I stop walking and turn to stare at The Falls. This is it, the moment. The fork in the road. Justin Pendergast has been my life for twenty years. My love has been the one constant in my fucking rollercoaster of a life. Besides the job, it’s sustained me. Gave me hope to carry on. The belief that one beautiful day that man would turn to me and with such brilliance in his eyes tell me he loves me just as much as I do him. But it was just a dream. Accept it. Move on. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to me, to Rebecca, Justin, even…Harry. I bite my lower lip to stop the tears. This is it, Joanna. Time to wake the fuck up. You can do it.
Okay, then.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ENOUGH
Sleep is impossible now, so I’m back at the station skimming C.O. Moore, Lopez, and Leon’s HR files, financials, telephone records, just about anything we have on them. There are no red flags. They all went through extensive background checks that came back clean. None have been arrested or have more than five grand in their bank accounts. The forensic accountants are digging deeper. I close the last file, and I’m at a loss at what to do next. Someone else interviewed the spouses and friends yesterday, and there was nothing out of the ordinary. Even the Mike Spencer explosion front has stalled. This entire case is nothing but a brick wall behind a lead one.
I have nothing to do now. Strike that, I can run down more tips, which have trickled down to three an hour after Gearhead took control of all machines at the docks a few hours ago and is getting all the press. Last I heard he and Geronimo were beating each other to a pulp. Glad I’m not on that one. Half our underlings are down there now, and I’m enjoying the quiet.
Cam just finished reviewing his half of the guard’s information, and I’m not speaking to him. Throw me under a bus like that? No, I will not pass you the Lopez file. Get off your betraying butt and get it yourself. I’ve already forgiven him, but can’t appear to be weak. And I’m lazy. He’s down in the lab reading them the riot act. We still don’t have the clippings back or the reports on the burnt trash can. I’m not looking forward to reading through all the Justice clippings, but maybe I can find a pattern.
I push my chair away from the desk. I need a task. I hate having nothing to do. Thinking follows it and I’ve had enough of that today. I can snatch the other three files off Cam’s desk, but my brain has stopped functioning. Maybe I’ll dash off to the library down the block to see if they have a self-help book. Or twelve. “Get Over Your Man” or “Acceptance, it’s Not Just a Scrabble Word.” I hate reading, though.
Harry isn’t in his office or SVU. I stop one of the uniforms on the tip line who directs me toward the nursery, as we call the back room where officers on duty catch a few winks. I spend more nights in there than at my apartment. It’s nothing more than a ten-by-twelve windowless room with two bunk beds. The sheets are scratchy, the room is barely ventilated, but if you’re tired enough, it’s heaven.
There is only one human shaped lump on the bottom bunk in the back. The reason we call it the nursery is because even the most grizzled, hardened officer sleeps like a baby in here. Harry is no exception. He lies on his side facing me, light snores escaping. I’d tease him about it, but apparently I snore louder. I lock the door and tip toe over to him, sitting on the bed opposite his.
I just watch him for a minute, taking him in. He’s not as handsome as Justin, no man really is, but he turns me on like no other has before. He’s funny, charming, and strong. I respect him. I trust him. So what the hell is the matter with me? I have this wonderful guy who I respect, adore, and for some reason sees something worthwhile in me. That should be enough. I’m beyond lucky to have him, and I keep him at arm’s length.
I really haven’t been fair to him. The one time he ever attempted to discuss our relationship I played coy and distracted him with sex. I justified it, of course. Why get serious? Why ruin the fun? It couldn’t possibly go anywhere. It was just some fun on both our parts. He’s been slumming it for a mid-life thrill. That’s what I’ve been telling myself anyway. Probably to protect us both. He deserves better than a woman whose heart is full of another. No room. No room for him. Maybe it’s time to make some.
I pull up his blanket to make him more comfortable and the snores stop. His eyes open, and he blinks to focus. I remain above him smiling and he smiles back. “What time is it?” he asks.
“About four.”
“Anything going on?”
“Quiet as a crypt,” I whisper with another smile. “Scoot over.”