Backup 1
TOE-TAG’S OFFICES, which sat in the basement of UCD Med Center, were always cool and quiet—as well as small, underfunded, and very, very attached to where Toby Tagliare, father and doctor of forensic science, did his actual work.
Toe-Tag wasn’t the coroner or a forensic pathologist. They had their own office out on Broadway. Toby was attached to the hospital morgue—he was the gateway between the people who came into the hospital alive and the people who ended up at the coroner’s office because they died of special circumstances.
Given that he spent his days in a refrigerated room stacked with corpses waiting to be sent to their destination—be it crematorium, funeral home, or the coroner’s office itself—Toby was a downright cheerful little man with a plethora of curly gray hair, much of it in his ears, and a father to his furry toes, who had spent much of his and Jackson’s early acquaintance trying to match Jackson up with his son.
Toby had been there during one of the grimmest days of Jackson’s life, but he’d also come to Ellery’s house for some much more pleasant days of celebration.
He was always happy to see Jackson but also mindful that the basement of a hospital was Jackson’s least favorite place to be.
“Come on in!” Toby gestured to where he stood over a body, one of a stringy, tattooed young male who had obviously died violently. His flesh was peppered with scars, both round like bullet holes and long and jagged like knife wounds, including new holes in his flesh, presumably from whatever had killed him.
“Wow,” Jackson said on a low whistle through his face mask, taking in all the damage. “He… he doesn’t look like his death was a surprise,” he said as diplomatically as he could. He was well aware that if it was him on the slab, a stranger might come to the same assessment.
“Well, given that the last young man on my slab had the same sort of wounds—delivered by this young man—I’m going to say that it probably wasn’t,” Toby told him mildly, stitching up the bullet hole with a sigh of sadness. He’d once told Jackson that he mourned everybody who came through his corridors because somebody had to. But he also lived a surprisingly happy life, Jackson often thought, probably because he was very aware how quickly it could be taken from him.
“It’s a shame,” Jackson said respectfully. Even if the guy had been a dirtbag in life, he didn’t have any more chances now either for redemption or change, so mourning what his life could have been was part of the process.
“It is,” Toby replied, setting his needle and thread down and turning Jackson’s way. “But not why you are here, yes?”
“Yes,” Jackson said with a small smile. “Good to see you, Toby.”
“Me too. I’d say engagement and domestic life agrees with you, but you’re looking quite tired, my boy.”
Jackson let out a groan, feeling weirdly flushed. God, how was he going to convince his backup to back him up if he was this strung out?
“Last night was rough,” he said vaguely, but Toby had known him since he’d been a prisoner, erm, patient in this very hospital. Jackson would escape his ward, erm, unit, searching for a quiet place, and the morgue qualified. It also, when his body was a constant patchwork of leaky pipes and shredded fabric, reminded him that he’d survived. He was alive. He needed to stay that way.
“I heard about your friend,” Toby said softly. “Dave came down when his shift ended to give me the heads-up. How’s he doing?”
“So far so good,” Jackson said, not wanting to think about Henry, pale and still, groggy and spitting out facts because he knew he’d be sleeping again soon. “We’re looking into who shot him—”
“Who’s the detective assigned to the case?” Toby asked.
“No idea.” Shit. One more thing on Jackson’s to-do list. He and Ellery had been so rattled he’d forgotten to ask Fetzer and Hardison the night before. “It could be Christie, but I sent K-Ski out of town. The thing is, there are some… well, vulnerable parties here. People who shouldn’t end up on law enforcement radar.”
Toby snorted. “You mean your porn friends? Yes. I can see how that might be misinterpreted.”
“John does a lot of good in his community,” Jackson told him. “And he treats his models like professionals, not like meat.”
“I agree,” Toby said. “I’ve met the man, remember? How was Henry injured, may I ask?”
“John and Galen were, uhm….” Jackson felt a blush steal over him at the oddest time. Poor Cowboy. He remembered the advice he’d given Billy that morning, and his heart twisted. No fourteen-year-old should have to pin his life and his hopes on his ability to hustle. “Solicited,” he said after a pause. “They were solicited by a fourteen-year-old boy. And while they were getting him to a friend’s place to be cleaned up and possibly placed in foster care or in a shelter, the kid let it slip that he’d seen something awful. They called Henry, because Henry comes to watch over their friend in case the person they’re helping turns out to be dangerous, and somebody tracked the boy down. Henry was shot giving the kid and his new guardian a chance to escape.”
Toby—who could concentrate on his work during almost any distraction imaginable—had set his needle and thread down and, using the back of his wrist, lifted up his headband light. His homely middle-aged face was still masked, but he was staring at Jackson with rapt attention.
“Oh dear God,” he said in horror. “Is the boy safe?”
Jackson nodded, his own mask reflecting the heat from his blush, making it worse. “Yes, and the guardian too. They’re… well, they’re not here, if you know what I mean.”
“Understood,” Toby said. “So I get it. This case is tricky, but so far everybody is still alive. I mean, not that I don’t love your company, but….”
Jackson laughed a little, his face still hot. He put out a hand to steady himself, and Toby huffed out in exasperation. “Josh!” he called, stripping off his gloves and stepping away from the body on the table. “Josh, are you there?”
Toby’s assistant, a tall, blond, beefy ball of cheer, stepped out from behind a divider where, Jackson assumed, his own preliminary autopsy was in session.
“Right here, boss. Waiting for the dieners to come help move my latest patient.”
“Where’s he going?” Toby asked curiously.
“Oh, definitely the funeral home. The only thing questionable about this guy’s death was why it didn’t happen sooner. I’ve never seen such a liver.”
Toby’s eyes went wide behind his mask, and Jackson couldn’t help smiling from behind his own. Josh had his degree in medicine—what he didn’t have was a bedside manner. But he and Toby seemed to get along well, although Josh was, sadly, devoted to his girlfriend and not a match for Toby’s son.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Could you please close this one up? He needs to go to the coroner—the bullets killed him, but the intestines full of product might need to be investigated.”
“Oh! Another Francis.” Josh pulled off his gloves by the gowning station and recovered himself in another paper gown as he spoke.
“Francis?” Jackson asked, still feeling hot and a little queasy, which was odd because with one notable exception he wasn’t usually squeamish in the morgue.
“The talking mule,” Josh said absently, studying him. “Doc, is he gonna topple?”
“Not usually,” Toby said as he finished stripping his own gear. “I suspect he hasn’t eaten today. It’s sort of a thing with him.”
And with that, Toby took Jackson’s elbow and guided him out of the autopsy room and into his own tiny, cluttered office.
Jackson sat down on the hellishly uncomfortable guest chair with a thump, right as his head really began to swim, and Toby thrust a bottle of water into his hand first.
The mask came off—thank God—and the water went down blissfully cold. The protein bar was not his favorite, but he found he’d destroyed it before his taste buds had a chance to protest.
For a moment after his last swallow, he just sat, panted, and watched curiously as the spots stopped swimming in front of his eyes.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “that was embarrassing.”
“Skip breakfast, did we?” Toby asked critically from behind his desk.
“It’s been something of a morning,” Jackson confessed. “But yes.” He sighed, aware that his body was no longer allowing the abuse he’d inflicted on it for so many years. “I can’t tell Ellery about this,” he decided. “He’ll never let me live it down.”
“I won’t say a word,” Toby promised. His voice fell. “But I am aware that being down here, being here at the hospital, is rough on your nerves. Ask me what you came down to ask me, and then you can get out of here and have some real food. Is that a plan?”
“An amazing one,” Jackson agreed, loving Toby so much in that moment. Like Ellery’s father, a gentle professor in tweeds with a thinning crop of bird-nest hair and a charmingly Yiddish accent, Toby emanated dad vibes in ways that Jackson had no idea he’d craved. He let out a breath and tried to get out of his own head long enough to make some progress.
“It must be bad,” Toby murmured.
“I’m looking for bodies,” Jackson told him baldly. “Unclaimed ones of teenaged boys. Cowboy heard one incident, but—and I can’t explain this any more than gut instinct—I get the feeling there’s more. This operation we’re looking at? It’s big, and it… it dehumanizes these kids. And it’s well funded.” That had occurred to him as he’d been driving around that morning, and he was pretty sure Ellery would already be walking down the money trail. “I am wondering if this was the first time something awful happened.”
Toby frowned. “I haven’t heard of any in Sacramento,” he said at last. “Not of adolescent boys.” But before Jackson could get hopeful, he said, “However… I seem to have heard about some in another nearby county.” He shook his gray curls. “Our tattooed mule in there was my last case of the morning. Let me get on the phone to some of my contacts for you. My memory isn’t what it used to be, and you know what the news is like these days. You’re never sure what’s going to hit and what’s going to be buried.” He grimaced. “No pun intended. But yes. Let me get on that. I’ll call you when I get a hit, and….” He chewed on his lower lip again. “I know I will. I am positive it’s out there.” Some of his animation died. “It’s horrible,” he said bleakly, “when sometimes your worst fears about humanity prove accurate.”
Jackson nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. His stomach had settled, and he was feeling a little better, but as he stood he realized how happy he was not to be going into the prelim room with Josh and the deceased again. “Thanks, Toby,” he said sincerely, extending his hand.
Toby took it. “Anytime, Jackson. And I do mean that. But next time come in with more than coffee in your stomach, yes?”
He was about to say, “Henry will make sure of it,” but then he remembered where Henry was. “Yes,” he said, his resolve firming up in his chest. “Absolutely.” He couldn’t do for his friend if he couldn’t do for himself—and he absolutely wouldn’t let Henry down.
BUT IT wasn’t until he and Jennifer were on their way from Davis Med Center to Richards Boulevard that he realized what a drive-thru desert downtown and midtown could be. He was busy , dammit, and driving crosstown to a trailer park under an overpass didn’t give him a lot of options in terms of food. His stomach grumbled, not liking the protein bar without backup, and he thought yearningly of the Starbucks a few blocks over. The day was getting on, though—and hey, maybe if his backup needing coercing, Jackson could offer food.
The trailer park was… well, depressing, Jackson realized as he piloted the minivan through the mouth of Richards, which had become a construction site, down a street that most people didn’t know was there, and into a residential area that had probably been sweet at one point, but after the cloverleafs of 50, 80, 99 and Business Loop 80 had been installed directly overhead, it was a place shaded by concrete, where traffic noise was a low hum in the consciousness.
As Jackson pulled Jennifer into the through road of the park, he saw a tanned man in his early thirties with dark brown hair and a once-white T-shirt flapping around his bone-thin frame. He wore jeans just as big on him and held around his waist with a battered leather belt, pulled to its last loop, that barely stayed up as he worked on a brick retaining wall around the outside of the limited, maybe thirty unit, trailer park.
He had an absurdly beautiful triangle-shaped face, even as gaunt as he was, and Jackson was struck once again by how unfair Cody Gabriel’s life had been over the last year.
Gabriel did a double take as Jackson passed and set his cinder block carefully down before striding to where Jackson parked: A sturdy 14x35 single-wide with cheerful yellow siding and a welcome mat with a cat staring from the front.
That mat had been part of a housewarming gift Jackson and Ellery had brought after they’d secured the place for its current tenant, trying to make the best of a bad situation.
Cody Gabriel had been screwed over by his fellow cops, and while he’d been retired with a full pension for the rest of a hopefully long life, he was still a former drug addict with a chip on his shoulder, who’d lost most of his possessions when he’d had to go on the run and deep, deep under in the city’s homeless population in order to stay alive.
Jackson knew from personal experience that the loss of identity after being tossed onto the other side of that toxic blue line was a terrible, terrible thing. Jackson himself had been “blessed” with a year and a half in the hospital and long-term care facilities to come to grips with the idea that he’d never be a policeman again—but he’d only been on the force for a few months when he realized his training officer was as dirty as they came and had tried to build a case against him. Cody had gotten thirty days in rehab over Thanksgiving after a twelve-year career.
Much like Henry, in spite of some significant pressure from the dark side, he’d managed to do the right thing, and this trailer park was his reward.
Jackson and Ellery made an effort to visit as often as possible, but in spite of the groceries, clothes, and furniture they’d brought in the past, this was the first time Jackson felt like he had anything tangible to offer.
“Rivers!” Cody said, drawing near as Jackson got out of the car. “Good to see you, man!”
They exchanged a bro hug, with the requisite thump on the back, and Jackson gave Gabriel a sharp-eyed once-over. In spite of the looseness of his clothes, Cody was looking stronger and more substantial this past month, and his thoughtful hazel eyes were just as clear-sighted as they had been when Cody had testified against the cops who’d tried to kill him.
“How’re they hanging?” Jackson asked, and there must have been a note to his voice because Gabriel cocked his head.
“Low, inside, and tucked out of the way,” he responded almost absently. “What’s up?”
Jackson tried to sell this idea a little. “Nothing,” he lied. “Just, you know, coming to check on you. How’s the gardening going?”
Cody glanced over his shoulder at the retaining wall and grimaced. “Slow,” he said. “So’s the fence painting, the rent collecting, the plumbing diapers out of toilets, and all the other bullshit that goes along with managing this craphole.” He glanced around quickly to make sure none of the other tenants had overheard him. “God bless it,” he added weakly when he realized he’d gone unheard.
Jackson gave a wicked laugh. “Sounds dire,” he said, peeking slyly upward from under his brow. “I can tell you’re busy. I was going to offer you a little job, but, you know, you’re swamped here—”
Gabriel shook his head, hard. “No, seriously, what do you have for me? What am I doing? Where am I going? How much does it pay?”
Jackson let the smile he’d been hiding start to bloom over his face. “You’re doing some PI work with me. We’re going to a couple of rehab centers, and then we’re gonna crash the holy grail of fake church moms, and then we might be heading out of town. And it pays lunch, dinner, and a few days of your time.” He sobered. “Plus a recommendation for the local PI school, and it will count as hours following a trainer.”
Cody’s breath caught in his chest, and he seemed momentarily transported. “Seriously?” he asked. “You think we could do that?”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, his voice softening. “I told you I’d vouch for you when you were ready, Cody. I thought I’d give you a few more months to get your life together, that’s all.” He sighed and told the whole truth. “And Henry’s out of commission, and Ellery won’t let me investigate without backup.”
Gabriel frowned. “Out of commission—”
“It’s a long story,” Jackson said, and out of nowhere his stomach growled. “But it’s a good one,” he added. “You got any clothes that fit?”
“Some,” Cody said, “as you well know since Ellery brought them. Would you like me to change?” He glanced down at himself. “Of course you would—”
“Bring the good ones,” Jackson said. “But wear those. Our first stop is at a rehab facility. Somebody is hanging around there, trolling for… well, I’m not sure what. But I figured I’d go and be official—”
“And I’d go and be a client,” Cody said, getting it immediately. “I hear you. Let me pack my knapsack and give Clive and Poppy some food.”
“I know what a Poppy is,” Jackson said, referring to the tiny Chihuahua mix that Cody had acquired during the adventure that had brought him and Jackson together. “What’s a Clive?” At that moment, a ragged, long-haired black-and-white cat appeared on the windowsill of the trailer again, his once-handsome white whiskers ravaged and torn, and part of his twitching tail missing. “Oh.” Jackson smiled at the cat’s imperious batting against the glass. “ That’s a Clive. Indoor only?”
“He has to be,” Cody muttered. “There are freeway onramps everywhere . I’m surprised he survived this long.”
Jackson nodded. “Yeah—once Billy Bob got fixed, he had no urge to wander anyway. It’s like he’s been born to soft food on special plates, you know?”
Cody chuckled. “Come in, have a soda. I’ll pack, and you can fill me in on the job.” He paused before he opened the sliding glass door. “I hope Henry’s okay,” he said seriously. “You all were so kind to me, not just during the trial but afterward. Henry brought me Poppy when the rehab center would let me have him.” As Cody stepped into the foyer of the trailer, he kicked off his work boots and then bent to greet the tiny black dog who had run up to him, tail wagging fiercely.
“Hello, fella,” Cody said gently, scooping him up in his arms. The wild little tongue went crazy on Cody’s chin, and Cody laughed a bit and allowed the doggy kisses before he handed the creature to Jackson.
Jackson and Poppy regarded each other soberly before Poppy curled up in the crook of Jackson’s arm and started to clean his wrist with singular dedication.
“Alrighty then,” Jackson said, soothed by the little dog as he didn’t think much could soothe him right now. “I guess he remembers me?”
The trailer was laid out with the kitchen to the left and a small living room to the right. Jackson knew there were a bathroom and two bedrooms past the kitchen, all the rooms and necessities fitted together like tiny puzzle pieces, but he still felt like a deep breath would cause the whole place to explode like the Hulk’s clothes.
Carefully, trying not to make his shoes thump on the hollow floor beneath his feet, he settled into the surprisingly comfortable tweed sofa, Poppy still tucked against his ribs.
Cody reached into the fridge and came out with a couple of sodas, and Jackson accepted one gratefully. He realized he had a low-level caffeine headache working and wanted to kick himself for not even remembering coffee.
Jackson took a healthy swallow as Cody grabbed a chair from the tiny kitchen table and swung it around, straddling it while he chugged his own soda.
“Okay, so talk,” he said after his first gulp.
“Well, I was going to take you to lunch first,” Jackson told him, sighing when the sugar hit his bloodstream. “Seriously—I’m starving, and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
Gabriel shook his head. “Nope. You had me at ‘I’ve got a job,’ son. I am losing my mind with boredom here if you haven’t noticed. I’ve got sandwich fixin’s and more soda where that came from. You sit there and pet my creatures and we can hash this out right now.” He took another gulp of soda, killing it in a couple of chugs.
“You’re harshing my ‘Jackson’s got his shit together’ vibe,” Jackson admitted, but the dog really was a magic talisman against stress. “But since I almost passed out in autopsy thirty minutes ago, I’ll take it.”
“Ugh—not my favorite place, the morgue,” Cody said, swinging his leg around the sturdy wooden chair and replacing it at the table. “What brought you there—” He paused his stride to the refrigerator. “Not Hen—”
“No!” Jackson blurted. “No—no, don’t say that. But he is in the hospital, so’s you knows.”
“Well, shit.” Gabriel swung the fridge door open and started pulling out mayo, mustard, lunch meat, tomatoes, onions, and pickles, and Jackson’s mouth started to water. He was going to get up and make those vague motions people did about helping, but the cat chose that moment to leap out of the windowsill and onto his lap, unashamedly purring and rubbing up against Jackson’s chest.
“This is fun,” Jackson said in surprise, and Gabriel glanced over at him, a smile making his foxlike features almost angelic.
“Yeah, Clive’s a slutbag. I woke up one morning and he was on my step, his paw all bloody. I brought him inside, and you know Poppy—that little goober is bomb proof, but he’s also sort of a nurse. Checks on Clive, checks on me, makes sure we’re okay. Anyway, I bandaged the foot, bought some kibble, and risked giving him a bath—he was fine. Got him to the vets and got him fixed, and we’ve been roommates ever since.” Cody sobered. “Perfect friends for a recovering junkie. Can’t run off and score because you gotta pay the vet bills. And who could betray those little faces, right?”
Jackson rubbed Clive’s ears, and the cat collapsed onto his lap in ecstasy while Poppy continued her cleansing of his other arm. “Your creatures seem more… uhm, affectionate than the ones I’m used to dealing with.”
“Hee!”
It was an unexpected sound from such a hard man, and Jackson glanced at him quickly as he pressed a free hand to his mouth, his eyes dancing over it. So pretty, Jackson thought a little wistfully. So broken. It’s a good thing he was in love with Ellery, because otherwise he’d be happily engaged in a trainwreck of brokenness with this man, he had no doubt.
Cody schooled his features. “I’ve met your cats,” he said, shoulders still shaking a little. “Trust me, I’m aware.” He gave Jackson a wistful glance of his own. “But then, I’m not sure you’d trust all that open affection on tap.”
“Probably not,” Jackson said, now rubbing noses with Clive. “Remind me to wash up after this by the way, because Billy Bob knows when I’m cheating on him.”
Cody made that unexpected sound again, and Jackson found himself relaxing as well as making out with the cat. Without warning, some of the awfulness slipped from his day, some of the worry, the anxiety, the film that covered his body from treading backward in the waters of time. He found himself melting into Cody Gabriel’s couch and enjoying the sun through the bright yellow curtains.