A Deadly Game Page 3

  Almost as if Sam had read his mind he said, “I know I’ve only been seeing Joseph for such a short time, but somehow that makes it even worse. Not knowing, I guess, if it could have worked for us. For a crazy moment there, after I’d told him we had to split up, I had a vision of what our life could have been together. He wanted us to run away together, leave town—and just for a second, I was so tempted, Nick. As nuts as it sounds, I wanted to do it. It just seemed he was everything I wanted and needed in my life.”

  “Except for one thing,” Nick reminded him.

  Chapter Three

  Over the next forty-eight hours, their time was consumed by the necessary preparations for Garcia’s arrest. Information gleaned from FBI sources had confirmed that Garcia, his son Alfredo, and three of his men were to meet with the leaders of a drug cartel out of Mexico. The time and the place had been deemed accurate, and the plan to apprehend Garcia was set in motion. Two FBI agents headed the operation. Four Pittsburgh Police Department detectives and a SWAT team formed their backup.

  The tension was palpable that morning. Nick kept throwing worried looks at Sam, who seemed preoccupied during the briefing. It crossed his mind to say something to the Chief. Maybe Sam should be replaced—but he knew it was too late for that. He could only hope that Sam pulled himself together once they were in position. Nick was partnered with Andy, Sam with John Petrosky. Nick knew he could not afford to let his mind dwell on whether Sam was going to be okay—there was just too much at stake here. Every man had to be totally focused on the job ahead.

  He prayed that Sam knew that too.

  It should have gone well. The element of surprise was theirs. The building Garcia and his men occupied was surrounded on all sides. There was no way out for them. When the door was broken down and Nick and the rest of the team rushed into the room, Garcia and his henchmen were taken totally unawares. The hollered command, “FBI, nobody move!” echoed through the large unfurnished room, momentarily freezing everyone into immobility—and then all hell broke loose. Two of Garcia’s men went for their guns and started firing. The SWAT team opened up with their firearms. Screams of the wounded rent the air. Nick fired at one of the gunmen, bringing him down.

  What happened next was imprinted on his memory forever. From out of the group of Garcia’s men, a slim young man appeared running toward Sam, his arms outstretched.

  Joseph.

  He was shouting something, but Nick could not make it out above the din of gunfire and furious shouts. Nick saw the expression of horror on Sam’s face as he recognized Joseph.

  “God, no…Joseph, get down,” Nick heard him yell, his voice frantic with fear and desperation. Then Sam staggered back as a bullet hit him in the middle of his chest. Joseph’s scream of despair was cut off as a bullet from John Petrosky’s gun entered his heart. He pitched forward, falling alongside Sam’s body, his left arm resting on the other man’s chest. Nick heard a guttural shout, “Bastard!” then saw Petrosky thrown backwards by a blast from Francisco Garcia’s shotgun.

  Suddenly, it was over. Garcia’s men were surrounded and disarmed. A terrible silence fell upon the room as the smoke cleared and the carnage was revealed. Three of Garcia’s men lay dead on the floor; two were badly wounded, including Alfredo Garcia, who lay in a pool of blood, moaning desperately. His heart pounding, his stomach churning with dread, Nick walked over to where Sam lay. In his dying moment, he must have put his hand on Joseph’s arm, for now he held it tight against his chest.

  “What’s the story here?” Andy was standing next to him, staring down at Sam and Joseph.

  “I have no idea,” Nick said, turning away, feeling at any moment he might just jump right out of his skin. His eyes met those of Francisco Garcia, who stood at the other end of the room, his hands being wrested behind his back and handcuffed as an FBI agent read him his rights. Garcia’s eyes glittered with hatred as they tried to stare Nick down, but Nick would not give him that satisfaction. He held Garcia’s stare until the man was escorted from the room. The paramedics who had been standing by outside the building were now everywhere, putting bodies onto gurneys and tending the wounded with disciplined efficiency.

  One of the FBI agents approached Nick. “What happened over here? How come Valance didn’t shoot the guy running at him? Did he know him?”

  Nick looked at the agent dully. “Know him? Hardly…”

  “Well, he fucked up,” the agent said, his face a sour mask. “Got himself and his partner killed.”

  Nick wanted to smash his fist into the agent’s face, even though he knew the guy was right. Sam had fucked up. He had let his love for Joseph get in the way of his duty, with the result that he, Joseph and John Petrosky were now dead. And yet, Nick had to ask himself, what if that choice had been mine? Could I have shot down the person I love, knowing that he was not about to do me harm? What horrors had gone through Sam’s mind as he saw Joseph in that room? Somewhere he was never supposed to be.

  Sitting alone at home later that night, nursing a glass of neat Scotch, Nick found himself reliving those moments over and over in his mind. The ear-splitting crack of gunfire still echoed in his head; he could hear with devastating clarity the shouts and screams that had rent the air, and each time he closed his eyes, he could see Sam and Joseph fall in a hail of bullets. That night, and for many more nights to come, his sleep would be invaded by the memory of all that had happened that day.

  Both Sam and John Petrosky were given funerals with full honors. Nick and Andy received commendations for their part in Garcia’s arrest. An investigation was held concerning Sam Valance’s apparent unwillingness to shoot one of the criminals, resulting in his and his partner’s demise. Without a clear story from an eyewitness, however, the investigation went nowhere, and was mostly forgotten as Garcia’s trial went forward.

  It was a long and drawn out affair. Garcia’s lawyers tried to paint a picture of a loving family man, bereft at the loss of his younger son, but the District Attorney’s office and the FBI had evidence enough to have Garcia stand trial over and over again. The jury found him guilty on all charges of murder and drug trafficking, and recommended the death penalty. Nick and Andy felt that at last it was over and could be put to rest.

  § § § §

  The day after Sam’s funeral, Nick found a note on his desk. “An appointment has been made for you with Dr. Norman Phelps at 2pm this afternoon. His office is at 310 Beech St. Suite 810B.”

  Nick read the note and heaved a long sigh. He didn’t want to see a shrink. He didn’t need counseling. He didn’t want to sit in an office while some stranger tried to get him to bare his soul. Reparative therapy they called it; mandatory after the kind of situation he and Andy had just been through. No point in arguing, complaining, or trying to get out of it. Just go and get it over with. He crumpled the note in his fist and threw it in the trash. He looked up as Andy approached his desk, a large coffee mug in his hand.

  His partner rolled his eyes. “You too, huh?”

  Nick nodded. “What time’s your appointment?”

  “Three this afternoon.”

  “I’m two.”

  “Just sit and nod, and agree with everything they say. It’s a bunch of junk anyway.”

  “Right.” Nick looked at Andy. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m okay.” Andy put his coffee mug on Nick’s desk and sat down. He looked troubled. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What was with Sam and that kid?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You saw what happened, Nick. It looked like they knew each other, for Pete’s sake.”

  Nick shook his head. “How could Sam have known Garcia’s son, Andy?”

  “I dunno. It just looked funny the way he ran out to Sam, and Sam just kinda froze…you know?”

  “You saw more than I did, I guess.”

  “But you saw how they were lying there on the floor—like Sam was holding onto him.”

  “Sam w
as dead, Andy. The kid fell on top of him, is all.”

  “It just looked kinda weird to me. It didn’t to you?”

  “No, it didn’t. Death does funny things to people. I can’t explain it—neither can you.”

  Andy looked at Nick for a long moment, and then he shrugged and stood up. “Okay. Damnedest thing though…”

  “Andy, did you say that in your report?”

  “No. I said the kid panicked and ran into Sam.”

  “That’s more or less what I said—and it’s probably the truth.”

  Andy sat down again. He had more to say. “Nick…I know you and Sam were close, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to discuss it here, but my gut tells me there was something more going on between him and the Garcia kid.”

  “Andy, think about it.” Nick looked at his partner with a cool eye. “If Sam was involved with a criminal’s son, what do you think he’d do when he found out what he was mixed up in?”

  “He’d get out.”

  “Right—he’d get out.”

  Andy nodded. “Okay.” He stood up again. “Whatcha doing for lunch?”

  “Going to Louie’s with you?”

  “Let’s go then.”

  It was never mentioned again.

  As he drove toward his two o’clock appointment, Nick mulled over what Andy had said regarding Sam and Joseph. Nick had deliberately withheld evidence in the investigation into Sam and John’s deaths, and he knew that what he had done could get him in serious trouble. Yet, he reasoned, what good would have come of them knowing that Sam and Joseph had been lovers? It would merely have confirmed the suspicion that Sam had put John Petrosky’s life at risk by not reacting faster. Revealing Sam’s relationship with Joseph would not remedy anything, nor would it bring any of them back. It was best left alone—unsolved, and eventually forgotten.

  The name on the door read, Dr. Norman Phelps, Ph.D. Sighing, Nick pushed it open and walked to the reception desk where a gray haired woman sat, busy on a keyboard.

  She glanced up. “Can I help you?”

  “Nick Fallon to see the Doc. I have a two o’clock.”

  “Take a seat, Detective Fallon. Dr. Phelps will be with you in a moment or two.”

  Nick nodded, but instead of sitting, he walked slowly over to the window and looked out at the city, spread out below him. For as many times as he could remember, he found his mind slipping back over the last year when everything that mattered to him seemed to have ended. Just how much more grief could he take? How many more deaths of friends was he supposed to endure? Was there a warning in all of this for him? An image of Garcia’s face floated in front of him—cold, ruthless, filled with hate—and despite himself, Nick shuddered.

  Was he scared? Not of death, surely. After Martin had died, he’d wanted to die too. He’d seen death many times—stared it in the face, held it in his arms, seen too much of it…

  “Detective Fallon?”

  Nick turned from the window and looked at the man standing in the doorway of his office. Slim, tired looking, with straight, sandy colored hair neatly combed and parted to one side. Gay, Nick thought as he walked toward him. Phelps held out his hand; it was warm and dry and his shake was firm and reassuring.

  “Come on in and take a seat.”

  “No couch?” Nick asked, smirking.

  “There’s a couch if you prefer,” Phelps said, smiling. “You look more like the upright chair type to me though.”

  “Right.” Nick sat and looked around as Phelps took the seat opposite him. “Nice office,” he remarked.

  “Thanks. I spend a lot of time here, so I feel I owe it to myself to have something pleasant to look at.”

  Their eyes met and Nick winced at what he figured was the man’s attempt at flirtation. Get on with it, he growled in his mind.

  “So, Detective…you’ve been through a rough time recently.”

  “You could say that.”

  “I understand you were close to the two men who were killed. Detectives Valance and Petrosky?”

  “Sam Valance was a friend of mine, yes.” Nick’s gaze wandered around Phelps’ office as he spoke. “John Petrosky and me, we were more work-related than buddies. I liked him well enough, though.”

  “How close were you and Detective Valance?”

  Nick sighed. “Look, let’s not waltz around the issue here, shall we? It’s in my psychological profile that I’m gay—Sam too. That doesn’t mean we were fucking each other on the side.”

  “I didn’t mean to infer that, of course—”

  “Of course you did.” Nick couldn’t quite keep the sneer out of his voice. “You probably get off on the idea of two cops doing it.”

  Phelps let out a long, low laugh. “Detective Fallon, you take yourself way too seriously.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Nick pushed the chair back and stood up. “Look, Dr. Phelps, I’m sure you’re a nice enough guy. Probably got a nice guy at home you can swap stories with at the end of the day. But I’m not in need of your help. To me, this is a sham. I’m sorry, but that’s the way I feel. I can deal with what happened in my own way—”

  “And just what precisely is that?” Phelps interrupted. “Go out and get drunk? Stagger home and sleep it off till you have to go back to work the next day—then do it all over again?”

  “You don’t know me very well, Dr. Phelps.” Nick turned to go.

  “I know that you’re very angry, Detective.” Phelps got up and walked in front of Nick, preventing him from opening the office door.

  “Don’t do this, Doc,” Nick said, glaring into Phelps’ eyes. “Don’t try to stop me from leaving.”

  “Or what?” Phelps met his stare coolly. “You’re going to deck me just so you can avoid facing what’s really troubling you?”

  Nick sighed. “Of course not.”

  “But you’ve already decided I’m the enemy, and can’t be trusted.”

  “No Doc, it’s not that.” Nick tried to ease the tension from his shoulders as he looked at the earnest expression on the psychologist’s face. “It’s just that I feel I have to deal with this on my own. I’ve been here before.”

  “I know.” Phelps put a hand on Nick’s arm. “Why don’t you try sharing some of this? I’ll just sit and listen.” He exerted a small amount of pressure on Nick’s arm. “Come on. Sit down and tell me only what you want to. I promise there will be no psycho-babble, no clever little clichés. I’ll just listen.”

  Despite himself, Nick walked back to the desk, and with some reluctance, sat down again. Phelps leaned back in his chair, a smile of encouragement on his lips. Nick shook his head.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can, Nick. Can I call you Nick?”

  “Sure. Sorry for blowing off like that. I was out of line.”

  “Forget it. You’ve been through some pretty traumatic times.” Phelps looked at him with sympathy. “I know you also lost your lover, Martin Keller. Do you want to talk about that?”

  Nick froze. He’d hardly talked to anyone about Martin’s death. Not to Jim or Donna, his oldest friends; not to his sister, Doreen; not to Andy. Only Sam had been able to squeeze some of how he felt out of him—and that had been over several Johnny Walkers. He’d felt, right or wrong, that Sam, being gay, would understand better what he was going through. Now Sam was dead too…

  And so he started there, with Sam’s friendship and what it had meant to him to have a close confidant in the force.

  “We were rookies together at the academy. We made detective round about the same time. We knew right from the start we’d be friends. We worked out together. I took him to meet Martin. They got along great…”

  “Says here you made detective in four years. Quite an achievement.”

  Nick shrugged. “Maybe they were short-handed,” he said, with a trace of a smile.

  “Tell me about Martin.”

  A frown creased Nick’s forehead and he shifted uneasily in his chair. Did he really want to talk
to a total stranger about the man he had loved with all his heart? It had been almost two years since the accident, and still he found it hard to talk about.

  Phelps smile was gentle. “It might help.”

  After another moment’s hesitation Nick said, “He saved me. I don’t know what I’d have been if I hadn’t met him. I was screwing around…you know…into getting laid…trying dumb stuff—”

  “Drugs?”

  Nick nodded. “Like I said, he saved me. Found me stoned one night. We knew each other from before, but I thought he was too old for me…” He paused to laugh at that. “He was only two years older, but what he was, was mature and sensible—things you couldn’t say about me in those days. Anyway, he took me home that night, told me I was killing myself with that shit. He said I was just trying to compensate for my low self-esteem. I moved in and never left. I was always kinda interested in law enforcement, and he encouraged that; supported me while I went to school.”