Regrets Only
Authors: Nancy Geary
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Nancy Whitman Geary
All rights reserved.
Warner Books
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: July 2004
ISBN: 978-0-446-55645-3
Contents
1: Friday, December 20th 7:35 p.m.
2: Saturday, January 11th 9:17 p.m.
3: Monday, January 13th 4:12 p.m.
4: Tuesday, January 14th 2:18 a.m.
5: Thursday, March 6th 6:45 p.m.
6: Sunday, April 13th 4:15 p.m.
7: Monday, April 14th 11:05 a.m.
8: Saturday, May 17th 4:00 p.m.
9: Sunday, May 18th 12:03 a.m.
12: Monday, May 19th 7:33 a.m.
21: Wednesday, May 21st 8:05 a.m.
25: Thursday, May 22nd 6:15 a.m.
28: Friday, May 23rd 12:45 p.m.
30: Saturday, May 24th 9:30 a.m.
31: Saturday, August 9th 2:14 p.m.
Also by Nancy Geary:
Misfortune
Redemption
In loving memory of John W. Geary, II, and G. Willing Pepper
Jane Pepper made this book possible. She shared her endless knowledge of Philadelphia. For her help, energy, encouragement, and hospitality I am deeply in her debt. I thank Lieutenant Joseph Maum of the Philadelphia Police Department Homicide Unit for generously giving of his time and expertise. He made Lucy’s world come alive. I am forever grateful for his patience and guidance.
I thank Jamie Raab and everyone at Warner Books for their commitment to my novel. Many thanks to Jamie and to Frances Jalet-Miller for all their editorial insights, thoughtful questions, and hard work on shaping and reshaping this manuscript. Thank you to Leni Grossman for her careful copyedits, and to Ben Greenberg for his help on every detail. As always, thanks to Tina Andreadis and Miriam Parker for all their publicity efforts on my behalf.
Thank you to Pamela Nelson and Levy Home Entertainment for believing in my work.
I thank Jennifer Cayea, Abigail Koons, Katherine Flynn, and Katherine Merrill, for their hard work, dedication, and kindness. Thanks to everyone at Nicholas Ellison, Inc., and Sanford J. Greenburger for their patience and commitment. Words cannot adequately express my appreciation to Nick Ellison, the one-man rescue unit, for all that he does and all that he is.
I am deeply grateful to my dear friends, who bolster my spirits, provide much-needed advice, and show me again and again the true meaning of loyalty. I thank Missy Smith, Amy Kellogg, and Aliki Nichogiannopoulou for listening, caring, celebrating and commiserating. For help and much-needed words of support, especially while I have been on the road, thanks to Virginia Nivola, Jane Broce, Juliana Hallowell, and Sally Witty.
For including me in her inspired community, providing me with a spiritual anchor, and offering me her invaluable guidance, I thank The Reverend Lynn Harrington. Thanks to Anne Testa for her enthusiasm and encouragement, and Susan and Craig Hupper for their friendship and thoughtfulness. I am blessed to be part of St. John’s Parish.
Finally, I am forever indebted to my extraordinary family. I thank Natalie Geary for showing me what it is to have true courage and for her constant help, love, and pediatric services. I thank my mother, Diana Michener, for her advice and understanding, and I thank her and Jim Dine for their love, encouragement, and inspiration. I thank Daphne Geary, Ted Geary, Jack and Dolly Geary, and Wing and Evan Pepper for all their support. And I thank Harris Walker for making life meaningful. That I am his mother is my greatest joy.
Friday, December 20th 7:35 p.m.
T
he muddy slush and melted snow on the hardwood floor appeared to bother no one. Men and women pressed elbow-to-elbow by the bar and shared seats at the twenty or so mismatched iron tables. Oversize pewter hooks that hung at various spots around the room couldn’t accommodate the population of overcoats and many lay crumpled in a heap in the corner. The air was filled with noise from dozens of lively conversations and the smell of beer, smoke, and wet wool. Body warmth and the heat from several loud radiators had fogged the windows, obscuring any view onto Rittenhouse Square. It was Friday and the weekend at The Arch was well under way.
From where Lucy sat she could watch Sapphire behind the bar, pouring, mixing, stirring, embellishing, and rinsing, all the while keeping up the lively banter for which she was famous. Her multiringed fingers seemed to dance between glasses, bottles, lemon wedges, and maraschino cherries as she created colorful potions to inebriate her fans. Sapphire specials, the ingredients mixed so fast that no one could tell what exactly had been included. Tonight she’d dyed her hair bright orange and wore colored contact lenses that made her eyes appear emerald green. Every few moments she’d turn away from her audience and ring up a sale at the old register. Although the crowd’s conversation muffled the sound, Lucy could imagine the “ka-ching” as the drawer popped open to receive cash. Sapphire placed the change directly into each patron’s hand, perhaps hoping the physical contact would bring a larger tip.
“How’d you ever end up at this place?” Jack Harper asked, taking a sip of his draft beer.
At the sound of his voice, Lucy turned her attention to her companion, who looked off balance as he perched awkwardly on a garden chair. He had to be the oldest person in the room; the gray at his temples highlighted his forty-eight years. Medium height and medium build, he’d recently started to complain about his growing waistline. “Too much bloody paperwork,” he’d commented to her just the day before. “Not like when I started around here, when the Captain realized we were better off out on the street. No crime gets solved from behind a desk, but the bureaucrats in Internal seem to have forgotten that fact. We’ll all end up fat, or at least those of us who aren’t already.” Although he’d removed his tie before they left the precinct, his white shirt and camel overcoat stood out in the predominantly black-clad crowd.
Lucy now followed his gaze to an oval table opposite the bar where a group of seven pale, thin men and women huddled together smoking and drinking a blue concoction out of martini glasses. One man had a series of small gold hoops piercing his eyebrow. A woman wore a top that more closely resembled a bra. One or another in the group periodically looked up at the series of charcoal drawings that hung on the walls, pointed at something with considerable animation, and then returned to the conversation.
“You fooled me, Detective O’Malley,” Jack continued. “Here you are mingling with creatures who retreat to their coffins at daylight, and I had you pegged for the paper-shamrock-on-the-wall-and-glass-of-Guinness-dark type, being a direct descendant of a Boston police commissioner after all.”
Lucy laughed. “My forebears, esteemed though I’m sure they were, were more likely models for jolly old Michael, the cop who stops traffic for the baby ducks crossing Beacon Street,” she replied, remembering the classic children’s book
Make Way for Ducklings
. “But I’ve spent my fair share of hours in pubs, if that’s your question. Nothing like the smell of stout on your clothes and wood shavings on your shoes in the morning.”
“You can take the girl out of Ireland but you can’t take the Irish out of the girl.”
“Something like that.”
They both laughed. Despite their age difference of nearly two decades, Lucy had the sneaking suspicion that this partnership would work. She liked Jack’s easy demeanor.
“Seriously, though, how did you find this place? You don’t live around here, do you?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t admit it but I’m not too far away—an apartment above the health food store on the corner of Walnut. I’ve thought about moving out to join the rest of you in Torresdale or Fox Chase, but the rent here is okay.” She took a sip of her drink. “I guess that makes me the only homicide detective to live in Center City.”
“Can’t beat the convenience, though,” he said. “Although I’m not sure about your local hangout.” He looked around the room with obvious skepticism.
“This place is a recent discovery even though I’d passed it a million times. This fall there was a sign in the window for a reading—some author with a book on being in a harem. The sign caught my eye.”
“Harem?”
“She was a Moroccan woman who shared her husband with eight or nine other wives. He fathered children with all of them, and the women jointly raised the whole brood. Anyway, I thought it sounded interesting—intriguing may be a better word—and I came back to hear her speak. She talked about the difficulties of mothering the children who weren’t her own, but who were the children of the man she loved. The jealousies, the rivalries, she was very candid about her emotions. Since then you might call me a regular here, especially on nights when the literary stuff happens because you never know what you’re going to learn. Then there are also art openings,” she said, gesturing to the drawings on the wall. “They’re usually on Thursdays, so tonight must be something special. The displays change every week or so. I think there’s some connection to the Creative Artists Network, but I’m not positive. Anyway, the place just feels cozy to me.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Cozy as a cattle car.”
“It’s not usually this crowded.” She glanced around and shrugged. “Maybe the artist has a lot of friends.”
“With art like this, he’ll need them,” Jack said as he passed her a red paper flyer.
“The Twelve Faces of Suicide”: Self-portraits by Foster Herbert. For a complete price list, please inquire at the bar.
Lucy shuddered involuntarily. The series of sad, charcoal faces that stared out with empty gazes was haunting. She didn’t need to read the title of the collection to know that the artist had to suffer from interior demons, that he was—like so many—a young man in pain. Just as Aidan, her brother, had been.
Although nearly ten years had passed, she could still recall the last conversation they’d had. “Ever heard of Dubuffet, the French painter?” he’d asked her. She had. “I read this interview where he explained that he was able to journey into madness and return. His art, his visions, grew out of those trips. And I keep thinking to myself, How did he do it? How did he return? I’m there in that horrible place but I can’t get back.” Those fateful words still echoed in her mind.
“I take it you won’t be purchasing a painting for your living room.” Jack’s voice interrupted her musing.
She wiped her eyes quickly and diverted her gaze, hoping he wouldn’t notice the welled tears. If he did, he was polite enough not to comment. Instead he rested his hand on her forearm. “On a brighter note,” he said, raising his glass to clink with hers, “here’s to you. Congratulations on making it through your first week, Detective.”
Lucy smiled in appreciation and gulped her beer, feeling the cold, frothy liquid soothe her throat. She’d survived her first five days of life in the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia Police Department. After two years in the Narcotics Bureau, she’d made Detective and then spent the next three in the South Division before being promoted, if a unit where the victims never survived could be called that. Partnered with the most experienced detective on the force, she’d managed to crack her first case—a contract hit on the owner of a gaming operation—within twenty-four hours of the crime. Jack had been patient and careful in his explanations; in return, he’d seemed mildly amused by her enthusiasm.
Although in her years at the police department she rarely fraternized with her colleagues and passed on the drunken festivities held annually at the Ukrainian-American Club, she’d agreed to her new partner’s suggestion that they have a drink to celebrate the quick resolution of her first “job,” as each murder investigation was called. She’d heard that unlike past partners, he was happily married and the proud father of two teenage boys; a beer after work was simply a way to start off on a friendly footing. Plus he’d agreed to let her pick the bar and been perfectly content to wander beyond the two watering holes within shooting distance of the Roundhouse, as the police headquarters located on Eighth and Race Streets was called.