I didn’t move. I stood there, my legs trembling badly. They could see that if they didn’t make the first move, I could break down.
“Why don’t you ride back with us?” Claire said.
My voice cracked. I could barely utter the words. “It was supposed to be me, not him,” I said to them. Then one by one they all hugged me.
I put my arms around all of them and melted into their embrace as deeply as I could. All four of us were crying. “Don’t ever leave me, guys.”
“Leave?” Jill said with wide eyes.
“None of us,” promised Cindy. “We’re a team, remember? We will always be together.”
Claire took hold of my arm.
“We love you, sweetie,” she whispered.
The four of us walked arm in arm out of the cemetery. A cooling breeze was blowing in our faces, drying our tears.
At six o’clock that night, I was back inside the halls of the Hall of Justice.
There was something important I had to do.
In the lobby, almost the first thing you see, there’s a large marble plaque. On it are ninety-three names, the names and dates of ninety-one men and two women who wore the uniform of the SFPD and died in the line of duty. A mason is working on the plaque.
It’s an unwritten rule on the force, you never count them. But tonight, I did. Ninety-three, starting with James S. Coonts on October 5, 1878, when the SFPD was first formed.
Tomorrow there will be one more: Christopher John Raleigh. The mayor will be there; Mercer, too. The reporters who cover the city beat. Marion and the boys. They will memorialize him as a hero cop. I will be there, too.
But tonight, I don’t want speeches or ceremonies. Tonight, I want it to be just him and me.
The mason finishes up the engraving of his name. I wait while he sands the marble, vacuums away the last particle of dust. Then I walk up and run my hand over the smooth marble. Over his name.
Christopher John Raleigh.
The mason looks at me. He can see the pain welling in my eyes. “You knew him, huh?”
I nod, and from somewhere deep in my heart, a smile comes forth. I knew him.
“Partner,” I say.
Epilogue
COUP DE GRCE
I HAVE COME TO LEARN that murder investigations always have loose ends and questions that cry out to be answered. Always.
But not this time.
I was home one night about a month after we buried Chris. I had finished dinner for one, fed and walked Her Sweetness, when there was a knock on the door, a single, authoritative rap.
I hadn’t buzzed anyone up from downstairs, so I went and looked through the peephole before I opened up. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Nicholas Jenks.
He had on a blue blazer over a white shirt and dark gray slacks. He looked as arrogant and obnoxious as ever.
“Aren’t you going to let me in?” he asked, then smiled as if to say, Of course you are. You can’t resist, can you?
“No, actually I’m not,” I told him. I walked away from the door. “Get lost, asshole.”
Jenks knocked again, and I stopped walking. “We have nothing to talk about,” I called loudly enough for him to hear.