, intelligent, dedicated to their son, sensitive to her needs.

Across from Alex sat D.D.’s oldest partner, Phil, thinning brown hair, married forever to his high school sweetheart, Betsy, father of four kids, who once claimed he’d joined Boston homicide to escape the gore.

Already she was suspicious.

“Cuppa joe?” Phil asked brightly. He wouldn’t meet her gaze, pushing back his chair, heading straight for the coffeepot.

“You don’t golf,” D.D. said.

A small smile lifted the corners of Alex’s mouth.

“What?” Phil, still diligently focused on how to best pour coffee into an oversize mug.

“Neither of you gamble. Nor do you have best buds in common for a bachelor party. In fact, your only connection is me.”

Phil finished pouring the coffee. Carefully eased the carafe back in place. Slowly picked up the steaming mug. Deliberately turned toward her.

D.D. pulled out a chair and sat abruptly, wincing as she did so. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Alex wasn’t smiling anymore. Instead, he reached across the table and gently touched the back of her right hand.

“Get any sleep?” he asked.

“Sure. All sorts. Never been so rested. Just wish I could fall down the stairs again so I could lie around in bed even more.”

D.D. kept her attention on Phil. He was the weak link. Whatever was going on here, he’d be the one who’d cave.

“FDIT?” she guessed softly, when Phil remained standing before her, still holding the coffee mug between his cupped hands.

In copspeak,
FDIT
stood for
Firearms Discharge Investigation Team.
Anytime an officer discharged her weapon, including in a darkened crime scene at no identifiable target, FDIT had the responsibility to investigate the event and determine if the officer acted appropriately or with negligence.

By the time D.D. had regained consciousness at the hospital, the FDIT team had already taken possession of her firearm, and the future of her policing career rested on the report they would eventually deliver to the Bureau of Professional Standards.

Her fellow detectives had told her not to worry. Most likely, her weapon had discharged during her tumble down the stairs. Except Sig Sauers didn’t simply fall out of snapped shoulder holsters. Nor did an officer’s right index finger generally land on the trigger while cascading backward through open space, then fire off three consecutive shots.

D.D. had deliberately pulled the trigger of her department-issued weapon. At something, or someone.

Even she could figure out that much.

But at what or whom and with or without probable cause? Because her fellow cops never found anyone else at the scene. Just her unconscious form in the foyer of Christine Ryan’s apartment and three bullet holes in the wall. One of the slugs had passed through into the adjacent unit. Thank God it hadn’t hit anyone. But the neighbor hadn’t taken it well, and why was some cop shooting up the place next door, and . . .