3. Chapter Three
Chapter three
Nash
I give my share of good morning greetings as I walk into the precinct and head up to my office.
It’s the oldest police precinct in New York City, but it’s in pristine condition, which is more than I can say for a lot of the buildings I’ve been in around here.
Coming from Chicago, I didn’t know what to expect, but I keep getting surprises along the way.
Can’t say if they’re good or bad—they’re just surprises.
My office is on the fifth floor. There’s one other above that, and I couldn’t tell you what happens up there.
I’ve only been here a month, and what I know is that my office is on the fifth floor which is a pain in the damn ass because all the files and some of the evidence boxes are in the basement—the rest are kept in a warehouse just outside of the city, which is an even bigger pain in the ass to get to in the middle of the day because fighting New York traffic is worse than a kidney stone.
But this is my job and I do what I can. Which so far, isn’t a lot.
Over the month I’ve been here, I’ve had to pass on five files.
I dug through everything that was there, re-interviewed people, went over evidence and reports.
I didn’t see a single thing that would lead in a direction to close the case.
So I set them aside for another day, or maybe another person once they get the funding to add a second person into this position, which they’re supposed to do—apparently once I prove that I need it.
I fight guilt each and every time I push a file aside and tell myself someone will get to them one day. It’s just not the right time.
The one thing that’s helped me get over—no, that’s not the right phrase—deal with my parents’ murder/suicide is the fact that he’s dead.
Had my father killed my mother and took off?
I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. Knowing he was out there, having taken someone I love from this world, and was just…
living. It hurts my chest just thinking about it.
Which is why I don’t. It’s also why I do this job.
There’s one person waiting for the elevator when I reach it. A woman I’ve seen around a few times. She looks like a lawyer. Skirt suit, not a blonde hair out of place, red lipstick.
“Good morning,” she says with a bright smile.
“Morning,” I grunt.
The doors open, and I gesture for her to get on before me.
“Thank you.”
She presses the button for the second floor, while I press mine for the fifth.
“How was your weekend?” she asks casually.
“Good.” Except for the fact I can’t stop thinking about the guy at the bar who was too sad to be left alone, yet I left him alone anyway. “Yours?”
I don’t ask because I care. I ask because it’s the polite thing to do and I don’t want to be the asshole in the building. That’s who I was in Chicago. I came here for a fresh start. Not exactly to be someone else, because all I can be is me, but maybe out here, someone will get me.
“Busy catching up on cases,” she answers with a sigh. “I was hoping to go out and focus on something other than work, but of course, that didn’t happen. Guess it’s best saved for warm weather anyway.” The doors open for her floor. “Have a good day.”
The doors close again and the elevator doesn’t stop until it reaches my floor. I get off, walk down the hall to my office and pull out my keys to unlock it. A locked door will never keep out a determined person, but it makes me feel just a little better that all my stuff is locked behind a door.
None of the offices in the building are big, and mine is no different.
If you want space, you can work in the conference rooms on the third floor.
I have enough room to do what I need, and being out there opens me up for conversation that I don’t want to have.
I’m here for work. That’s what I need to focus on.
Besides, I’ve got everything organized in my office the way it needs to be for me to focus properly.
If only I can get my mind off that guy from the bar, I might get work done today.
I don’t even know his name, and I shouldn’t care that I don’t. It doesn’t matter.
I hang my coat on the rack in the corner and go to the break room to make a cup of coffee—my second for the day.
The first is enough to get me here through the traffic.
This one will give me energy to focus on my work, at least until lunch, when I’ll have my third, which should be enough for the rest of the day.
After five, it’s time to switch to alcohol.
Though, I try to keep a cap on that too. I can’t be the alcoholic in the office.
I also don’t want to be like my father. It’s bad enough I look like him.
When I get back to my office, I hear my phone ringing, and I realize I left it in my coat pocket. I stare at it hanging on the rack for far too long. I never forget to take my phone out. I’m distracted.
My brother’s name flashes across the screen.
“A little early,” is how I answer.
“Couldn’t sleep last night.”
“Anxious about coming home?”
“Very.”
I head over to my desk and take a seat, placing the cup of coffee down carefully so I don’t spill it. I’ve been known to do that.
“Everything will work out,” I say. “Always does.”
“I’m just nervous about how it’ll go with Miles.”
“That’s normal.”
“Yeah. Normal.” He clears his throat. “So, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
He’s my brother. Of course I’ll do him a favor. Anything he ever needed or wanted. It’s what I do, what I’ve always done. Though he helps me support Hollis, our youngest brother, maybe he needs help right now. He’s going through a lot.
“Remember when I told you to stop calling me Jericho?”
“Yep,” I grunt. Of course I remember. It pissed me right off because I knew exactly why he didn’t want me calling him that anymore, and I’ve always thought nicknames were stupid.
And our mother named us, so they mean something.
But I did it for him. Because he asked. Because he’s my brother, and I love him.
“Well, I had an interesting conversation with my therapist last week, and I’d like for you to start using Jericho again.”
“Whatever you want, little brother.”
“I just don’t want to be triggered by a name.”
“Makes sense.”
“Thank you, Nash.”
“Anytime, Jericho.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Still hate it.”
“It’s your name. Mom gave it to you. You shouldn’t hate it.”
“I’m trying. Talk in a few days?”
“Yes.”
We end the call, and I sit there for a moment, staring at my phone.
Jericho is a firefighter in Chicago. We aren’t close but we do have a relationship.
I check on him more than anything, though he’s pretty closed off.
Neither of us are good at the communication thing, but he’s recently met someone that he’s trying to make himself better for.
It’s a good thing because his husband is a dick.
Well, future ex-husband. According to all the paperwork, they’ll be divorced soon.
The trauma my brothers and I went through has made the three of us shitty people—to some extent. Jericho and I help people in our jobs. Hollis tries.
Jericho stayed married to some prick in California for like fifteen years because he thought it’s all he was worth. He’s finally seeing straight. Thank fuck.
Hollis is a drug addict and though he is a good person, he really fucking struggles.
Jericho and I pay most of his bills because the last thing we need is for him to be on the street.
Which is where he ends up sometimes anyway.
He still lives in California, where we’re all from.
Sometimes I wish he was closer. Sometimes I think it’s good he’s far away.
And me? I’ve got a laundry list of issues that I won’t begin to get into. I know it, but what’s the point in dealing with them? I’m surviving. Doing my job. Living. Making sure my brothers are good. Solving cases—hopefully. What else do I need?
I sip my coffee while I respond to emails.
There are some reports in here that I’ve been waiting for, so I print them out so I can cross reference them to what we have.
It’s easier to see this on paper than it is to do on the computer.
This split screen shit is for the birds.
I need paper in front of me, with pens and highlighters and sticky notes.
I finish my coffee before I place any papers on my desk, not wanting to risk it. Can’t be known as the fuck up in the office who ruins case files, because no… not everything is digital yet. They’re still working on it and backed up like everything else, with promises to hire more people.
Sure.
It’s a surprise I got this job with all the complaints about funding. But that’s why I went for it. I knew it was one in a million to get a position like this. I’m getting too old to be out on the streets, fighting crime. That’s what the rookies are for.
After tossing my paper cup into the trash, I grab the stack of folders from my bottom drawer. The two on the top go with the reports I just printed, so I get those organized before moving them aside. One is a hit and run. The other a break-in.
The three files that are left, I need to dig through next.
I haven’t found a good process yet. Right now, I’m going through about five files at a time and seeing what I can find.
Maybe it’s best to focus on one, dig deep, see where it goes.
I’m not there yet though, because nothing has stuck out that much.
It’s hard to prioritize murders. They’re all important. They all deserve justice. So, right now, getting eyes on as many as I can seems like the right thing to do.
I quickly flip through the one on top, the photos of the victims’ smiling faces are clipped to the left flap. Desiree and Bernard Utler.
Break in. Double homicide—a husband and wife. Kid was at a sleepover, thank the fucking Lord. The case is from six years ago. The two listed witnesses have moved to Italy, so that’ll be time-consuming.
I put a note on the top to find the best time to call them, move it aside, and grab the next. The photo on this one is a mugshot. Doesn’t mean he deserved to die. Jasper Thomas. Eighteen years old.
Shooting. One dead. Two others injured. Drug deal gone wrong. These always hit close to home because I can’t help but wonder if Hollis will be a victim of this one day.
I move it aside and grab the last folder.
Victim was twenty-six. Ryan Kinsley. Stabbing.
Wrong place; wrong time. He’s smiling in his photo, and there’s something about it that has my chest tightening.
He has one of those smiles that make even the grumpiest of people, like myself, feel it.
His hair is dark, almost black. Unruly and curly, but in a fun way.
His eyes are so blue they look almost crystal.
There’s a five o’clock shadow on his face and a dimple on either side of his cheeks.
I shake my head and flip through a few pages, pausing when I see another photo of Ryan and another man—his boyfriend, Carter Evans.
The guy from the bar.