The Second Goodbye

by Patricia Smiley

  Shortly after Davie had been accepted into the police academy, Bear warned her that cops can’t remember shit about anything when they’re in a gunfight, sometimes not until the next day when the shock wears off. Sometimes the facts elude them forever.

  It was early morning on Saturday, a week after the takedown of Roland Ducey, and Davie still couldn’t say for sure how many times she or Striker had fired their weapons, or whether one or both of them had hit the target. But knowing those details wasn’t her responsibility. The LAPD’s Force Investigations Division would pick apart the shooting and eventually lay out their findings in a comprehensive report.

  Ducey had been airlifted to Harbor/UCLA trauma center where he remained, clinging to life. She hoped he survived. That was going to be one interesting interview.

  A couple days after the shootout in Oxnard, Striker’s Florida Department of Law Enforcement contact called to let him know the Grand Jury had brought a thirty-eight-count indictment against Al Benito and Valerie Ferrick for money laundering and a host of other felonies. His team had served arrest warrants in the early morning hours and taken both of them into custody without incident. Lacy Gillen was safe and sound in her Miami home when officers came to take her statement.

  Davie sat on a chaise lounge by the swimming pool with Alex Camden hovering over her. He handed her a mimosa he’d made from Dom Perignon and fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  He clinked his glass against hers. “To gratitude.”

  “To gratitude,” she echoed.

  She took a sip and felt the bubbles tickle her nose. The sentiment was timely and appropriate. She was grateful. Dedicated fire crews had worked around the clock to contain the Skirball blaze and spare them from tragedy. Other communities had not been as lucky. Davie mourned with the families who’d lost homes and a lifetime of memories. Most of all, she was grateful Vaughn was alive and with only soft-tissue gunshot injuries. Her partner would recover from his wounds and return to Pacific Homicide.

  Alex pulled the collar of his Burberry scarf around his neck to ward off the morning chill. “I trust you’re feeling better, Davina.”

  “I’ll be better once I get back to work.”

  A look of concern swept across his face. “Yes. That’ll be any day now, I’m sure.”

  The phone connected to the gate intercom rang. Alex answered and then glanced at her. “Yes, of course. I’ll buzz you in.” He pressed a button on the phone’s base.

  “You have guests.” Davie swung her legs off the lounge and onto the ground. “I’ll head back to the cottage. I have work to do.”

  He held up his hand to stop her. “Stay, Davina. The visitor isn’t here for me.”

  She swiveled toward the driveway and saw an unfamiliar black SUV drive up and park. A moment later, Jon Striker got out of the driver’s seat and headed toward the pool, one hand hiding something behind his back. The other was clutching papers.

  Alex summoned his dogs. “Call if you need backup.” He winked and disappeared into the house.

  When Striker got closer, Davie saw he was hiding a bouquet of red roses behind his back. He hesitated before handing them to her as if he were suddenly embarrassed by the gesture.

  Flowers. Grammy would approve. Davie touched her grandmother’s earrings, remembering they’d been an engagement gift. Someday she would tell Striker the story about her grandparents’ lunch at that diner, the jukebox playing “When I Fall in Love,” the proposal, and the carousel ride at the Santa Monica Pier afterward. Someday.

  She studied his earnest expression for a moment before speaking. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

  His gaze was soft and steady as he sat, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Glad to see you’re okay. How’s Vaughn?”

  “He’s out of the hospital and staying with his parents. His biggest beef right now is he won’t graduate with his cooking class.”

  “That’s a good sign.” Striker paused for a moment. “Lieutenant Repetto told me she offered you a position at Homicide Special. She said you turned her down.”

  “I told you before. I’m happy at Pacific.”

  He dropped his head and stared at the ground. “You’re a good detective, Davie Richards. It would be great to work with you, but I understand. I just want you to be happy.”

  She lowered her face to the roses, inhaling the perfume and feeling the velvet petals against her skin. “I want that for you, too.”

  He moved to the edge of the lounge until their knees were almost touching. He reached out and handed her one of the envelopes.

  “What’s this?” She set the bouquet in her lap, slipped her finger under the seal, and tore open the envelope. It was an official department form that cops used to request days off. She looked up, puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

  He handed her a second envelope. Inside were two pieces of paper—a list of flights to the island of Tortola and sailboat rentals from a charter company in Road Town. “I thought you might want to take a few days off to dance on the sand at Foxy’s.”

  “I told you, I don’t know how to sail.”

  He gently tapped his fist on her knee similar to a judge gaveling the courtroom to order. “I know, but I do.”

  She tilted her head, smiling. “You?”

  “Me,” he said, leaning closer to her, smiling back. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”

  She hooked her finger between the buttons of his blue oxford shirt and guided him closer. “About sailing?”

  “Among other things. I’ll bring sunscreen if you wear that see-through dress you bought at Apple Bay.”

  Davie felt a flush creep across her cheeks. She remembered him eyeing the dress but hadn’t thought much of it at the time. “See-through? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He pressed his lips together to hide his amusement. “Hmm … guess I forgot.”

  She glanced at the flight schedule. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  Striker stood and pulled Davie to her feet. He put his arms around her and whispered in her ear. “Are you going to make me do this all by myself?”

  She slipped her hand in his and led him toward the cottage. “Let’s negotiate, see what happens.”

  About the Author

  Patricia Smiley (Los Angeles, CA) is a bestselling mystery author whose short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and Two of the Deadliest, an anthology edited by Elizabeth George. Patricia has taught writing classes at various conferences throughout the US and Canada, and she served on the board of directors of the Southern California Chapter of Mystery Writers of America and as president of Sisters in Crime/Los Angeles. Visit her online at www.PatriciaSmiley.com.