Love & Loyalty (2 page)

“I'm…” Jim tried to apologize, but Mr. Kelly was already shaking his head.

The man was only ten years his senior, but the number might have been a hundred at this point.

“Not your fault,” he rasped, taking one hand off his weeping wife to shake first Jim's hand, then Terry's. “Thank you for trying.” Trying.
Trying
. Jim felt a wave of rage bubble up and make him light-headed. He hadn't tried—he'd succeeded. He'd found Tripp Ingersoll, he'd put evidence into Nick's and Heather's hands, he'd testified impeccably—his notes were so fucking by the book, they were
better
than the book. Everything, he'd done everything right, and now this tiny circle of white-faced and shocked people were left with nothing.

Carmen Kelly was dead, and Tripp Ingersoll was going to the best restaurant in Seattle to celebrate the verdict.

Life wasn't fair, Jim knew. But this was—this was wrong on every level.

They stood in silence; then Nick murmured something to Heather.

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5

“Right, good idea,” Heather said. “I'll have the car brought around back, and we'll get you out of here, away from the reporters.” And away from the press conference that was no doubt going to be happening, with Tripp, his family, and the lawyers pontificating about t heir client's proven innocence on the front steps.

Terry and Jim helped the Kellys up and shuffled them to the side door with deputies flanking them. Tiny, birdlike Della Kelly seemed on her last legs, leaning on her husband to the point where it seemed he was almost dragging her along.

It was the second before she fell that Jim started to say, “Get a doctor,” and then she was on the floor, white-faced and gasping frantically for air.

* * * * *

Almost.

He peeled off his sweat-soaked suit in the kitchen, undressed down to bare skin, and shoved everything into the wastebasket under the sink, even his shoes. He wanted no reminders of this day; he had enough material for a decade of nightmares already.

Della Kelly was dead. A massive heart attack, dead in the ambulance as they flew through the streets toward the hospital. Jim was there, watched her die, watched another decade of pain appear on Ed's shoulders.

If this was the worst day—or thirty-six hours—of Jim's life, he couldn't fathom Ed's pain.

Numb, exhausted, Jim walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Hot. Didn't bother with cold. If he could have thrown himself into the bottom of a lobster pot of scalding water, he would have.

The smell of death and grief clung to him, oozed out of his pores. He stepped under the hot spray and leaned against the white-tiled wall. No sleep 6

Tere Michaels

since he woke up two days ago to get ready for court. No food, just an unholy amount of black coffee and three scotches that Terry poured down his throat at the hotel bar after they got Ed Kelly settled into his room.

They were going to pick him up in the morning so he could go back to the hospital and make arrangements to get Della's body back to Tacoma.

He really didn't need help, Ed had mentioned in a dull and dead voice before he shut the door; he'd done it before with Carmen's body.

The bottled-up grief shook Jim to the core. He had never cried over a case.

Never. He was a man of compassion and heart, but he never cried over his own pain, let alone someone else's.

But the hollow black spots that were now Ed Kelly's eyes—more lifeless than any corpse he'd ever examined—haunted him. Stabbed at him like knives as he imagined over and over that closing door.

He half expected to find Ed Kelly dead when he went back tomorrow.

Because if he stopped to think about it, Jim could never survive that much pain. He couldn't imagine putting into the ground the two people you loved most in the world and being the sole survivor. He couldn't fathom feeling that powerless.

He couldn't imagine loving anyone that much.

Terrifying.

Jim gasped as his skin seemed to finally register the punishing heat of the water; he blindly grabbed for the soap and cleaned himself with military precision, each lathering circle a meditative moment.
Focus, focus, shut the
door on the pain, close the door on the empathy. Slam the door on the anxiety of
powerlessness and the need to fix all of it.

He couldn't bring Carmen or Della back. He couldn't put Tripp in jail. He couldn't even go beyond the boundaries of the law, because it would be against his entire framework.

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7

He needed to find a way to deal with this, because ultimately, he was alone. There was no one to call, no one to lean on. Ben—his former roommate, his crush—was married and a few hundred miles away, content and sleeping soundly next to the person he loved.

Terry went home to his wife.

His father didn't care what he did.

His brother probably didn't even remember
what
he did.

Jim was alone. And as horrible as that felt in this moment, it was almost a relief.

Because he didn't need to worry about loss if he never bothered to love anyone.

8

Tere Michaels

Chapter Two

Six months later

Terry got to the squad room two hours after Jim—and still five minutes early for their shift. Polite man that he was, he didn't ever mention the early hours—or late hours, if one counted how many times Jim just didn't leave—or the sludge coffee Jim was drinking. He just sat down with his tidy Starbucks grande tea and sighed.

Jim suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Terry said, turning on his computer. “You want my bagel? It's an onion—they got my order wrong.”

Jim tilted his head until he could see around the low gray cubicle walls to Terry's desk opposite his. “Again? Third time this week. You should say something.”

Terry shrugged and reached into his backpack for the brown paper bag.

“They're busy; it's no big deal. I gotta watch my girlish figure, you know.” Jim took the bag and went back to his stack of paperwork with a grunt.

Terry was transparent
and
about 165 pounds soaking wet, and his figure was just fine—not that Jim made a habit of mentioning that.

“Mimi wants to know if you can come for dinner Friday night. Nick and Heather are coming too.”

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Heterosexual Power Cabal Monthly Dinner Party—Jim's favorite. Right after root canal but slotted in just before dinner with his father in the assisted living “dining room.”

“Wow, that's
this
Friday? Man, that sucks. I have a date,” Jim lied, peeling the paper off the bagel.

“Uh-huh. Why don't you bring him?” Terry said almost sweetly, and Jim balled up the wax paper to toss over the divider between their cubes.

“He's shy. And he doesn't like straights.” Jim talked with his mouth full to annoy Terry, then realized it annoyed him too—so he stopped.

“Dating a bigot, Jim? That does not seem your style. Oh wait—dating a person…that seems even less your style.”

Jim heard the familiar chime of Terry's cell phone being opened and groaned inwardly. The chime was followed by hushed, whispered Korean; then, as expected, Jim's phone rang.

“Oh, come on now; it's too early for this,” Jim groused, picking up the line.

“Hey, Mimi.”

There may've been a triumphant “ha” from the cubicle next door, but it was drowned out by Mimi's cheerful voice.

“If you do actually have a date on Friday, you should bring him,” she said with the exaggerated patience of a kindergarten teacher. “I can pretend to be enthralled by Heather's breasts if that helps establish a more gay-friendly vibe.” Despite himself, Jim laughed. “She does have excellent breasts…” Mimi snickered. “Even gay men notice breasts—why
is
that?”

“I don't know. I'll call the Gay Council and let you know.”

“Good, you can tell me the results on Friday.”

“Mimi…”

“
James
. You have to come when I tell you who the fourth couple is.”

“I'm almost afraid to ask.”

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Tere Michaels

“Ben and Liddy are driving down for the weekend to visit her parents, so they'll be there. It's supposed to be a surprise for you, but I'm changing my tactics because you're being impossible. So bring wine and some beer, and let me know if your date is a vegan.”

Ben, his ex-roommate and “best friend.” The guy he had a long-standing, unrequited, nonreturned, intense crush on. Of course he and his new wife would be the fourth couple! Jim had that sort of luck these days.

“Well, I can't say no now,” Jim said, feigning excitement. “I'll be there, and I promise to pretend to be surprised.”

“Great; thank you, James,” Mimi said, clearly feeling triumphant. “We're having sushi and tempura.”

“What's that you said? Steak and lobster?”

“Is your date vegan?”

“You're funny, you know that?”

“Is your date
real
?”

“Bye, Mimi. I have to go now. Some of us work for a living.” He ignored her last question and made kissy sounds over the line until she said something rude in Korean and hung up.

“Your wife curses like a sailor,” he called to Terry.

“It's hot, isn't it?”

* * * * *

It had actually been longer since he'd been on a second date.

Blowjobs in bar bathrooms didn't really count, particularly when you didn't even bother to exchange names. And he was okay with that, seriously.

Bringing someone back to the loft hadn't been a regular habit ever; he'd lived with a few boyfriends in the early days when he thought about having a Love & Loyalty

11

relationship. He'd lived with a few straight roommates when dating got a little too intense for him; balancing work and a boyfriend was never his strong suit.

After the misadventure of having Ben live there for five years (great roommate, great friend, straight as a level—of course Jim had fallen for him), Jim had given up on roommates as well. He was considering a cat, since, like Jim, they generally seemed to be able to mete out affection, then go their own way.

Even his last random one-night stand turned weird—New York City for a conference, nice guy in a bar, good sex…and emotionally stripping. Hell, he'd even kept in touch with Matt, not hoping for more, but just enjoying his

“happily ever after” in a slightly masochistic fashion.

That wasn't real bright, as nice as Matt was, as nice as it was to hear all the stuff with his boyfriend, Evan, and Evan's kids and renovating a house and basically an entire life plan that Jim couldn't even wrap his brain around existing in reality.

It managed to be life-affirming and depressing at the same time.

His friends couldn't understand it, and they told him that all the time.

“
You're so nice! You're so good-looking! You're too good a guy to be alone! Want to
meet my brother/neighbor/cousin/ex
?” Mimi was the hands-down worst. After the cluster fuck that was the Ingersoll trial, she seemed to take “cop's wife” as a holy vow instead of packing her bags to return home. Gone were the phone calls to Terry asking when he'd be home; instead she showed up with dinner (or lunch or breakfast) and exuded patience. In addition to giving Terry some extra leeway, she decided Jim needed some caretaking, and off she went.

He needed a man, a proper boyfriend with good intentions and a job and a bunch of other things she felt Jim needed/deserved. It was a
long
list. Bringing a guy to the Cabal Dinner Party was out of the question; Mimi was a kick-ass cook and a first-rate interrogator and would have them applying for a civil union by the time she served dessert.

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Tere Michaels

Numerous times Jim had politely suggested she consider a career in law enforcement or perhaps loan-sharking.

Now he was punching in the numbers to the vending machine, his eyes on a Snickers bar, and trying to come up with a good excuse for Friday when he turned up solo.

“Hey, Jim?” He turned around at the sound of his name and saw Heather Gomez hurrying down the hall in his direction.

“Hey, Heather.” Jim reached down for his candy bar and tried not to remember discussing her breasts with Mimi. “Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, everything's fine. Just, you know—a thousand things to do and not enough hours.” She smiled, shifting her overpacked briefcase from one hand to another. “I was just wondering if you got a call from Ed Kelly.”

“Recently? No, I haven't. Is he all right?”

“I'm guessing so—it didn't sound urgent or anything. He left a message for Nick as well. I thought you'd be on the list too.” She smiled sadly, her eyes sympathetic behind her squared-off glasses. “Nice man, I just wish there was more we could have done for him.”

It wasn't Heather's fault, of course. Or Nick's. It was no one's fault, which is what Jim told himself in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep. No one's fault but Tripp Ingersoll.

“You and me both.” Jim opened his Snickers and offered her a bite, which she shook off with a laugh.

“No, thanks, I have a wedding dress to fit into.” The trial had yielded a nice side note—Nick finally got off his sorry ass and proposed to his girlfriend of seven years.

“Pft, you look great.”
Particularly your breasts
. “Thanks for the heads-up about Ed Kelly. I'll check my messages.”