Hooked

I missed you. Can you beat that?”
    Walsh brought one mug of coffee to the table at a time, with his right hand, then a spoon, and a pitcher of cream. He went back for the carafe of coffee. He poured two cups and took the other chair, his gaze settled on her with a questioning expression that made her feel once more naked and vulnerable. “Cream, no sugar, right?”
    “You remembered.”
    “Not much I forgot about you, Ms. Dell.”
    “So what do you think?” she said. “The part about I missed you, I mean?”
    “How can you miss what you don’t really know? What you wouldn’t allow yourself to know?”
    She’d known this wouldn’t be easy. The bitter edge in his voice spoke volumes. “I knew having me in your life would cost you, maybe your job, Harry, all your friends who’d think you were nuts for hooking up with someone like me. I rationalized leaving by saying it was better for you.” She poured cream into the cup and stirred, sipped. “Coffee’s good.”
    “And?”
    “Altruism doesn’t suit me, because I kicked myself the whole time I was gone. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You were there when I woke up in the morning, and I saw your face before I fell asleep. Every morning, every night. I didn’t know what to do. So I came back. When I did, I found out you’d walked away from it all. From the police department, from Harry. There was so much I didn’t know, and I’d been the catalyst that made everything happen.”
    At the mention of Harry’s name, Walsh pulled back, and his expression darkened. “Ah, Harry.” He drank his coffee. “I haven’t seen him since the night I got hurt. He’s tried, but I…I can’t. Maybe someday, but I doubt it.”
    She watched him a long time before she asked. Walsh was an open book. He wore his feelings like another article of clothing, only they covered his face. “What happened?”
    “I haven’t told anyone this. Not a single soul.” Walsh took his time, as if he questioned mentioning whatever he’d held back. “He was an informant for Russo.”
    The cold, hard words threw Tawny, but something else surfaced. “That’s how Mario knew I was at Upper Eighties that night. Harry told him.” She shook her head. “I always wondered. I thought it was Eileen, except she was as surprised to see him as everyone else there. Then I thought it was one of the girls, Darlene. Maybe she’d been one of Mario’s women. But she reported only to Eileen. Can’t trust anyone, can you?”
    “Nope.”
    “How long had it been going on?”
    “Since before I came into his life. Thirty-plus years, and I never guessed. No one did. I fought with myself whether to inform on him, but I couldn’t.”
    “So you resigned.”
    “Yes, but that wasn’t the only reason, and it wasn’t you either, although you were part of it. My decision involved a combination of things, but mostly it was me. By keeping his secret, I condoned what he did. I couldn’t tell, but I couldn’t stay on the force knowing what I knew. I suffered many sleepless nights before I decided. Harry had given me a life, and by keeping quiet I figured I paid him back. But we were finished.”
    “Oh, Linc, I’m so sorry. I know what he meant to you.”
    “That’s the first time you called me Linc.”
    She leaned across the small table and touched his face. “Nothing beats the right moment.”
    He captured her hand and kissed the palm. “I was never sure if he knew where you were that night. He said he didn’t know, but I think he did, and he chose to let you die. He must have told Russo about Clauson’s tail. How else could the old man have arranged for someone to block his car? Everything fell into place once I knew.”
    Tingles shot through her at the brush of his lips on her skin. “Harry figured if I died, you’d be free of me. He didn’t want you sa ddled with my history.” She hesitated. “I had lunch with him one day. Did he tell you?”
    “No.”
    Walsh’s surprised expression was no surprise. Harry would never have mentioned his contrived lunch. “He told me about you, about your―”
    “My mother? A psychologist would say Harry was trying to make a not-so-subtle connection that my interest in you was because my mother was a prostitute. That’s a load of Oedipal crap. My mother was a drug addict who turned tricks to pay for her habit. Was it a hard beginning for a kid? Yes. No question about it. She was sick and fragile and victimized. Was I fucked up about it?