wouldn’t do this. It’s not his way. I know him, Sarge. I know Frank.” Better than any of them did. Better than any of them even realized. He was more than just her partner. More than her best friend. Frank was her lover, the one person she cherished more than life. And now…
What am I supposed to do, Frank? Tell me what I’m supposed to do? This time, when Claudia tried to lower herself to Frank, needing to feel his warmth once more before it was gone from his body forever, Sergeant Gunning held her back. And this time, nothing could stop the tears.
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS HER LAST SHIFT of a week on midnights. Claudia glanced up from the file on her desk and out the windows of the sixth-floor Homicide offices. At five o’clock the city hall dome was taking on the first rosy reflections of the morning sun. Her optimism grew. The squad might just make it through the night without a call. One more hour and the next shift would be in to relieve them. Then she could go home to a long-awaited and well-deserved bath, and finally to bed.
Claudia stretched. She’d been up twenty hours straight, and every muscle was stiff with fatigue. From the main office around the corner where the rest of her squad had spent the night in front of the TV, she heard the early-morning news. Again she prayed for the phone not to ring.
If memory served her, she actually had the weekend off. And she planned to make it two glorious sleep-filled days. Turning back to her desk, Claudia confirmed her schedule on the wall calendar. Had she not looked, she probably wouldn’t have taken note of the day. October 16, the anniversary of their first kiss.
It hardly seemed an entire year ago. She could still recall the scent of Frank’s aftershave. Throughout their two-year partnership in Homicide she’d smelled it on him, but on that particular night, his very ordinary aftershave had suddenly become intensely arousing. She remembered the feel of his hand and the taste of his kiss, with the subtle hint of red wine. But then, it wasn’t a kiss easily forgotten, Claudia decided as images of that initial encounter whispered through her memory. And definitely not a night easily forgotten—filled with tenderness and passion, deep love and mutual respect. And the two brief months that followed had been the best in her life.
Claudia cast her gaze to the desk abutting hers. Frank’s desk—clean, neat…empty. After ten months, it continued to be unassigned, in part because of budgetary constraints, but primarily because it remained a silent memorial. Sarge had cleared out any necessary papers, but the rest went untouched. Even the calendar blotter was still there, left at last December, as though time had stopped after Frank’s death.
But hadn’t it? Hadn’t time stopped for Claudia since that night?
She glanced at the stack of open case files on her desk. Her work had certainly gone on, even if her life hadn’t. There had been no easy answers, no real way to deal with the loss. She’d spent weeks after Frank’s death arguing with herself and with others in the unit that he wasn’t capable of suicide, that Frank Owens wasn’t a quitter. It wouldn’t have mattered how intensely Internal Affairs had hounded him with their false allegations of evidence tampering, Claudia had contended. Frank had withstood the pressure and could have continued doing so. He would have pulled through IAD’s investigation, untainted, proved innocent and, most of all, alive.
Yet, as the months slipped by and the inquiry into his death had come to a conclusion, even Claudia had begun to wonder if Frank had been a quitter. She’d wanted to believe he’d been murdered, but in the end, she’d only been wasting time and energy searching for a nonexistent killer. The final reports hadn’t lied; the facts were there in black and white—suicide.
With no evidence proving otherwise, Claudia had found herself reevaluating the superb detective she’d known, the strong man she’d loved.
Claudia looked to his desk again, the empty chair, his folded reading glasses and an unopened box of Cracker Jacks that no one would even think about touching. In a way, she blamed herself; she should have listened to Frank that last time she’d seen him, when they’d argued about IAD’s unrelenting pressure. Maybe then she would have seen the signs.
But she couldn’t hold herself entirely responsible for Frank’s suicide, Claudia thought, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. Internal Affairs was as much to blame—especially whoever had suspected Frank in the first place. If they’d done their job properly, the allegations would have been cleared up quickly, and the real person behind the evidence tampering would have been caught.
Instead, the department, the entire force, had let Frank take the fall. His suicide had sealed a guilty verdict in the minds of his co-workers and allowed the true perpetrator to go free.
Yes, IAD had pulled that trigger as surely as Frank had, Claudia decided long ago. And if there had been any way for her to find out exactly who had headed the inquiry into the corruption, she would have.
She’d tried early on. But from the start the IAD probe had been hush-hush. It had taken weeks of rumors before anyone even knew what it was IAD was looking into, and no one could identify the lead investigator. Not that it was general practice to publicize that kind of information. But usually with a few well placed questions to someone who knew someone else, an answer could be had. In this instance, however, Claudia had been met with nothing but closed doors and tight lips.
“Are you still alive back here?”
“Not really,” she said, her eyes shut. “You wanna call Homicide or should I?”
Tony Santoro laughed softly. Claudia heard the hard-soled click of his shoes as he crossed the room. And when she opened her eyes, she watched a playful smile brighten his usually careworn expression. After six years with the unit, there was no denying the job had taken its toll on Tony’s otherwise handsome face. Dark circles under his eyes and deepening creases along his forehead were telltale signs of the long shifts and too much overtime.
Frank had begun to take on that appearance, Claudia recalled. And when she glanced in a mirror she’d be greeted with similar features. It was definitely a hazard of the job.
Tony perched on the corner of her desk. “You do look sorta dead, Parrish. Why don’t I call it in?” he joked. “Any suspects?”
“Sure. You can start with the State’s Attorney Office.”
“Oh yeah, you had the Brown arraignment yesterday.”
Claudia nodded. “Not that it made any difference. Brown’s out on the streets right now, probably shooting someone else.”
“I heard they dismissed it. I’m sorry.”
She straightened in her chair and closed the Brown file, wondering why she’d even bothered to look at it again. Just another drug-related shooting.
“Oh well,” she said. “I guess that’s what happens when you can’t manage something as simple as maintaining a murder weapon. Without it, the State’s Attorney Office had no case.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“No? It was my investigation. The evidence was my responsibility.”
Tony moved behind her and lowered his hands to her shoulders, gently massaging out the knots of tension for her. He seemed to recognize that no words were necessary. It had been ongoing and completely random—missing or tampered-with evidence. And, according to IAD, the source wasn’t Evidence Control. Claudia
