Saturday, July 9
After leaving her a voicemail the previous night, Nate decided to a break from the Union Station footage and catch up on paperwork. He’d only been at it a few minutes when his phone rang. When he picked up, he heard Stilly, talking like it was his last few minutes on Earth. Each word was followed by an agitated grunt and some language that would have made any mother blush. Nate had to ask him to slow down several times; the reception was particularly crackly.
“You’re where?” Nate demanded, pressing his palm to his other ear so he could hear better.
“Inside an ambulance. I don’t know if he’ll make it. He’s in bad shape. Skull smashed in and he’s got third-degree bur---no, not that!” he barked at someone on the other end. There was muffled shouting in the background. “What in the name of the Pope’s sagging left nut do you think it means, Wilson? I don’t care if---I said fuck off. Sorry about that. I’m back. Nate? You there?”
“Yeah, but I dunno what you think I’m supposed to do with this delightful story,” Nate said, annoyed that he was being bothered with this when he was already balls-deep in paperwork. “Who are you with? What’s happened?”
“This guy is related to our other guy.”
“Our what?”
“The guy who got shot at the station last night. Francis Coppula?”
“Was that his name? I never got a look at the---”
“Reach down and see if you can grab your ass with both hands. Having trouble with that, too?”
“Alright, alright. How do you know they’re related?”
“This guy’s name is Xavier Coppula.”
“Well that doesn’t necessarily mean---”
“A few pictures survived in the house and they’re all of the two of them. And now both these guys are dead---well this one isn’t yet---within 24 hours of each other. These might be hits. Possibly done by the same person, but it’s hard to say at this point.”
“Wait, what do you mean pictures survived?”
“The house is on fire. They’ve got a good handle on it now but---” There was more shouting in the background. “Wilson, what you don’t know could fill the motherfucking Grand Canyon. You’re so full of shit it’s coming out your eyes. I didn’t---yeah. Okay, yeah, I got it! I gotta go, Nate. I’ll talk to you later once I get more details.”
“Okay, thanks, Stilly, I really---” The line crackled and then went dead. Nate hung up, staring at his desk as a swarm of thoughts buzzed around in his head.
Had Felicity done this, too? If so, what the hell for? What purpose would this serve, apart from giving even more reasons for the cops to buckle down on the Union Station case? What was she thinking? Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe this Xavier had merely fallen down the stairs or been the victim of a random break in.
He decided to call her again after his shift ended. He got off at seven and broke a few speed limits racing home. As soon as he let himself into his apartment, he locked the door, dumped his jacket and bag in a corner, took a seat at the dining room table, and dialed her number.
A phone began to ring in his bedroom.
Nate froze, his limbs going rigid as they readied for flight. Then he relaxed as the situation dawned on him. He sighed, stood up, and followed the sound. Felicity was curled up in his bed, fast asleep. Her vibrant hair---a brilliant tapestry of reddish gold inherited from their mother---was flung like a velvet net over the crumpled bed sheets.
Nate bent down and gently rubbed her earlobe between his fingers. She stirred and opened one eye. A sleepy smile spread over her face.
“You could’ve told me you were coming over,” he said.
“I didn’t want to bother you at work.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you blew Coppula away.”
She unfurled herself from her tangle of blankets, stretching her arms over her head, her body curving voluptuously into an arch. Nate averted his gaze. He needed to stay angry. He wanted to be his own for just a fucking second.
“I did say I was going to take care of him, honey. What did you think I meant?”
“Intimidate? Bribe?”
“I took a gun with me.”
“I thought it was for protection in case he tried to take you back or hurt you. Didn’t you get my message? There was a witness. You’re lucky you aren’t in cuffs right now.”
“Would you like me to be?” she said with a smile that sent ripples of heat through his blood.
“Felicity. This is serious,” he said in what he hoped was a severe tone. His head was already feeling thick and dizzy with arousal.
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
She sighed. “Well how was I supposed to plan for someone being around?”
“If you go to murder someone, you’re supposed to think of all the fucking angles, Felicity!”
He was breathing heavily, fists clenched. She looked at him for a minute, then dipped her head sheepishly.
“I guess you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Did you do the other one, too?”
“What?”
He filled her in about Xavier Coppula’s death. The look on her face told him that she had nothing to do with it, and when he was finished speaking, she shook her head.
“It’s funny though. Providential, you might say.”
“What?”
“Live by the sword, die by the sword.” She shrugged, then gave him a tiny smile. “I don’t know who did it, but I’d like to shake their hand. Though I’m sorry I’ve caused you trouble.”
“You’re sorry? I’m working with one of our unit’s best detectives. Sorry doesn’t even begin to put out the shitstorm you’ve started.”
A worm of guilt writhed in his stomach at the mention of his partner. Stilly’s instincts were sharp, refined by years of experience; he had once solved a murder by having a DNA test performed on a cigarette he found lying in a street drain two blocks down from the house where a family of five had been brutally murdered. Everyone thought he was nuts. What a waste of time and resources, they scoffed. Two months later, they were booking the psychopath who had broken into the house, killed the family, robbed them blind, smoked a cig on his way out, and then hailed a cab once he had walked far enough away from the crime scene.
“You’re on the case? Isn’t that good?” Felicity’s voice brought him back to the present. “You can sweep this thing under the rug.” She walked around the bed, closing the distance between them. As she gazed up into his face, she gently ran her fingers over his jawline and down the side of his neck.
“It’s not that simple.”
“But you understand, don’t you?” She looked up at him pleadingly. “You know what that man was, Nate.”
His heart softened. “You still shouldn’t have done it. You’ve managed to keep a pretty low profile since you got out. This just makes things more complicated.”
He caught her hand as she began to pull away. He pressed her palm to his face and looked down into his sister’s eyes. How many times had he lost himself inside them? They were light green, fringed with amber lashes that went for miles, and currently brimming with tears that---at least to him---implied genuine contrition for the mess she’d gotten him into. Looking at her, he was flooded with feelings that for years had both disgusted and enthralled him: he wanted to seize her warm, slender body and feel her beneath him, to become entangled in bed sheets and trembling, soft white limbs. The desires always left him twisted up in knots. He wasn’t sure how to channel them---or where to hide them away. A knowing smile spread across Felicity’s face, and he immediately grew self-conscious.
“I made copies of the rest of the footage today,” he muttered, pulling away from her. “We can look them over together and make sure there isn’t anything else I should illegally dispose of.” His voice turned sarcastic. “We should also see if we can get a good look at the person who might’ve seen you.”
“Sure,” she said, kissing the tip of his nose. He felt the warmth of her lips for hours afterwards. “I’ll make us some snacks.”
She disappeared into the kitchen while Nate, hands trembling, fired up his laptop and opened up the files he had emailed to himself back at the station. Felicity came back with a plate of crackers and cheese, set it next to his elbow, and flopped down into the armchair next to him.
They spent a few hours attempting to dissect the footage. They couldn’t see much, other than the fact that someone was clearly there, hiding behind the trains for unknown reasons. Felicity thought it looked like a teenage girl, but Nate said it could’ve been a small, skinny boy. The stranger had lingered on the ground for a curious amount of time once Francis Coppula went down---approximately one minute and twenty seconds. Then they turned and hurried off, disappearing around the corner into a pocket of space where there weren’t, unfortunately, any other cameras.
“Why didn’t they confront me?” Felicity said.
“Maybe they were doing something illegal too.”
Felicity leaned closer to the screen and frowned at the paused footage. “Go back to the shot before this one. The one that shows the street.”
“Why?”
“Maybe we’ll see this person walking towards the station.”
Nate shrugged and did as she requested. The footage that revealed the streets and walkways outside Union Station looked pretty deserted to him.
“There,” Felicity said suddenly, pointing at the screen.
It took Nate several seconds to see what she was looking at. At the very top of the screen, a figure darted across the street. They were only in view for a second, but Nate paused and zoomed in. Felicity waited at his side, impatience radiating from her. Finally, they both leaned in and saw the face of a young girl. She could have been anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five. Other than a wild mane of distinct dark hair, her appearance was ordinary, nothing that would stand out in a crowd.
“Do you think anybody at your precinct noticed this?” Felicity asked.
“I don’t think so. At least, not yet.” He turned to look up at her, and something about her expression made him ask: “Do you recognize her?”
There was a slight pause before she said: “Of course not. Maybe that’s not even the same person who saw me. Could just be someone out for a walk.”
“That’d be a pretty big coincidence."
“I guess. You’ll have to look into it and keep me posted, m’kay?”
Nate leaned back in his chair and stretched, looking at the clock. It was past midnight.
“Did you wanna crash here tonight?”
“Is there enough room in your bed?” she asked with a look that made his bones turn into oatmeal.
“I think so,” he said hoarsely, caught off guard. He’d assumed she would take the couch. She laughed and then slinked off to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Nate listened to his own heart pounding in his ears; he didn’t trust himself to go into the bedroom until well after she had.
He didn’t sleep well. He tried to lay as close to the edge of the bed as possible so they wouldn’t touch, but it didn’t help. The sheets were engulfed in the scent of her skin. He rolled onto his side and looked at her sleeping face. Loops of silky hair had fallen onto her forehead. He gently brushed them away, letting his fingers linger on her warm cheek. Every ounce of his flesh was aching with need. He wanted to wake her, to tear away the clothes that hid her away from him, to hold her slim and bare against his body---just once more, he told himself. Just one more time.
But deep down he knew that if he allowed himself to fold into her again, he would become lost and nothing else would matter. He couldn’t afford to do that right now. He had to focus.
Nate slid out of bed and climbed out his window and onto the fire escape.
He gulped the fresh night air, filling his lungs with coolness and trying to chase away the smell of her. The city of Pittsburgh was sprawled beneath his feet, a glittering spider web of lights blooming between dark skyscrapers.
Was the stranger between the trains out there somewhere? Or had they merely been passing through the city at the time of the shooting? Why hadn’t they contacted the police? What kind of person chose to remain silent after witnessing a murder?