Jamie wasn't sure she could continue. But she had no choice. She dug to another level, the moment she rushed into the hospital room, certain Jake had survived, the hours she'd held vigil at his bedside, the days of stroking his hand, whispering to him, and begging him to wake up.
Jake hadn't been there for any of it.
Not when Sierra saw him for the first time, and he remembered her name. Eric had merely run into Jake in the stairwell and by some bizarre series of events, he'd seen the inside of Jake's helmet. The place where he'd kept a photo of Sierra and her name written below it.
Eric saw it and remembered it that day in the hospital.
Jamie no longer felt the cold air around her. Her battered heart took up all her energy, her determination to remove Jake from those moments after September 11 wore on her, leaving gaping wounds at her very core.
She kept on, working through the homecoming from the hospital. The man who rode the ferry with her and sang with Sierra, the man who stared at their wedding portrait and gasped, convinced he was in the picture. All of it took place with Eric Michaels.
One at a time Jamie continued, dissecting memories, painstakingly removing Jake and placing Eric there instead. Halfway through the process, she felt drops of water on her arms. She was crying and she hadn't even known it. She'd been too absorbed in the matter at hand to acknowledge how much it all hurt.
When she finished—when she staggered to her feet, dusted off the sand, and peered through the dusky evening toward the water one last time—the hole in her heart was so big she felt hollow, as if people could see straight through her. She walked closer to the shore, close enough so she could bend down and get her fingers wet.
“Jake …” Her voice was hoarse, raspy. This was where she liked to come to connect with him, to touch the water where the two of them had played so often together.
But everything was different, maybe because she had a firm grasp on the truth. The water wasn't warm and inviting, it was freezing cold, the same way her empty heart felt. She stood and slipped her wet fingers deep into the pocket of her coat.
Now came the hardest part.
She took herself back further than before, back to the week and days and hours before September 11. Back to her life with her husband. The jet skiing with Sue and Larry and the little girls, the small ceramic figurine of an angel she'd painted for him the Sunday before the attacks, the hugging and laughing and lovemaking.
Though her head knew the truth since Eric's blood test, her heart needed to understand once and for all. Those were her final days with Jake. That Tuesday morning, waking up beside him, wanting him to stay and go to the zoo with her and Sierra, wishing he'd play hooky and skip work for the day.
And then watching him consider the idea and decide instead to go to work. Tomorrow, he'd told her. They could play together tomorrow. Then her promising to get Chinese food for dinner and one last kiss, a final quick good-bye. Hearing him head down the hall to Sierra's room, enjoying his laughter as Sierra asked him for butterfly kisses and Jake promised to play horsie with her when he got home.
That was the end, his final moments with them.
She straightened and let her coat ease open, let the wind off the water blow over her, taking with it the remaining shards of her denial. This should have been the hardest part, the time when she would turn away and head for the car, so hollow and empty she could barely support herself.
And she was empty, no doubt. But through her tears, she could feel God doing something inside her, knitting her broken heart back together again. Correctly this time. She turned and trudged through the sand, a grieving widow leaving the scene of a burial. But amid the pain and loss and acceptance working its way through her was something else, something she hadn't expected.
Hope.
Because the emptiness meant Eric was no longer living in her heart, masquerading as Jake. And if Eric wasn't living in her heart, then maybe someday she could handle seeing him again. Not as Jake's substitute, a man she had wanted to keep as her own even after she knew the truth about his identity. Next time—if there was a next time—she wouldn't see him as Jake Bryan's double.
But as Clay Michaels's brother.
TWENTY-THREE
Clay and his partner were five minutes from the scene of the crime.
A drug lord had been shot in the head in a busy alley on the lower East Side, and the trail was getting colder by the hour. The NYPD detective force had a good idea that the key suspect was an ex-con who headed up a rival drug ring, but so far they had no proof.
Four of the detectives-in-training—including Clay and his buddy—had been selected to conduct street interviews with the New York detectives. Fan out, talk to regulars at a few of the taverns, chat with the locals and street vendors. That type of investigation almost always netted witnesses or leads that would help in the investigation.
Clay had no idea how he'd stay focused.
“You're quiet.” Joe was in the backseat with him; two NYPD officers were in the front seat holding their own conversation.
“Yeah.” Clay stared out his window.
“Jamie again?”
Clay turned and met his friend's eyes. “Is it that obvious?” He hadn't told Joe all the details, just that something had gone wrong, and he and Jamie weren't speaking. Not that Clay hadn't tried.
“Yep, it is.” Joe pursed his lips and stared straight ahead. “As obvious as it is for me.”
“I think Wanda will come around.” Clay swallowed thoughts of his own heartache and thought of his partner. Joe hadn't seen Wanda in a few days, either. Ever since his breakdown after seeing Wanda's little boy—the one who looked exactly like the child they lost.
“She doesn't know what to say; I don't either. I told her I was sorry, but it's not enough. It's like she doesn't believe it.”
Clay waited. They were almost at the alley, the one where the murder had taken place. “I still say she'll come around.” He looked at his friend. “You belong together.”
“Same as you and Jamie.” Joe was the office cutup, dry and never missing a chance to get a laugh. Until now. Now his voice was quiet, even tender. “I've watched you after you've been with her, man. She's got you good. You can take a few days off from talking to her, but that won't change a thing. Your kind of gotcha doesn't go away ever.”
Clay narrowed his eyes. Every inch of his heart ached for Jamie, but he couldn't do a thing about it. He'd called her twice a day each day since that terrible morning. Now he was leaving in a few days, and they hadn't even had a chance to say good-bye. Could that have been God's plan? Let them meet and feel something for each other that they'd never felt with anyone else, only to find out it was all for nothing?
The hardest part was Eric.
Clay had called him that Monday night, the day he'd found out the truth. Eric had answered the phone, upbeat. Maybe a little too upbeat. “So, little brother, how're you doing?”
“Been better.” An awkward silence played over the phone line. That's when Clay knew; with a sixth sort of brotherly sense, he knew. Eric had been worrying about this since their last phone call, worrying that maybe by some horrible twist of fate, Clay's Jamie was actually Jamie Bryan.
“Yeah, well, training's almost done.” Eric cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, tell me, Clay. What's the name of that girl you're seeing? The one you met on the ferry. You know, from Staten Island?”
“Why didn't you ask me the first time I called?” Clay tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. It wasn't Eric's fault. A sad chuckle eased through his lips. “You guessed it, right?”
Shock crept into Eric's tone. “What's her name, Clay?”
“Jamie Bryan.” Clay stared at the ceiling of his hotel room. “That's her, right? The woman you lived with.”
It was, of course.
Eric could no more believe the strange coincidence than Clay or Jamie could. What were the odds that Clay would go to New York City and fall in love with the woman who for three months
had played the role of Eric's wife?
Before the phone call ended, Eric tried to tell Clay it didn't matter, that they could all get past the strangeness of having Jamie Bryan around for Thanksgiving. But Clay could hear the doubt in his brother's voice. Eric didn't want a reunion with Jamie anymore than she wanted one with him.
And so Clay had lost again; lost to his brother twice.
This time so much worse than with Laura. Back in high school, he'd had a shot at dating Laura long before Eric entered the picture. But he hadn't been sure, hadn't been bowled over the way he wanted to be. Really, it was only after Eric started dating Laura that Clay became more interested.
Then, after September 11, when it looked like Eric was dead, Clay was convinced God had a plan for Laura and him to finally wind up together. But even then his feelings for her were more along the lines of brotherly love and deep concern.
Yes, he was attracted to Laura.
But he was blown away by Jamie Bryan.
The police car pulled over just outside the alley, and the detective at the wheel turned off the engine. “It's four o'clock.” He looked at the other men in the car. “We have an hour before dusk, and that's about all we want. You know the routine.” He grinned, his eyes hard and focused. “Get in, get the information, and get out. People know what happened.” He patted his holster. “Be aware of your weapon, especially as the sun starts to set. The killer's loose. If it's the man we think it is, then his cronies are probably still around. It's no secret that they're packing more than dime bags of weed.” He gave them a final look and nodded at his partner in the passenger seat. “We'll take the west side. Stay in pairs.”
They climbed out of the car, and the detective and his partner crossed the alley. All four men were uniformed, armed, and carrying pens and notebooks. Joe turned to Clay and raised his eyebrow. “Man, you know what time it is?”
Clay fell in step beside him. “Late and getting later.”
This time Joe shook his head. “Nope. Time to forget the women for a while.”
The first establishment was a shoddy strip bar with no windows—typical for a back alley entrance. Though the shooting took place at the opposite end of the alleyway, they would try everyone they could find in a hundred-yard radius.
Clay pushed the door open and took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He was immediately hit by a thick wall of cigarette smoke.
Joe nudged him. “Cockroach trap.” He kept his voice low. “Buncha dirty old bugs who can't stand the light.”
“That's for sure.” Clay could see better now, but not much. The blue smoke was thick inside, and a heavy beat, loud and pulsing, filled the air. Neon lights spun and roved around a dimly lit stage where someone was dancing. Clay didn't look; he never did. Instead, when his job took him to places like this, he remembered Scriptures that spoke of evil being done in the darkness, and how the darkness can't stand the light.
Once, when he was a kid, Clay stumbled onto his father's Playboy magazine collection. Even back then something in his spirit had reeled at the idea. Made him sick to his stomach. His father looked at naked women? Women other than his mother?
As he got older, his faith solidified the feelings he'd had as a boy. Women dancing in a place like this didn't interest him. They made him sad, sorry for whatever experience had led the dancer through the doors in the first place.
The bartender was staring at them. He was bald with a single thick hoop earring and a tight T-shirt. He grunted at them. “Can I help you?”
Joe took the lead. “Guess you heard about the murder.” He strolled toward the bar. “The one at the other end of the street?”
The bartender picked up a wet glass and buffed it with a dish towel. He never took his eyes from Joe's. “Well, Officer.” His voice was measured. “Can't say that I did.”
Clay shifted his weight, studying the man. He knew something, no doubt. But as they'd expected, he wasn't talking. People didn't simply open up and start spilling details to detectives. They had to be coaxed.
Joe had a reputation for brilliant coaxing.
“Right.” He sat down and patted the stool next to him.
Clay took that seat and glanced at the few patrons sitting alone at dark tables. Joe would ask the questions; he would cover. “We'll take a couple of waters.”
The bartender scowled. He grabbed two glasses, filled them with water and slid them across the bar. “I don't know nothing, okay? Now get outta here before you hurt business.”
Joe leaned on the bar and glanced around the room. “Business isn't exactly booming.”
;“We've been down a bit, so?” He snapped his towel at the glass and glared at Joe. “Crime goes up, business goes down, okay?”
Joe's smile faded. “Cut the line.” He leaned in, a snarl in his tone. “You heard about the murder. You probably know who did it. We didn't come here for ice water, okay?”
“I told ya, I don't know nothin'.” The bartender's accent was so thick he was hard to understand.
“Fine.” Joe settled back onto his stool. “We'll stay all day.”
Clay leaned his forearms on the bar. “We could always get the inspector. He'd love a look around here, don't you think?”
“Great idea.” Joe started to stand.
“Wait!” The man blinked three times and ran his tongue along his lower lip. He dried a few more glasses, but his hands shook so hard he finally stopped. An exaggerated huff came from him, loud enough that a few patrons turned and looked. “Listen.” He braced himself against the bar, his voice a whisper. “The dead guy was a crack dealer. His boys hang out down the street. At the Top Hat.” He lowered his head a little. “Their rivals come from ten, eleven blocks south. They wanted to expand and the guys down the street wouldn't give.” He straightened and Clay noticed his lip. It was covered with a fine layer of sweat beads. “I swear that's all I know. I ain't never seen any of 'em in here.”
“Okay.” Joe didn't miss a beat. “But you know who did it, who was the shooter, right?”
“Not his name, no.” He gave a quick shake of his head. “Just where his boys come from.”
Clay didn't believe him; he doubted Joe did either. But it was a start. If they were going to interview people down at the Top Hat, they needed to get going. Joe must've thought the same thing. He jotted something down in his notebook. Took the man's name and the bar's phone number.
Outside, they headed down the street. “Amazing,” Joe turned to him and grinned, “how much a person can remember when they want a cop to leave 'em alone.”
“You did good.”
Joe shrugged. “I figured the Top Hat was the place. That's what the guys at briefing said this morning.”
Already dusk was falling; shady types lurked near doorways and talked in a cluster as they leaned against the occasional dumpster. Clay squinted at the opposite side of the street. The other pair of detectives were nowhere around.
“Get the feeling all eyes are on us?” Joe raised his eyebrows. He spoke from the side of his mouth, just loud enough for Clay to hear.
“No question.” Clay kept his pace brisk. He wasn't worried, just aware. The situation could easily become dangerous.
They reached the Top Hat and spoke to three people. After going round and round with each of them, they came away with a possible shooter name—the one that matched the name of the man the NYPD detectives already suspected. They also had a tip from a homeless man who refused to give his name. He said the shooter was working with two other guys, and that they were all still in the area.
They left the Top Hat at dusk, though the shadows along the alley made it seem darker. Again the other detectives were not in sight. “Better head back to the squad car.” Joe motioned toward the opposite end of the street.
Clay's caution grew. Though the establishments where they'd conducted interviews had front entrances on a busier street, the murder occurred in the alley. Any information they might get would have to come from there, but like m
ost big-city alleys, it was intersected by even smaller alleyways. And in the shadowy darkness, as they passed the smaller alleys, Clay kept one hand on his revolver.
“We got some good stuff,” Joe whispered. Voices carried, and neither of them wanted to be heard talking about the interviews they'd done that afternoon.
“Yeah.” Clay looked across the alley again, his eyes darting up and down the length of it. “I was hoping for something—”
A form jumped out from a dark doorway, and Clay felt a hand clamp on to his arm and jerk him off his feet before he had time to pull out his gun. Joe had been grabbed as well.
“Shut up!” A voice hissed at them. The smell of alcohol and old tobacco filled the tight space. “I've got a gun! Don't move.”
Next to him, Joe stopped scuffling and grew still. “We're police. Don't do something stupid.”
A different voice laughed at them, and the sound was anything but humorous. Clay blinked and tried to make out their faces. Two Asian-American men, both young and high as kites.
“That's right, Superman; you're finished.”
His partner kicked Clay's leg. “You didn't think you could come snoopin' around without an official welcome, did you?” His snort was half laugh, half nervous energy. “We'll lose business because of you jerks.”
Business? The pieces came rushing together. They were drug dealers; maybe part of a ring. And now they were wanted in a murder.
In a rush of movement, Joe pulled his gun and pushed the guy who claimed to be armed. “Up against the wall!” His voice was loud, stern. He pulled away enough to get his hand on his revolver, but as he did, both men lunged at him.
Clay pulled his own gun free when a gunshot exploded through the small, cramped space. Joe slumped against the door frame and inched down. His eyes found Clay's and his mouth formed the word, “Help!”
“Joe!” Clay grabbed hold of his friend, stopping him from sliding all the way to the ground.
Both men stepped back and stared at Joe. “Now you did it!” one of them snarled. He pushed his buddy aside and ran down the alley, toward the Top Hat.