Page 16 of 25 Alive

As the meeting ended, the judge let the participants out into the corridor. Yuki called Brady to fill him in, then walked with Nick Gaines down to the crowded street.

CHAPTER24

SONIA ALVAREZ WAS in the pod when Conklin and I returned to our desks. She was bent over her keyboard, typing fast, when I edged behind her to get to my desk.

“Hey, you guys,” she said. “I’m typing up my notes. Richie, are we still going to check out Julio’s, the bar the matchbook came from, after work?”

“Yes,” Rich said. “Dress like it’s a date.”

“Sure,” she said. “How’s this?” She was wearing black leggings, an off-white turtleneck, and a plaid blazer. “I’ll put on some lipstick.”

He said, “Fine,” and I cracked my first smile of the day. Before she came to us, Alvarez had worked as an undercover narc in Vegas for a couple of years. She’d earned her homicide chops when she and I brought in a serial killer, who’d shot a hostage in front of our eyes inside a basement room in a Vegas hotel.

Since then, she, Conklin, and I had bonded into a three-person team working from our “pod” with its million-dollarview of the bullpen and close access to the front desk and the break room.

I knew better than most that cases could be open for months or years or never solved. But this one would damn well be solved. I pictured a sunflower blooming in our lifeless case. I thought of it as hope.

“Bring backup to Julio’s,” I said to Rich.

“Will do,” Conklin said.

I emailed my own notes and research to Conklin and Alvarez and copied Brady. I was out of steam and out of ideas, so I said good-bye to my partners, wished them luck, and told them I’d keep my phone on and fully charged. Then I got the hell out of there. I had an unbreakable appointment in twenty minutes. And I didn’t want to be late.

CHAPTER25

I CALLED DR. SIDNEY Greene from my car and told him that I was on my way. I parked my blue Explorer across the street from his two-story white stucco office building, rang the bell, and, after the answering buzz, took the stairs and opened the door to his outer office. The reception room was empty, but the door to the therapist’s office was wide open.

Greene called out to me from his brown leather-covered recliner, “Come in, Lindsay. Shut the door behind you.”

My hands were shaky, but I closed the door and sat in the armchair across from Dr. Greene. The first time I met Greene was after I’d shot an armed twenty-three-year-old male who’d killed two people with his assault weapon and was about to fire on Brady and me. I’d put the guy down before he could. It was a good shoot or maybe a great one, but I’d been put on administrative leave as per protocol.

The review board had sent me to see Dr. Sidney Greene. It’s not like I’d had a choice. It was see Dr. Greene or leave the force. But I liked Greene and hadn’t resisted, since he’d heldmy job in his hands. He was a middle-aged man with spectacles in his shirt pocket, a clean-shaven, unlined face, and a nice smile.

I was seeing him now because I feared having a breakdown.

“Talk to me,” Dr. Greene said.

I gave him a snapshot of my day: waking up to the news that my aged dog was sick, my fears that Martha would die, and then being called to an early morning homicide only to learn when I arrived at the scene that the dead man was a person I’d respected and loved for the whole of my career. Now I was in charge of finding his killer.

The images of Jacobi’s death scene were vivid in my mind as I told my good doctor how long it had taken me to fully absorb the reality that the dead man really was my dear friend and former partner. That his wounds had been violent, devastating. And that didn’t even begin to include what must have been his fear and fury.

I admitted that I’d cried a lot already today, and still had miles of tears left for Jacobi.

“I’m so sorry, Lindsay,” Greene said. “I’m very, very sorry.”

CHAPTER26

DR. GREENE SAID, “LINDSAY, I’ve said this before. You have many of the signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. Look, PTSD is common enough among homicide cops.”

“So, if that’s true, what now?”

He said, “Talk therapy is recommended. But so are antidepressants. Have you ever been on SSRIs before?”

“No. Prozac, right? I’ve never taken it.”

“Lindsay,” said Dr. Greene, “have you given any more thought to what we’ve talked about before? Maybe transferring to a different job or putting in for early retirement?”

I imagined working behind a desk in the booking department. No solving homicides for me. I imagined resigning from my job entirely. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought of this. I pictured myself sitting in my cozy Mom’s chair at home after doing the breakfast dishes and taking my daughter to the bus, then watching daytime TV and later picking Julie up from school—but that wasn’t me. That was the death of me.

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