of Carter’s vehicle, he heard the echo of another promise, the one he’d made to Jordy’s widow, the promise that he’d catch Jordy’s killer no matter what it took. As the days spun into weeks with no progress from the cops working the case, his frustration was building to epic levels. At least the rabid press coverage had eased a bit, his brother’s “suicide” taking backseat to various other big-city stories.
Everyone who worked with Jordy already knew it wasn’t a suicide, but given the suicide note that had been planted and the lack of outward trauma to his body, that didn’t keep the press from their speculations. He realized his jaw was clamped like a vise and he made an effort to relax.
Maybe it would be good to have Violet to focus on while they continued to try and unearth a lead on his brother’s killer. The fatigue of many sleepless nights crowded the adrenaline from his muscles. Wearily, he stroked Eddie, threading his fingers through the fur, allowing himself just for a moment to wonder if Jordy’s dog, Snapper, might still be alive. There had been blood found in Jordy’s SUV, animal blood, but not a single trace of Snapper anywhere. If the German shepherd was wandering loose, lost, injured, how long could he survive?
A wave of despair washed over him. Zach used to believe there was nothing he couldn’t do, that God was watching over the Jameson family and the people they loved.
I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety. The psalm was inscribed inside the Bibles his mother had given each of them the day they were sworn in as cops. Now he couldn’t even read the words without choking on them. With Jordy’s death, there was no more peace or rest, and now with Violet facing a different threat, there would be no fairy-tale promises of safety, either.
I’ll do it without You, he silently promised, the stone where his heart used to be hardening with each syllable. I’ll keep her safe. It felt good to direct his anger at God, who’d taken the very best friend he’d ever had.
You won’t take anyone else from me.
Carter shot him a look in the rearview mirror as they turned onto 94th Street and passed the K-9 headquarters, eventually pulling up in the tiny lot behind Griffin’s Diner. Violet got out and beelined for the door.
Carter cut the motor and turned to stare at Zach. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He shifted Eddie on his lap. “Why?”
“Because you look like you’re ready to take on an army all by yourself.”
“Maybe I will.”
Carter shook his head. “That’s not smart. We’re a team. Don’t go rogue on us.”
Zach didn’t speak, but his gut filled in the answer.
If that’s what it takes to protect Vi, bring it on.
“Zach,” Carter started again, but Zach was already out and following Violet into the comfort of the diner.
* * *
Violet breathed deeply of the familiar aromas, the rich tang of coffee, the scent of the freshly waxed floors her father insisted on, the tantalizing fragrance of simmering soup with glistening homemade noodles and shredded chicken, never diced. It was the smell of home, of comfort, of safety. The place had been unchanged for decades, obstinately resisting the pressure of the encroaching neighborhood gentrification of Jackson Heights. Her father would inevitably turn red in the face when he passed the two new luxury rental buildings and the artisanal cheese shop that had replaced the old mom-and-pop stores. Griffin’s was rooted in the history of Queens, standing defiantly against the so-called progress, preserving the character of the people who had built the neighborhood brick by brick, block by block.
Sucking in a lungful of diner smells, she put the fear behind her and automatically snatched her apron from the hook by the door.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” her mother said. Barbara Griffin was still tall and straight-backed in spite of the lifetime of sweat and tears she’d put into the diner and raising Violet. Some silver threaded her brown hair, which she wore wound into the trademark braid. She’d never know how her mother survived losing Violet’s brother at age five to meningitis, but Barbara was strong, and she’d passed that strength down to her daughter.
Sometimes you build a wall around today and you don’t climb over it, her mother had told her. Violet was determined to build a wall around the frightening events of the morning and keep them behind the bricks, away from the rest of her life.
Her mother embraced her quickly, hard and tight, the contact telling her all that she couldn’t say in words. After a breath, she straightened. “Carter filled me in. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, Mom,” she said, pulling the apron around herself. The apron made her feel safer than a suit of armor. “I’m completely fine. I’ll bus table seven.”
“I’d like to see you try,” she said, smiling. “You’ll have to get around your dad first.” Violet decided that nothing would stop her, but when she made it to the dining room, the place was swimming with cops. They were collected around their favorite tables in their private room, set apart by French doors and affectionately dubbed “The Dog House,” grilling Zach for the details. On the walls of the cozy room were the photos of those NYPD officers who had lost their lives in the line of duty. The K-9s were given the names of these fallen heroes to keep their memories alive. With a pang she realized that Jordy’s picture would soon be added to those photos. The dogs were settled into their private porch area, and Zach led Eddie in to join them. Zach’s brothers, Carter and Noah, were there with their dogs, and siblings Reed and Lani Branson along with Luke Hathaway, Brianne Hayes, Tony Knight and Gavin Sutherland. They were not all related by blood, but all were part of the K-9 unit Jordy Jameson had supervised, so that made them as close as kin could be.
She was about to grab the coffeepot and start pouring out for the cops when her father hastened up, quick though he sported a potbelly, and wrapped her in a hug that lifted her off the ground. “Baby,” he said. “What is this world coming to? That airport is full of crazy people. You could have been killed. I think you should come back here and work full-time. Forget the airline job.”
She squeezed him in return, furiously blinking back tears. “You always say that, Daddy.”
“And I always mean it.” He cupped her face and kissed her on the nose like he’d done since she could remember. One of her earliest memories was her and her little brother Bobby dressed up for Easter morning, her father presenting them each with a kiss on the nose and a basket full of goodies. Lou Griffin was a softie, through and through.
Before she could protest, he steered her to the back room into an empty chair at the table full of cops. “You’re my baby, and I need you to be safe. Sit down and rest.”
“I just got here.”
“Rest from your ordeal. No waiting tables for you.”
Her mother chuckled, carrying in pitchers of ice water. “See? I told you.”
Everyone broke into a vigorous inquisition about her health and safety with a liberal amount of teasing thrown in. Holding on to her tough and independent demeanor was hard when she spoke of the attack, but she kept herself in check. She was Violet Griffin, known for her sass and wit, a strong woman who wasn’t going to present anything else to her cop family, and they knew it, counted on it. When the
