Free Double Take by Alan Jacobson Page B

“Shit. I know that ain’t possible. At least…in time, the pain won’t be so bad. All wounds heal. Like your foot, yeah?” He smiled, hoping to lighten the moment. “You beat the Cancer, Ben. Some things you gotta thank God for. Keep it all in perspective.”
    But Dyer wasn’t biting. A tear coursed down his cheek.
    Russo sucked in a deep breath and said, “Look, I gotta go. It’s our anniversary, Sofia made some special pasta.” He studied Dyer’s face a moment. “Go pack a bag. Stay with us awhile. Till you feel better. You want, I can arrange a few extra days off to get your head in order. And, you need, there’s always the shrink. The police doc. He’s cool, won’t tell no one.”
    Dyer was looking at the floor. “I’m… I’ll just stay here. And I don’t need a shrink. I’ll…work through this. Just need a few days.”
    Russo adjusted his raincoat and headed toward the door. “You change your mind, come over. Any time. Two, three, whatever.”
    As he turned the knob, Dyer called out, “Thanks, Loo.”
    Russo winked. “I’ll always be there for you, Ben. You know that.”
    Dyer sat there, the apartment quiet except for the driving rain outside, and wept for the first time since he was seven years old, when his parents died.
    DYER AWOKE THE NEXT DAY to a knock at the door. He rose from the couch and had to grab the arm of the sofa to steady his dizzy head. A near-empty bottle of Bud rested on its side. Dyer righted the beer, setting it next to the five others on the coffee table, then limped over and pulled open the door.
    “Big Ben, ’sup, man?”
    Standing there was Enrique Cruz, Dyer’s partner all of three weeks.
    “Yeah, I, uh— What time is it?”
    “Two-thirty.”
    “Two? Shit. I fell asleep on the couch last night.” He turned, his eyes searching the dark apartment. Amy—
    “Loo had a meeting with the commish, but he said to get over here and see how you were gettin’ along, you know, check up on you. How’s that foot doin’?”
    “Yeah, it’s fine. Gonna be off a few days.” Dyer looked around again, fidgeted with his outturned pocket, then invited his partner in. “Not using those stupid crutches, so that’s good, right?” He limped over toward the couch. “Have a seat. Want something?”
    “Nah, I’m good.”
    “He said some shit went down while you were in the hospital, but wouldn’t tell me anything.”
    Dyer sat down heavily. “Hard to know where to start.” He went through the facts by rote, the pain stinging his empty stomach like poison.
    “That fuckin’ sucks, man. I’m sorry. I was in Connecticut, on the lake, with Mary. I didn’t get Loo’s message till late last night. Wouldn’t tell me the deal, said I had to hear it from you. You— You know, you holdin’ up okay?”
    “Just trying to get by. Still kinda shocked.”
    “You miss her already.”
    “Shit yeah. I mean, nothing’s perfect. We had our share of problems. She hated the hours, but what was I gonna do, I was tryin’ to make detective.”
    “And you did.” Cruz nodded at the bottles on the coffee table. “Doin’ some drinking, Big Ben? Aren't you on medication or something, for the pain? Shouldn't mix that stuff.”
    Dyer rose and started pacing, his slight limp evident. “I had a rough night, okay?”
    Cruz threw up his hands. “Hey, I’m not judgin’ you or nothing. I’m just saying.” Cruz looked back at the coffee table.
    Dyer stopped and saw his partner’s eyes moving: he was counting empty bottles.
    “Thing is, Ricky, no matter how messed up life gets, at least you say goodbye, right? You don’t just take off, even if it is WITSEC. I woulda left the department, I woulda found a way to make it work with her.”
    “She tried, man. I know it sucks and all, but…well, it’s not like she just up and left without trying.”
    “But—fuck! I didn’t get to say goodbye!” Dyer held out a hand, calmed himself, and sat back down. “I coulda talked her out of it.”