Free Codes of Betrayal by Dorothy Uhnak

he had no right to be there. Someone waved him in, and he asked for O’Hara.
    Nick and Eddie looked at each other. Neither one of them knew the kid. “Yo, I’m O’Hara. Wadda ya got?”
    “Detective O’Hara? You’re wanted in the captain’s office. Right away, he said.”
    Nick nodded to the young cop, who took off after a hungry look around the room.
    Nick told Eddie not to worry. “Hey, if I did something, don’t forget, we’re partners, right? I’ll include you in for your share, good or bad.” Then an afterthought: “Wait for me, you’re my ride home tonight.”
    Nick tapped on the captain’s door, and it was opened immediately. Captain Nelson touched him lightly on the shoulder, stepped back into his office with Nick, and closed the door behind him.
    There stood Deputy Inspector Frank O’Hara. Just standing there, his face expressionless but his complexion noticeably pale. A flash went through Nick: Oh, Christ, he’s gonna ask me something about the party. Who was there? What did I hear? Oh, shit.
    As he took a step toward his uncle, Nick remembered the last time he had seen Frank look like that. Drained of all color, even his lips pale. Eyes glazed and narrowed. He took a deep breath.
    Someone was dead. That much Nick knew.
    “Frank, what?” And then, “Frank, who?”
    His uncle said one word.
    “Peter.”

CHAPTER 10
    T HE HOURS FOLLOWING THE murder of his son became a videotape forever spooling through Nick’s brain. Some of it would come back in startling clarity: a segment-by-segment recollection of faces, voices, sounds, gestures; of locations, smells, light and darkness. Of sensations: panic, terror, anger, madness, sorrow, helplessness. But mostly, it was a feeling of unreality—this all happened to someone else.
    He remembered inconsequential things: Frank leaning forward and touching the uniformed driver to slow down; no need to speed through traffic lights.
    The thought flashed through his head as they entered the hospital: Good, St. Clare’s. That’s the cop’s choice; always insist they take you to. St. Clare’s, no matter what. He noted there were a lot of uniformed cops, milling around aimlessly. Glancing at him, then looking away quickly.
    Then he was in a small consulting room, staring down at a doctor who seemed too young to shave.
    Nick rubbed his hand roughly over his face as he listened to the words.
    Head wound.
    He knew about head wounds; they said instant death.
    He understood that. What he couldn’t understand was what the fuck any of this had to do with his son, Peter.
    His cousin Richie burst into the room. He looked like a crazy man. He was yelling, pounding his chest, the walls. There was blood on his knuckles. His wife, Theresa, came alongside him and watched as two of Richie’s men came, led him away. She looked over her shoulder at Nick, reached out, without touching him. “They’re gonna give Richie something to quiet him down. Nick, God, Nick, I’m so sorry. Sonny … he’s in surgery.”
    She turned and followed her husband.
    Then he was in some patient’s room; there was a bed over by the window. Frank roughly drew the curtain across the slide and ignored the woman’s weak voice: who? what?
    Frank spoke quietly. “The kids walked over to Chinatown, Nick. After the San Gennaro. They walked right into a shootout between two street gangs. Sonny took two in the gut. Peter … in the forehead.”
    There were so many questions, but he couldn’t seem to form the right words. Instead, he said, “Take me to my son.”
    They walked down a corridor and Frank stepped back knowing there was no way to stop him, no point.
    “He’s in there, Nick. Want me to go in with you?”
    Nick didn’t answer. Frank waited outside.
    When he opened the door, a nurse quietly left the room.
    There on a long bed, covered from his waist down, his head resting on a small pillow, his arms resting alongside his body, was his son, Peter Nicholas O’Hara. Aged twelve, no longer