Page 95 of Tortured Eyes
"It's Bryce McCarthy. I'm…" What am I doing? "I was hoping…"
“What can I do for you, detective?”
“Well, I was hoping we could talk. Or rather, if you can offer me some sort of guidance? Right now, my world is upside down, and I can’t see a way forward.”
“And you want me to be the one to listen, just to be clear?”
“You are uniquely qualified, Samuel. You know why.” Now is not the time to be coy.
“This is because of Logan?”
“He is the centre of the destruction that is now my life.” It seems I can’t utter his name without a surge of anger bubbling up. "I'm hoping you can help."
“I think this conversation would be better in person. And in private. Are you comfortable with that?”
“Of course. Where and when?”
“I have a house outside the city on the edge of Smithtown Bay. You give me your details, let me know your flight details, and I'll send a car to pick you up. And detective, I’m trusting you with this information. I know Logan trusts you, so I have faith you're worth my own.”
Seconds tick by in my mind. More lies. More murky territory. But I nod into the phone.
“I'll send the details when I can,” I finish, staring out at the ominous road in front of me. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome."
The phone cuts out.
As I drive back towards the city, I look at all the streets around me and wonder what my life would be if I hadn’t followed in my dad’s footsteps? I can’t imagine being settled down with a family, pushing a pram and going to the park with little ones. That’s not me. Deep down in my bones, I know I’m a protector. That’s part of my DNA. Just like my red hair and pale skin, but how I execute that is now in question.
At work, I sift through the paperwork on my desk. Since the blow-up downtown and Logan’s arrest and subsequent release, Lieutenant Benson has me on a short leash. He knows I’m involved more than I’ve let on and he knows I’m hiding something; he just doesn’t know what. And he won’t as Mason has a bullet through his skull.
The details in the files, the photos and the victims all taunt me, laughing at my inability to know what to do for the best. What was once second nature now seems alien. The drive to find justice for the victim is still there, but the means to do that escapes me.
“McCarthy?” Nigel’s at the door with a concerned look on his face.
“Hey, come on in.”
He comes into the office and sits in the chair opposite my desk. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but people are talking. Rumours are flying around, and they aren’t kind to you. I wanted to make sure you knew about them.
“Let me guess, on the take, bent, dirty?” I knew there would be repercussions. Didn’t take long.
“Something like that. A couple of guys who work with Mason say you got Cane off. Is that true?”
“No. You know as well as I do that the Canes have enough dirty to avoid any form of justice. That hasn’t changed.” It’s my time to be economical with the truth, and it comes easily. It shouldn’t. It should tear me up lying to Nigel. Fuck this. “You’re a good cop, Nigel. Try to stay honest.”
“Where are you going?”
“I need to finish something.” I grab my jacket and leave Nigel in my office.
“McCarthy!” he calls down the hall, but I ignore him.
* * *
The rhythmic thud of fists pounding into a bag makes me smile. This place has been my refuge without even realising it, and Jimmy has been my support through everything and never asked for anything in return. I owe him an explanation of some sort. Or at least to be honest with him.
“Your left arm is dipping.”
“Shut up. Come and stand behind the fucking bag and say that, woman.”
