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“I have no idea what the fuck you’re on about or where you get off, talking to me like that.”
“I heard you, man.” He taps his hand impatiently on the steering wheel. “On the porch with Catherine Beauchamp. And so did Antoinette Rupetta.”
The accusation takes me off guard. I had no idea that Mani and Toni had followed me downstairs. “So what?” But my heart is racing in my chest. “I gave a girl, an addict, my number in case she ever needs my help.”
“Bullshit, man. That’s the least of it—and we both know it.”
The thing with working with your friends is that you can never avoid drama completely. You know everything about each other. When they’re stressed. When they’re onto something and excited about it. And when they’re lying.
Mani and I are no different.
“I solve homicides, Mani. If you want to dick around, chasing what youthinkis tax evasion, be my guest. But don’t waste my time and resources doing it.” And then I add something that I know will change our relationship forever. “That’s an order.”
None of us speak the rest of the way to the station. Suffocating tension fills the car. As soon as we’ve parked, Mani gets out and, without another word, walks inside.
“Don’t be too hard on him.” Behind me, Sade is looking at the door Mani disappeared through. “He’s going through some personal shit at the moment.”
I raise my eyebrows, but Sade just shakes her head. “He’ll tell you if he wants to.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t already.” Mani and I, we’ve been through it all together. From the academy to beat patrol to being promoted through the ranks to detectives. Up until I made Lieutenant, our friendship had thrivedfrom being on a par with each other. “Does he need help?”
“He’ll ask if he does.”
“You can say it, Sade.”
“You were still in the right. Mani has to learn to take orders from you now.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“He’s a good cop.” Sade starts walking towards the station. “Give him time. He’ll come around.” She pauses at the door. “Oh, and Lieutenant?”
“Yup?”
“I know you two have been through a lot together. But Mani’s my partner now.”
“Are you telling me to fuck off?”
She smiles one of her rare smiles. “Let the record show I wasn’t the one who said it.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me in the parking lot with far too much to think about.
Chapter 9
Catherine
June 21, 2008
“Thanks for seeing meon a Saturday, Harry,” I say as I sit down on the new leather sofa and place my purse beside me.
“It’s no problem, Catherine.” From the small kitchenette in his office where he’s making a cup of tea, Harry looks over his shoulder at me, his familiar face folding into a gentle smile. “I keep my work phone on during the weekends in case any of my clients have emergencies.”
“I bet Marjorielovesthat,” I tease. Although our relationship has only ever been that of doctor and patient, I’ve been coming to him for long enough that I know more about his personal life than most. Harry and his wife, Marjorie, have been married for nearly thirty years, and although they got started young due to an accidental college pregnancy, thirty years, four kids, and two successful psychiatry careers later, they seem to have it all figured out. They even share the same office suite—Marjorie’s is across the small, shared waiting room from Harry’s.
Harry chuckles and lifts the electric tea kettle off its base. As he pours, he nods his head. “I’m afraid she’s given up on me entirely at this point.” Bringing the mugwith him, he makes his way to the single chair across from where I’m sitting. “She’s resigned herself to the fact that I’ll always prefer talking with my clients than putzing in the yard or painting the house.”
“Please, Harry. You’re far too young to putz,” I say, looking him over. It’s true too. He might be fifty, but with his trim figure and ceaseless energy, he could pass for a man a lot younger. Dressed in a double-breasted, mocha suit, his nails perfectly manicured, his brown hair neatly trimmed and styled, Harry looks more likely to be on a yacht in Monaco than down on his knees, weeding his own front yard.
The only thing that’s different about him today is that he looks a little more tired than usual, his light blue eyes smudged with fatigue. “Areyouokay?” I ask. “You look tired,” I add when he raises one manicured eyebrow at me.
