He found a bottle of whiskey with a mouthful left in the bottle and guzzled it down. He dressed in black jeans and a black, short-sleeved T that hugged his long, tattooed torso. On his feet, he wore white socks and beat-up, black leather combat boots. He clipped his badge to his belt and snapped a magazine into his empty gun.
One day, one morning, it wouldn’t be empty. But he put that thought behind him for now.
He wasn’t worried about going to this address alone. It’s how he did things nowadays. If he couldn’t protect himself, then so be it. Whether he died at his own hand or someone else’s didn’t matter. But his instincts wouldn’t let him walk into a spray of bullets. They made him fight back.
He’d be fine.
He threw on a leather bomber jacket to conceal his gun, slipped his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and walked out the door to his apartment.
Should he walk the two extra blocks to the garage to get his car or walk the six blocks to Twenty-second? He should walk. He needed the exercise. He’d come back later for his car and stop at a liquor store for some whiskey. The thought of it comforted him.
He thought about the cases he had to see to today. Files sitting on his desk, waiting for him. Why was he strolling up the street on his way to some address a guy on the phone gave him?
He should have taken the car. Why didn’t he? He wasn’t thinking right. Now he had to walk there and back. He shook his head at himself.
Clements had been buried by his family upstate. Everyone from the precinct had been there. Michael had been a pallbearer. Everyone had been kind and considerate to his family and to him. They asked him if he was okay. He smiled and said yes and they left it alone. But he hadn’t been okay. First his brother, Geoffrey, rushing into the first tower on 9/11, and then Clements.
It had taken him a while to get used to having another partner—and a woman partner at that. He wasn’t any chauvinist who thought women shouldn’t be cops. If she wanted to, let her do it. It was just hard for him to get used to being around a woman, the same woman, every day.
But Kelly Harkin had been easy to get along with. She was married with a kid. She’d transferred from the Twenty-sixth Precinct after her partner had been killed. They had a lot in common. She was capable and tough as nails. They remained partners for another two years before she died in his arms, shot by a son of a bitch who’d shot some neighborhood kids.
The ghosts haunted him. He’d seen a therapist twice a week for three months. Did nothing. He made detective by some miracle. At first, it was good, but it didn’t take too long to discover his third partner, Langsley Hicks was taking bribes. Hicks was caught after a year. Michael went through hell over it because Internal Affairs believed he was taking bribes as well. For two years, he couldn’t take a piss without someone looking over his shoulder.
He started drinking six months ago. He didn’t drink during work, but when he got off, he could usually be found at Micky’s Pub. Lately though, he stopped wanting to be around anyone, so he went home alone and drank himself to sleep. Depending on his stupor, it kept the ghosts away until morning.
He reached the building and looked up. Four stories—just like in the Lancaster case. What was he walking into…alone? But if this had to do with her case, it could be the lead he needed. Double doors. He went inside and took in his surroundings. There was a doorman. An outside elevator in a cage design, four doors leading somewhere else, and a stairway.
“Detective Pendridge?”
Michael spun around to face a big guy with an even bigger smile.
Michael looked him over with skeptical arch of his dark brow, and then followed him to the elevator. His heart pounded. Is this what they had done with Kestrel Lancaster? Was this guy a part of a human trafficking ring? When the cage door slammed shut, it jarred Michael’s thoughts. He fought to hold on to the present as his mind screamed,Shots fired! We need help! We need help!
“Detective?” asked his escort. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Michael answered.
This obviously wasn’t the company strongarm. If anything, he offered his arm for help. And he hadn’t patted Michael down to see if he had any weapons. Maybe this was legit.
“What’s your name?” Michael asked him.
“My friends call me Luke.”
Michael spared him a wooden glance. He didn’t like when people were overly friendly or when they considered him a friend after a few minutes. “What do people call you who aren’t your friend?”
“Luke,” his escort said, his smile turning playful.
Michael ignored him.
They reached the polished wooden doors and Luke stepped forward, opening the door. He made way for Michael and held his arm out to an antique-looking chair.
“Mr. Green will be right in.”
Michael offered him a light nod and looked around the golden-hued room. “Does anyone else work here? I didn’t see any receptionist or—”
“It is Friday. We have a skeleton crew on Fridays.”
Michael sat in the chair and waited. In front of him was a large wooden table polished until it looked like glass. “How do you keep dust off this thing?” he asked Luke, but a door opened off to the side and another man stepped inside. He was older than Luke, and bigger. His shoulders were wider than a baseball bat. He wore a suit but there was a dangerous air about him, as if his patience only went so far and then he would break you in half.
