see his mouth open, but he couldn’t tell if the sound he heard was Spenser’s cry or his own imagination.
He knew that each second mattered, that the distance between the ship and Spenser was growing with every moment. The railing beneath his palm squirmed like a warm body, soft with fur. Tripp recoiled, drew his hand to his chest, but there was nothing to see, only cold metal.
There was still time to do the right thing. He knew that. He knew the man-overboard drill. His job was to keep his eyes on Spenser and shout for help, hold on to the railing with one hand, and use the other to point out his location. It was just too easy to lose sight of someone among the peaks and valleys of the waves. The crew would bring the boat about. They’d throw out a line and drag Spenser from the water, and Spenser would shove him and demand to know why he hadn’t moved faster, what the fuck was wrong with him. Tripp’s father would wonder too. Spenser wouldn’t be afraid, just angry.
Because Spenser always won.
He was barely visible now. A life vest would have kept him afloat. If he’d put one on. Tripp had to squint to see the red windbreaker in the water.
He took hold of the railing with one hand and lowered himself down to sit so he was secure—the way he’d been taught. Then he reached down to take hold of the line that was trailing over the edge, the one Spenser had tried to bring in.
Tripp spared a last glance over his shoulder at the slate-colored sea, crowded with eager waves, looking for their chance.
“Try to keep up,” he whispered and set to work hauling in the line. He coiled it neatly, felt the rope move easily in his hands, his body confident with new grace, the knots like a song he’d always known.
He felt the weight against his heart ease at last. Rain spattered his cheeks, but he wasn’t afraid.
It was only weather. The sea settled. He was on solid ground.
“It’s just rain,” Carmichael said. “You afraid you’re gonna melt, sugar?”
Turner made himself laugh because Carmichael thought he was funny, and hell, sometimes he was.
The day was cold, the streets slick and black, wet eel skin bordered by heaps of dirty snow sagging in the rain. It wasn’t even proper rain, just a pattering damp that made Turner desperate for a hot shower. If there had been a market for shitty East Coast mornings, New Haven could have made a killing.
Carmichael slumped beside him in one of his rumpled Men’s Wearhouse suits, tapping his fingers in the “We Will Rock You” rhythmic jabs he always used when he was craving a cigarette. His wife, Andrea, had demanded he quit, and Car was doing his best. “She won’t even kiss me until I’ve gone a month smoke-free,” Car complained, shoving a stick of gum into his mouth.
“Says it’s a filthy habit.”
Turner agreed, and he wanted to send Andrea a bouquet for pushing Carmichael to quit. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get the smoke stink out of his seat cushions. Turner could have said no that first day when he’d picked up Carmichael in front of his tidy yellow house with the turf lawn. He just hadn’t had the balls.
Chris Carmichael was practically a living legend. He’d been on the force for twenty-five years, made detective at age thirty, and his close rate was so high, uniforms called him the Sandman because he’d put so many cases to bed. Carmichael did not fuck around. Having him as your rabbi meant prime cases, promotions, maybe even commendations. Car and his buddies had taken Turner out drinking after he’d earned his spot on the squad, and somewhere during the bleary night of whiskey and the bleating of a bad Journey cover band, Carmichael had clamped his hand on Turner’s shoulder and leaned in to demand, “You one of the good ones?”
Turner hadn’t asked him to explain, hadn’t told him to take his bullshit elsewhere. He’d just smiled and said, “Damn right, sir.”
Carmichael—Big Car—had laughed and cupped the back of Turner’s head with his meaty hand and said, “That’s what I thought. Stick with me, kid.”
It was a friendly gesture, Carmichael letting everyone know Turner had his approval and his protection. It was a good thing, and Turner told himself to be glad. But he’d had the uneasy sense of the world doubling, of some
other timeline where Big Car put his hand atop Turner’s head and shoved him into the back of a police car.
On this morning, he’d picked up Carmichael and they’d gone to get coffee at a Dunkin’. Or Turner had gone. He was the junior detective and that meant doing shit work in shit weather. He always kept an umbrella with him, and it always made Car chuckle.
“It’s just rain, Turner.”
“It’s a silk suit, Car.”
“Remind me to introduce you to my tailor so we can get to lowering your standards.”
Turner smiled and hurried into the donut shop, nabbed two black coffees and a couple of breakfast sandwiches.
“Where we headed?” he asked when he slid back into the car and handed over the coffee.
Carmichael shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He’d been a boxer in his youth, and you still wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of his right hook, but his big shoulders sloped a little now and his gut hung over his belt. “Got a tip King Tut might be holing up in a duplex on Orchard.”
“You shitting me?” Turner asked, his heart starting to race.
That explained why Car had been so twitchy this morning. They’d been looking into a series of B&Es in the Wooster Square area and they’d come up empty again and again. It had been like beating their heads against a wall until one of Carmichael’s CIs had pointed them toward Delan Tuttle, a small-time crook who’d gotten out of Osborn just weeks before the breakins had started. He looked good for the robberies, but he wasn’t at the address he’d registered with his parole officer, and every lead they’d had on him had gone cold.
Turner could at least relax a bit now. Carmichael had set off all his alarm bells that morning, too bright-eyed, too excited. Turner’s first thought was that Car was high. It did happen—never with Carmichael, and rarely with detectives, but when you were working back-to-back shifts as a beat cop, it wasn’t unheard of to snort a little Adderall—or coke if you could get it—to keep you from sleepwalking through hour twelve.
Turner kept clean, of course. He had enough hoops to jump through without worrying about a urine test. And he’d never had trouble staying awake on the job. His father had said it best: You get the habit of looking out, you don’t ever lose it. Eamon Turner ran an appliance repair shop, and eventually he would die in front of a row of used stereos and DVD players
—not at the hands of one of the kids who occasionally rolled up on the shop hoping to find a flat-screen or some hidden treasure, but from a heart attack that felled him silently. Business had been bad for a long time, and his father’s body wasn’t found until late afternoon when Naomi Laschen had come to pick up her ancient panini press. Turner had told himself it wasn’t a bad way to go, but he’d been tormented by the thought of his father dying alone in a room full of obsolete machines, running down the way they all did in the end.
Now Turner squealed out of the parking lot and headed toward Kensington. “How do you want to handle this?”
Car took a big bite of his sandwich. “Let’s come down on Elm, past that auto repair place. Get our bearings.” He cut Turner a glance and grinned, grease on his chin. “Your little storm cloud go home for the day?” “Yeah, yeah,” Turner said with a laugh.
Turner was moody. Always had been. He had to watch for it. If people picked up on that mood too often, suddenly they started steering clear, invitations to grab a beer dried up, no one pulled you in when they needed an extra man. It could be enough to kill a career. So Turner tried to smile, keep his shoulders loose, make things easy for everyone around him. But today he’d woken up feeling that weight bearing down on him, that prickle in the back of his skull, the sense that something bad was brewing. The shit weather and weak coffee hadn’t helped.
From the time he was a kid, Turner had an ear for trouble coming. He could spot an undercover without even trying, always knew when a blackand-white was about to round a corner. His friends thought it was spooky, but his father told him it just meant he was a natural detective. Turner liked that thought. He wasn’t particularly good at sports or art or school, but he did have a sense for people and what they might do. He knew when someone was sick, like he could smell it on them. He knew when someone was lying even
if he wasn’t sure how he knew. He’d just get that prickle at the back of his skull that told him to pay attention. He learned to listen to that feeling, and that if he kept smiling, kept the dark part of his heart hidden, people really liked talking to him. He could get his mom or his brother or his friends or even his teachers to tell him a little more than they’d set out to tell.
Turner also learned to expect the look of shame that came over their faces when they realized how much they’d said. So he practiced not showing too much sympathy or too much interest at all. That way they could convince themselves they hadn’t said anything worth being embarrassed about. They didn’t feel weak or small, and they had no reason to avoid him. And they never suspected that Turner remembered every single word.
