Fallen by Leslie Tentler Page B

hanging in the vestibule as she’d left McCrosky’s the previous evening. Several others had been there as well, but she’d immediately recognized his among them, knowing by heart the exact number of stripes on its sleeve indicating years of service, knowing every commendation pin, every bar. Her fingers had briefly brushed its fine wool as she exited, the nostalgia created by the tavern, the other officers, affecting her.
    “Casualties on the way,” Jamaal alerted from the desk. “Two window washers fell off scaffolding onto a ledge below. Broken bones and a possible skull fracture. We’re going to need a translator.”
    “How far out?” Lydia asked.
    “Five minutes.”
    “I’ll let you go.” Ryan took a step back. Mateo now waited for him on the ER’s covered portico. He was visible through the glass doors, pacing and drinking a can of Red Bull.
    “More caffeine?”
    Ryan shrugged. “In his defense, we’ve been going at it since five this morning.” His eyes turned serious again. “It hasn’t been under the best circumstances, but it’s been good seeing you these past few days, Lydia.”
    She felt a dull ache in her chest.
    They stared at one another for several moments. Then Lydia watched as he went through the automated doors, sidestepping a gurney being rolled inside. Looking at him as he joined Mateo, she noted the broad width of his shoulders and his lean, jean-clad hips.
    The overhead intercom paged Dr. Varek to the surgical wing, hurtling her back to the flurry of activity surrounding her. She turned in time to see Ian Brandt walking through the lobby. He was headed out, apparently, but he hadn’t gone out the main hospital entrance. Instead, he’d made a point of coming through the ER. His obsidian eyes pinned hers, making her mouth go dry again.
    “Stay the hell away from my wife,” he ordered in passing.

Chapter Nine
     
     
    “ G uess who I pulled over on Peachtree last night,” one uniformed cop said to the other as they passed through the precinct bullpen, their voices carrying. “Janet Jackson.”
    “No shit? What for?”
    “One of her headlights was out.”
    Ryan saw Mateo look up from his paperwork and roll his eyes despite the snickering around the room. It was an old joke.
    Outside, a wash of eggplant and mauve had replaced the previously blue sky as day faded closer to evening. Detectives had begun to filter out while uniforms working the night shift were assembling for roll call. Ryan peered between the window blinds as he completed his phone conversation. Watching the last of the downtown’s extended rush hour, he sat on the edge of his desk, handset tucked between his shoulder and ear. Ballistics had come in on the nine mil.
    “Not a match,” he said as he hung up. There had been no silencer on the firearm, something he’d hoped had meant nothing.
    “Damn,” Mateo muttered. “It’s still a good bust, Ry. Two kilos of meth and other drugs, not to mention a dozen guns.”
    But it hadn’t gotten them any closer to identifying Nate’s killer.
    The sound of a door being closed hard caught his attention. Seth Kimmel had exited Thompson’s office. He shot a lethal glare at Ryan before stalking into the corridor, apparently aware he had been the one to speak to the captain. Ryan didn’t care. He’d had the reprimand coming. Mateo rose from where he’d been seated at his desk and walked over. He had heard about the altercation.
    “I hope Thompson gave him a formal write-up and not just an ass-chewing.”
    Ryan grunted his agreement. Word was that it wouldn’t be the first one in Kimmel’s file. There had already been civilian complaints about discourteousness and excessive force.
    “As long as you’re cowboyed up again …” Mateo indicated the firearm that had been returned a short time ago and now lay in an open drawer of Ryan’s desk. “Want to make a last call?”
    “Where?”
    “Old Fourth Ward. Lamar Simmons just walked into The Copper Coin. The