Fatal Identity

“Wow.”

“Yeah, they amaze me and everyone else who knows them.”

“I need to warn you, if this guy turns out to be their son, it’ll be the lead story on every TV station and in every newspaper in the country for the foreseeable future.”

“Why? What the hell? Who is he?”

“It’s more about who his father is.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“None of us are.”

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_c16022ce-9abf-54e3-9443-5097d38c0e63)

SAM SPENT MOST of Friday night and early Saturday morning running between her puking son and her puking husband. She was about to fall over from exhaustion when she crawled into bed next to Nick after changing the sheets on Scotty’s bed for the second time.

She’d no sooner closed her eyes when her cell phone rang. That only happened at this hour when she was on call, so she was immediately concerned about her dad. “Hello.”

“Sam.”

She groaned loudly and then regretted it when Nick stirred. Rubbing his back to settle him, she said, “What do you want, Darren?”

“I heard you were suspended for assaulting a fellow officer, and Forrester is considering charges. I wanted to give you a chance to comment before I go with it.”

How in the hell had a reporter from the Washington Star caught wind of her suspension? That was supposed to be an internal department matter, thus the term internal affairs.

“Sam?”

“No comment, other than to say if you run that I’ve been suspended when I haven’t, that might be embarrassing for you.”

“So you haven’t been suspended?”

“I’ll neither confirm nor deny. Now leave me alone. I’m sleeping.” She slapped her phone closed and put it on the bedside table. If it weren’t for her father’s precarious health, she’d turn the thing off.

“What’s that about?” Nick muttered.

“There’s a very good possibility that the headline in the Star tomorrow will be ‘Second Lady Suspended After Assaulting Fellow Officer, U.S. Attorney Forrester Considering Charges.’”

“He had it coming.”

“And that, right there, is why I love you so much.”

“Why? What’d I say?”

“You still say he had it coming even though it could turn into a firestorm for your team.”

“They get paid to put out fires. What about your staff? Should you give them a heads-up?”

“Crap, you’re right. Lilia shouldn’t hear about it on the news. I keep forgetting I have a staff.” Another thought occurred to her. “Ah damn, I never checked on Gonzo today.”

“Today is now well into tomorrow, and you need some sleep. You can check on him later and call Lilia.”

“He blew off his shift yesterday. Never does that.”

Nick reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “He’s grieving. It’s going to take a while.”

“Worried about him.”

“I know, babe. Me too.”

* * *

TOMMY GONZALES COULDN’T SLEEP. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t breathe without pain rippling through his chest in agonizing waves. He couldn’t play with his toddler son without breaking down in tears because his late partner would never experience the exquisite joy of fatherhood. He couldn’t bear the touch of his fiancée while knowing that Arnold would never drop to one knee and propose to the love of his life.

The only relief Gonzo got from the unrelenting pain was found in a bottle of whiskey. He and Jameson had become very close friends since the dreadful night in January when his partner had been gunned down.

If you shut the fuck up, I’ll let you take the lead.

Those words would haunt him for the rest of his life. Of course, if he hadn’t let Arnold take the lead that night, Gonzo would be dead. His son would be fatherless, and his fiancée bereft. The thought of those scenarios was only slightly less agonizing than the loss of Arnold had been. He didn’t like to think of Alex or Christina grieving him, but he’d almost rather be dead himself than have to live with the way his partner had died.

The gurgling sound of blood in Arnold’s throat gave Gonzo nightmares in the rare instances when he actually slept. In a career filled with things he’d much rather forget than remember, it was the single worst sound Gonzo had ever heard, the sound of life leaving his partner, one desperate gasp at a time.

He shuddered, thinking of it now and reached for the bottle that was never far from his grasp. The whiskey burned on the way down, his empty stomach protesting its arrival. Powering through the gut pain, he took another gulp, looking for the sweet oblivion he only found at the bottom of a bottle.

It was almost five now, and he had to work at seven. He’d missed his shift yesterday. That was a first. Under normal circumstances, he’d be freaking out about screwing up at work. Under these circumstances, he couldn’t find the wherewithal to give a shit about his fucking nightmare of a job. He could no longer remember what he’d ever loved about it.

In what other career could you be gunned down on a sidewalk simply because you carry a badge? In what other career did you risk your life every day for people who didn’t give a shit about you?

These days, cops were viewed as the enemy because of a few bad ones who couldn’t control themselves. Did anyone other than his family and friends and colleagues in blue even care that a young man named Arnold John “AJ” Arnold had been gunned down on a sidewalk simply because he’d approached a suspect on a cold, dark night?

Life had gone on for everyone else. Six weeks later, it was like it never happened for the rest of the world. Despite his best efforts to carry on, to be brave and strong for the people who were counting on him at home and at work, Gonzo could still hear the echo of the gunshots, smell the blood, taste the fear and panic of knowing there was nothing he could do. He could still hear that god-awful gurgling noise.

Gonzo had about twenty—or maybe it was thirty—unanswered calls from the department shrink, reminding him he needed to make his next appointment. Like the last time Gonzo had seen him, Trulo would make him talk about it when that was the last freaking thing he wanted to do. How in the hell would that help anything? Let’s tear the scab off the wound and poke a sharp stick in it because that’ll surely make everything better. So he was avoiding Trulo and all the other do-gooders who wanted to “help.” As if there was anything anyone could do.

“Tommy.” Christina’s soft voice jarred him. He hadn’t seen her coming. His reflexes weren’t what they used to be if she could sneak up on him in the dark.

“What?”

“Are you coming to bed?”

“No.” It wasn’t her fault. None of this was her fault. He told himself that a thousand times a day as she hovered over him, her care and concern wearing on his already-frazzled nerves. It was hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago, they’d been talking about making time to get married. And now he wanted to tell her to leave him alone. He wished everyone would just leave him the hell alone. But they didn’t. In addition to Christina, he had his family and colleagues around his neck too.

If Cruz called him one more time to “check in” he was going to tell him to fuck off. What did they want from him anyway?

“Will you please come to bed? You need to sleep.”

“No, I don’t need to sleep.” Sleep brought nightmares, and the last fucking thing he wanted was to relive it—again. “I need to be alone.” On the outer edges of his mind, in the place where the man he used to be lived, he knew he was making an extraordinary mess of the most precious relationship in his life. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.