I purchased a bouquet of tiger lilies because the florist assured me that they mean pride and I’m sure Keith Donovan would be proud of his son. Okay, maybe not so much at the moment since he’s drinking and screwing himself into a hole, but in retrospect, he would be proud of Blake.
The orange and black speckled petals curl back to reveal the burgundy stamens, full of pollen that Sam doesn’t want to get on his suit jacket―prat. I hand him the bouquet on purpose and wait in the lobby of Blake’s apartment for the drunken idiot to rouse from bed.
I know I have a case to figure out, which Sam keeps saying while I stand around the lobby, but today is the day when Keith Donovan was killed and I believe that as Blake’s kind-of-maybe-friend, that he remembers today.
“This is a waste of time,” Sam says.
“You should know how he feels,” I snap.
“Maybe you should go up there Akira, he’ll always listen to a woman carrying a gun,” Banks comments whilst picking at her mocha painted nails. “I mean, I’d go up there but from his little episode you told me about the other day, I don’t want to walk into something that I’ll need soap to forget.”
Sam bites his lip to stop a string of colourful vocabulary to flow out, which would probably cause his PA to raise eyebrows. He doesn’t want to be seen with Blake, mainly because Sam thinks Blake’s a bad influence and if something happens, Sam doesn’t want to be responsible for filling out the paperwork.
Like I said, Prat.
I wanted to bring Banks along before Sam and I go up to Hell’s Kitchen where Officer Davenport was found. I told her about Blake whoring himself out to women so he forgets his lack of father figure, and she didn’t take it well. I mean, I suppose I could’ve worded it better but she needed to know. She’s currently finding new ways not to beat in Blake’s face and is currently chewing obnoxiously on a piece of strawberry flavoured gum.
I sigh and walk up the stairs. My thick souled patrol boots scuff the trimming on every step as I reach the first floor and turn down the corridor of 54B. The floor’s quiet with no beat of bass or anything from the surrounding rooms. I slam my fist against Blake’s door.
“Donovan!” I shout.
There’s faint shuffling on the other side of the door but I don’t get a response. I smack my palm against the white painted wood and then wince as a sharp sting resonates up to my elbow. There’s a loud thump as if Blake fell onto the floor, knowing his current drunk status, I wouldn’t be surprised.
“Blake Curtis Donovan, if you don’t open this door right now I’m going to kick it down and arrest you for underage drinking!”
I continue to raise my voice until an elderly woman comes out of the apartment near the end of the corridor in a bathrobe and curling irons. She’s got a mug of coffee in one hand and the TV remote in the other; she pushes her gold-rimmed spectacles up her nose as Blake opens the door.
“I appreciate the earthquake warning Akira,” Blake narrows his eyes at me and then looks at the old woman with a tentative smile, “Hey Mrs Branwick, sorry about all the noise.”
“NYPD business ma’am, please go back to your apartment,” I say as I grab Blake by the ear and slam his cheek against the wall beside his door. He winces but says nothing, he looks like shit. He hasn’t shaved in between the two weeks that I haven’t seen him and he’s dressed in boxers and a grungy Iron Maiden shirt. “Clean yourself up, we’re going somewhere.”
“I’m not dressing up for the slammer,” Blake grunts. “Say, where’s your FED buddy―out banging the PA?”
I twist Blake’s arm behind his back and move his elbow up, not too far to dislocate his shoulder but just enough for him to feel the tendons stretching and the joints grinding. To say I’m disappointed in Blake is an understatement; he needs to get a hold of himself.
“He’s downstairs and so is Banks,” I dig my nails into his wrist. “We’re going to the cemetery to see Keith, come on Blake you can’t keep running from your problems.”
“Great,” Blake cringes as the pain starts to take hold of him. His eyes aren’t as bloodshot as they were but I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he tries to struggle in my grasp. “Dad wouldn’t want to see me like this; he wouldn’t want to know what a disappointment his son is.”
“You need to find a reason to pick yourself up, a reason to stop running from your problems but running with those that love you,” I release him slowly.
Blake turns to rest his forehead against the cream wall. His breaths come in shallow gasps and I can hear the tears choke up his voice and his movements. He trembles, I would embrace him like any friend should do, but that’s Banks’ job, not mine. I don’t want to tread on marked turf.
When I begin to move away from him, back down the stairs, Blake’s callused hand curls around my bicep to hold me back. Neither of us says anything, but I can hear him cry because he whimpers and makes sounds that no strong man like Blake should. I don’t look at him.
“I’m not the only one that’s running from my problems,” Blake states softly. “You need to pick up that phone Akira; you can’t just cut your mum out of your life for what she did.”
“Get dressed Blake, we’re leaving in ten minutes,” I pull away.
• • •
For once, I’m the one that wants complete silence in the car. I hold the bouquet of tiger lilies between my thighs as I stare at autumn leaves collecting in the gutters. A couple of kids walking with their parents kick through the raked piles near the edge of the park near Blake’s apartment, they throw the browning foliage into the air for it to flutter around them.
What Blake said to me floats through my mind, I haven’t even told Banks about Mum basically disowning me for wanting to leave her. She’s selfish and wants everyone to herself, when her marriage with Dad went bust she shut everyone out and was inconsolable even though the divorce was a mutual agreement. But did I get a say in it? No.
Of course, the child just has to be torn between which parent to go with. Since I didn’t like either of them that much due to their current dating situations and I hadn’t been old enough to live by myself, I toughed it out for two years with Mum before I couldn’t take it anymore.
Why, you may ask? Because Mum tried to create her toy boy into my Dad, she even called him Daddy. A man who was younger than her by half was her Daddy―at least with Helena and Dad’s ‘relationship’ there aren’t any pet names unless it’s in the bedroom, and I make sure that my crime shows are up to maximum when they decide to get frumpy when I’m around.
“So,” Banks drawls from the back seat next to Blake. She adjusts her shoulder badge slightly and looks around the interior of Sam’s spotless SUV. “Are these car rides usually so awkward? I mean, you and Mr Vanilla Latte don’t talk at all, he just stares at you while you mutter to yourself.”
“Thank you Banks, there goes about ten of my self-esteem points,” I rest my cheek against the cool glass of the window.
“That’s what I’m here for Stevens, to break your non-existent balls,” Banks crosses her legs on the leather seat and smiles sweetly in the rear-view mirror. “How about we put on the radio to lessen this pressure, hm?”
“I hear enough bad things on the job, I don’t need to hear a repeat of cases I’ve worked on the radio,” Sam keeps his concentration on the road.
“How about CDs?” Banks asks.
“I don’t have time to listen to music,” Sam’s jaw throbs.
Banks brown eyes flick between me and Sam and she raises a perfectly arched brow. By this point in the car ride, I want to hit my head hard enough against the glass that I pass out. Thankfully Sam turns onto Broadway right near Trinity Church Cemetery and Mausoleum.
“Do you guys have code names for each other when you’re on your missions or something?” Banks asks.
I open my eyes and look over my shoulder at Banks. She gives me a wink and stuffs a stick of gum in my suit jacket pocket. She’s still chewing repulsively. As pay back; I don’t say anything about the bit of slobber on the lapel of her collared Desk Squad uniform.
“Makita, really?” Blake narrows her eyes at her.
“What? I’m curious, I wanna know if all FBI’s are really tight arses,” Banks shrugs.
“Well, Prat?” I say.
“No, we don’t,” Sam adjusts his rear-view mirror and parallel parks near the Bronze Bull on Wall Street. He flicks the keys in the ignition to shut the engine off, we sit there for a moment and Sam runs a finger around the collar of his black button-up.
I think those leather shoes of yours are going to ignite, lying prat.
The sidewalks covered in leaves from the surrounding trees, all of the orange and brown foliage tumbles to the ground to find their way into raked piles near the cemetery or dragged in by mourners.
Officer Keith Donovan’s buried in the shade of an oak in the cemetery green where small American flags are stuck into the plots of men and women who must’ve died in the field or served their country in some way.
I sit in front of Keith’s grave and brush some leaves from the headstone and surrounding grass. It’s hard to believe that his body’s under there, slowly being eaten away by earth as the wood of his coffin erodes. I don’t know how burials work, but I’d rather be cremated and kept on someone’s mantle.
I place the bouget of tiger lilies on a diagonal in front of the headstone and straighten the American flag in the small ceramic urn pressed up against the stone. I flick off the moss that grew in between some of the carved lettering and wait for Blake to leave Sam and Banks’ side. But he doesn’t.
It takes a total of ten minutes and a few strange looks from passing widows and such, for Blake to muster up the courage to kneel next to me. He hasn’t been back to Keith’s grave since the murder; he hasn’t spoken of his dad either. Blake wears dark blue denim jeans and a black V-neck with Converse, not really funeral attire but I suppose he threw all of his suits out of gave them to Henry Nikita.
The truth lies in the coffin.
I place a hand on his back and rub in small circles as he starts to cry again. He leans in and rests his head on my shoulder. I can feel Banks’ eyes on me and I slowly remove myself from Blake’s hold. A pang of guilt enters my chest as I stand and brush my hands off; I leave him there because I know Banks wants to console him, not me.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I clear my throat and walk out of the wrought iron cemetery gates and pull out my phone to dial Snag’s number. It rings five times before Joseph answers on Snag’s behalf.
“Hey Akira, Snag’s a bit busy at the moment,” there’s a loud crash and Snag’s yell carries across the line, Joseph sighs and says ‘I will boss’, before resuming conversation. “What can I do for you?”
“I need Snag to get me an exhumation order so I can see Dianne’s burial site at Woodlawn. I have to tell her parents that she’s died…again,” I say.
“Hang on I’ll ask him,” Joseph murmurs and then shouts something at Snag, there’s static for a moment before Snag’s voice is on the line, replacing Joseph’s.
“I thought you were out investigating with Ping-Pong?” he says.
“I’m at Trinity for Blake, Sam and I will go to Hell’s Kitchen as soon as we’re done here but I need a favour,” I sigh when Snag starts chuckling. “Snag, focus, I need to exhume the body of Dianne Hemming at Woodlawn and I can only do that with a written order. You’re the Chief Medical Examiner; you have the power to do that.”
“No,” Snag says simply.
“What?” I yell. “This is for the investigation!”
“I understand that, but what pretence are you acting on―a text message from the supposed killer?” Snag scoffs. “What if it isn’t the killer at all, you said so yourself that it could be a creep that’s just pulling your leg. You can’t let a family go through the pain of someone desecrating their daughter’s grave to find nothing.”
“But what if I do find something? C’mon Snag, this killer is methodical; he wants to make me think. The Vrykokolas said that Henry Nikita was Dianne’s supposed lover and stole his little book of spells regarding resurrections,” my chest heaves. “He brought her back to life, and the proof will be in her coffin.”
“Vrykokolas only implicate themselves to cause trouble, they’re untrustworthy, especially on a case such as this. Now go back to your grieving friend,” Snag puts it bluntly.
“I need this exhumation order Snag,” I say. “I will beat the door of your morgue in if I have to.”
“Even if you come into the morgue dressed as David Bowie, my answer will still be no,” there’s a few moments of static before Snag sighs. “Think about it from Dianne Hemming’s parent’s point of view. They’ve gone through the death of their daughter being shot on patrol, burying her, grieving over her and trying to move on―and then suddenly, an FBI Agent in a suit and a novice Detective waltz in with a warrant to unearth their child? You can’t do that to someone.”
“This could stop other deaths from happening, I’m sure of it,” I press.
“And if it doesn’t, Akira? What is left for you to destroy when it comes to the Hemming family? You dig up their child and poof, nothing comes from it and they’re left with a defiled corpse and a burning hatred for you,” Snag reasons.
“Her corpse is in the fucking morgue!” I screech.
Around me, people are filing out from the funeral and turn their nose up at me in disgust. Some of the elderly mutter beneath their breath that the youth of this generation have no respect for the dead, others simply shake their heads at me as I press my back against the metal of the gate and inhale three deep breaths. A cemetery isn’t the best place to have a nervous breakdown.
“So you’re just going to dig a hole and discover an empty coffin, watch while her parents cry and move on?” Snag clips. “Akira, death affects everyone in certain degrees. I’ve had mothers, fathers, brothers, cousins, fiancés and such, send me death threats because I performed an autopsy on their loved ones to find out what killed them―I swear to God, if you exhume that grave, it will be the death of you.”
“Snag please,” I beg. “If nothing comes from the order, I will take the parent’s thrashing head on. Just file for the exhumation.”
“I have a lot of work to do, good day,” Snag hangs up.
Banks looks at me from my former position next to Blake’s side as she rests her cheek against the crown of his head, rubbing his arms in a comforting gesture. Her lips are pressed together tightly and she shakes her head. Great, she thinks I’m pulling moves on her crush.
Sam leans against the bark of the tree and frowns at me. His hands are in the pockets of his black slacks, causing his suit jacket to ruffle up slightly. I notice he wears silver cufflinks and every now and then, he scratches the nicotine patch beneath his black shirt. I can tell by Sam’s expression that he doesn’t want to be reminded of fathers, deaths or cemeteries. He adjusts his royal blue tie and pulls out his phone.
PRAT:
You make the dead roll in their graves.
The bastard, I look down at my phone screen and unlock my jaw before clicking it back into place. My gaze fixes on Banks and Blake who are still wrapped in each other’s arms, it seems like I’m the third-wheel once again, not necessarily needed.
Me:
Fuck you.
Sam frowns at his phone screen and scratches his arm again before typing; he takes a while to send the message. He looks at my two friends and his head twitches slightly to the left in a half-shake.
PRAT:
Always taking things the wrong way...
You should really keep your voice down when screaming at Doctor Snaginsky; people might think you’re damning the dead.
I stare at my screen for two straight minutes while more funeral-goers push past me to get to the service or Wake. My brow twitches at the message, I hadn’t raised my voice that loud, but Sam’s mutation tuned his hearing on a finer frequency that those that didn’t have the Diablo gene. I wonder how long he’s had the symptoms for. From the way he keeps altering his tie and collar, I can tell that the whispers must be getting on his nerves.
Me:
Loosen that tie of yours.
It’s supposed to be a snide comment but Sam runs a finger around the collar of his shirt before removing his tie completely. Sam slips it from his shoulders and stuffs it into the pocket of his pants. His green eyes squint at me as he raises a bronze brow.
PRAT:
Better?
I glare at him in silent response. Who the hell does Mr Vanilla Latte think he is? Sam’s mood swings are so erratic that they surpass bipolar. First he calls me a stupid freak and bags out my precinct and then thinks I’m going to dob on him like some kid? This is getting out of control.
Me:
You’re one cocky bastard, you know that right?
PRAT:
Is that your view on me, or all men in the FBI?
Sam certainly knows how to play the game. Just because his first name is Agent and ends in Arsehole (I should change his contact to AA), doesn’t mean he can walk over everyone and act the best. He seems to gain a sense of humour through text, but once his phone’s down it’s like he’s walking through a war zone. It’s pissing me off more than Blake.
Me:
‘Men’ aren’t in the FBI; power hungry dirtbags that like to obscure cases and hate the NYPD are in the fucking FBI.
PRAT:
Ouch Blue, that almost hurt my feelings.
I almost trip over the curb, I read the message three times before it processes in my mind that a) Sam just called me ‘Blue’, when he stated to Banks that he didn’t have nicknames and, b) Sam actually said he had feelings. Almost. I can see his leather shoes burning in hell, lying son of a bitch.
Me:
I bet your PA sucked the feelings right out of your...vanilla latte (:
PRAT:
That wasn’t funny.
Me:
Look at me, I’m laughing.
Sam’s green eyes narrow at me to see my deadpan expression. His lips curls back in distaste, but thankfully, Banks and Blake say their final goodbyes to Officer Keith Donovan and stand to leave. Sam tries to ignore the suspicious look she flits between us. I smile at her, just to get a punch in the shoulder.
“I never knew Blake’s middle name was Curtis,” she whispers in my ear.
“Well it is, he hates it and for good reason,” I clench my jaw.
“Blake’s coming to the precinct with me and I’ll try convince him to come back to work,” she says.
“Good luck with that,” I mutter.