Page 38 of Brazilian Surrender
Chapter Twelve
“What do you have for me?” Jaeger asked Frank Burlo, an old friend in the NYPD he kept in touch and traded favors with every so often.
Frank took a drag off his cigarette and looked around. They’d stepped back from the place where Lee’s body had been found by the Hudson River. A homeless person called 911, and now police cars blocked the streets and an ambulance had transported the body to the morgue. Pedestrians had swarmed the area at first, curious about the body being taken out of the water. “Head wound. Doesn’t look like there’s any damage to the body, but autopsy will tell us for sure.”
“Head wound, huh? Any ideas as to the weapon?”
“It’s hard to say for sure. Looks like a blunt instrument, like a bowl or maybe a vase.”
Again. Amateur shit—a crime of opportunity. A bowl or vase was a lot harder to trace than a bullet. He, or she, also didn’t know enough about the black market where they could get an unlicensed gun. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable using guns. Either way, the crime hadn’t been premeditated. “Time of death?”
Frank puffed out some smoke. “I’d say at least three days.”
“Will you let me know what autopsy says?”
“I shouldn’t.” Frank coughed a couple of times. “But I will.”
Jaeger bit back a smile, remembering his days in the NYPD. Young folks joined the force, but the old ones—like Frank—always seemed to crack the case faster and by using much less technology.
“Thanks, man.” He tapped his shoulder.
“Looks like life’s treating you well,” Frank said, pointing at his Italian leather jacket.
Running a business surely had its advantages. He was his own boss and could pick which clients he wished to take on—and how much he wanted to charge. “I’m good.”
“The department isn’t the same without you,” Frank said, nodding at him with a semismile that creased the wrinkles around his eyes.
“Thanks. Say hi to everyone for me,” Jaeger said. He always made a mental note to stop by, but deep down he knew that wouldn’t happen. Visiting his former coworkers and seeing his old desk meant reliving that past—and he’d had enough of that in the months following Ellen and Trevor’s deaths, when he kept asking himself if there was something he could have done differently the day they died.
Frank’s cell phone rang, and he glanced at the screen. Shaking his head, he tossed the cigarette butt into a metal trash can and smoothed his hand over his black jacket. “I’d better go. I’ll let you know what I find out, Bauer.”
Jaeger watched Frank Burlo disappear into the crowd of onlookers then reappear inside the yellow-taped area secured by police. If he stayed long enough, he would maybe recognize one or two familiar faces, people he’d worked with. That part of him would be forever linked to Ellen and Trevor. His job had forced him to do overtime, to miss some of his son’s milestones, and to jeopardize his own family.
It’s not your fault.Camila’s voice rang in his ear—soft and at the same time thickened by her strong accent. His aunt Gesa had said Ellen had known about his lifestyle before she married him. But had she really anticipated eating dinner alone the first couple years of their marriage?
Jaeger tried to make up for it by spending time with Trevor whenever he could. Sometimes he’d get home late, and she’d already put Trevor to sleep. Jaeger would still go upstairs and give his son a kiss. Sometimes, he’d watch him for a long time. Now it seemed he hadn’t watched enough.
His chest squeezed so tight for a second he got lightheaded, and he closed his eyes and opened them again immediately to make sure he knew where he was. His throat felt hoarse and dry, and he had to swallow twice to be able to shove the sadness down. The contours of his face tightened, and behind his eyelids, something prickled and burned.
He’d never see Trevor again. He could work all he wanted, keep busy, and sleep with women who meant nothing to him to distract him from the painful truth. Tears blurred his vision, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried like this.
…
“What are you doing here?” Camila asked when he showed up at the back entrance of the hospital.
“I just tagged out Omar,” he said. What he didn’t add was that he’d arrived early and watched the boring entrance while the only thing distracting him were email updates and images—images of what she’d look like when she pushed the door open and stepped away from the hospital.
His heart had raced foolishly every time someone walked through those doors. But now, seeing her, his chest was a minute away from exploding. “How are you feeling?” Because he needed the connection…after reliving his grief and realizing he couldn’t change the reality by losing himself in work, meaningless sex, etc.
“Like someone crushed my heart and I can’t pick up the pieces,” she said.
Ever since learning of Lee’s death, she’d alternated between devastated and resolute to find the killer. He could tell she wanted to pull herself together for his boyfriend, but felt guilty. “I contacted his parents. He’ll be buried next week so out-of-town family members can attend. Police are questioning his coworkers and students. I…still can’t believe.”
“I’m sorry.” He led her to his car and opened the door for her.
During the drive to his place, they didn’t exchange many words. He enjoyed the comfortable silence, the most peaceful moment of his day. When they arrived at his place and Pork Chop jumped from the sofa to greet them—especially her—his pulse quickened. Whether he liked it or not, whether he could stop it or not, something greater than his rules and his way of life unfolded before his eyes.
She put her bag on the side table, the same place she always did. What would it look like when she no longer stayed at his place? Once they caught the criminal…her place was far closer to the hospital, more practical, and besides, she’d no longer be a client. Is she just a client now?
