by Karen Rose
Unfortunately no strings plus no hurt equaled no sex. So he’d gone without. Not pleasant, but not the end of the world everyone made it out to be. There was discipline after all. The lessons he’d learned in the military had stood him in good stead. He liked his life. His quiet life. But tonight the quiet seemed more intense than it usually did.
He set Christine’s picture down and pulled open the nightstand drawer where he’d kept the book hidden for eleven years, nestled under the stack of birthday and Father’s Day cards. Carefully he pulled it from its place of safekeeping and caressed the cover with the pad of his thumb. It was no bigger than the palm of his hand. But so full of her. He let the book fall open to the page that was most worn. She’d called it simply “Us.”
Pale shoot of golden green,
supple stem and tentative leaves
too new to be certain.
Held tight in a fist of craggy rock
that shadows shelters,
holds the angel hair roots firm,
beating back the wind,
softening the drops of rain
to a kiss.
Huddled against the rock’s stubbly face,
she unfurls her fronds,
drinking in morning light.
Nourished by his mineral core,
she grows lush in the life he offers her
until it is unclear who saved whom.
Her canopy, now the roof above his head.
His stony crevice, her very foundation.
A light knock on his door had his pulse rocketing. He put the book away under the cards, feeling foolish. It was just a book. No cause to hide it like a guilty secret.
No. It wasn’t just a book. It was a memory. Mine. “Come in.”
Lauren stuck her head in, looking unhappy. “I’m sorry, Reed. I pushed too far.”
“It’s okay. Let’s just leave it alone.”
“Well... Good night.” She closed the door and Reed sighed.
Then chuckled, because from out of nowhere came the mental picture of Mia Mitchell on her toes in the face of that arrogant little lawyer-boy. “Bully named Bubba who wants to be your best buddy,” he murmured. Somehow he suspected a poetry reading wouldn’t be her ideal first date. Mia Mitchell would want to go somewhere physical. Football, hockey. If I asked her out, we’d go to a game, he thought, then shook his head at his own meandering. He would never ask her out.
There would be no first date with Mia Mitchell. She was definitely not his type. He took a long look at Christine’s picture. She was his type. His wife had been grace and elegance with a sparkle in her eye when she felt mischievous or fun. Mitchell was brash and bold, every movement packed with pent-up energy, every word laid bare of nuance.
His gaze rested on the drawer where the book lay hiding. The words there had been Christine’s heart. And his own. He couldn’t see a woman like Mia Mitchell appreciating the delicate balance of words and emotions. Not that it made Mia a bad person. Not at all. Just not his kind of woman.
Not that it mattered. Theirs was a temporary business relationship. When he found Caitlin Burnette’s murderer he would be back to normal. Which was just the way he liked things. He gathered the dirty sheets. He had time to do a load of laundry during halftime. Football, leftover pizza from the weekend, and a beer. It was a good life.
Monday, November 27, 8:00 P.M.
Beth Solliday took off the bathrobe she’d hastily donned at her father’s knock and stepped in front of her full-length mirror. Her eyes critically analyzed the balance of color and style in the outfit she’d chosen for the weekend. Jenny Q had ordered it for her online. There was no way her father could know she’d bought it. She’d skipped lunch for two months to pay for this outfit, but it would be worth it.
She dialed Jenny. “It’s Beth.” She grinned. “I mean Liz.”
“Are we on?”
“Laid the foundation. I told him he’d met your mother already last fall.”
“Fine. I’ll tell my mother that she met him. She never remembers anything.”
“Good. See you tomorrow night.”
“Bring the goods.”
“Oh, I will.” Beth hung up, did one last twirl. Then she changed into her pajamas and hid the outfit. Soon she’d step out. Experience life. She wasn’t a little girl anymore.
Chapter Six
Monday, November 27, 8:00 P.M.
Mia flashed her badge at the nurse. “I’m here to see Abe Reagan.”
“Visiting hours are over, ma’am.”
“I’m here to discuss Detective Reagan’s gunshot wound. We have a lead.”
The nurse sucked in one cheek. “Uh-huh. What’s in the bag, Detective?”
Mia looked down at the brown paper sack that contained baklava, one of Abe’s favorites. She looked back up and with a straight face said, “Mug shots.”
The nurse nodded, playing along. “He’s the third door from the end. Tell him if his blood pressure goes up from eating those mug shots, my needle is extra large tonight.”
“Man, you guys are evil,” Mia muttered, hearing the nurse chuckle behind her. Slowly she approached Abe’s room, her stomach in a knot. She stopped outside the door and nearly turned around. But she’d given her word. Lightly she knocked.
“Go away. I don’t want any more Jell-O or applesauce or whatever you have,” came the cranky reply and despite her trepidation Mia had to grin.
“What about this?” she asked, holding the bag out as she walked in.
Abe was sitting up in bed, the game on the TV. He muted the sound and turned to her with a guarded look that wiped the smile from her face. “Depends. What is it?”
He peeked in the bag, then looked up, his expression inscrutable. “You can stay.”
Awkward, Mia stuck her hands in her pockets while she searched his face. He was thinner. Gaunt. Her heart skipped a beat as new guilt piled high. He said nothing, just sat looking at her, waiting. She puffed her cheeks and blew out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asked evenly.
She looked away. “Everything. Letting you get shot. Not coming to visit you.” She shrugged. “Getting you poked with a really big needle if you eat what’s in the bag.”
He grunted. “Nurses’ trash talk. They don’t scare me. Sit down.”
She sat, but couldn’t meet his eyes. She took the silence as long as she could before blurting, “So... Where’s Kristen?”
“Home with Kara.” Their daughter that Abe treated like the precious treasure she was. “Mia, look at me. Please.”
No anger blazed in his blue eyes. Instead there was sorrow there that she didn’t know if she could take. She lurched to her feet, only to have him grab her arm.
“Sit down, Mia.” He waited until she had, then muttered a soft curse. “Did you think for a moment, one single moment, that I blamed you for this?”
She met his eyes squarely. “I thought you should. I knew you wouldn’t.”
“I didn’t know if you were all right. Mia...” He swallowed hard. “I thought you’d gone after them,” he said harshly. “And I wasn’t there to watch your back.”
She laughed sadly. “I did. But I couldn’t find them.”
“Don’t do that to me again. Please.”
“What, let you get shot up?”
“That, too,” he said dryly. “Kristen said she tore you a new one this morning.”
“I hope I never have to face her across a courtroom. I felt about an inch tall.”
“You would have been a layer of slime on the floor if she hadn’t felt sorry for you. You told her you weren’t paying attention that night. Why?” He stopped her mid-denial. “Don’t. We’ve been partners too long. I knew something was bothering you.”
She drew a breath. “I guess my dad and the funeral... It just caught up to me.”
His eyes narrowed. He hadn’t bought it. Somehow she hadn’t thought he would. “Is it so bad that you can’t tell me?”
She closed her eyes, saw the h
eadstone that lay next to her father’s. The stranger’s eyes meeting her over it. “If I say yeah, will you be hurt?”
He hesitated for a heartbeat then asked in a quiet voice, “Are you in trouble, Mia?”
Her eyes flew open, saw the concern on his face. “No. It’s nothing like that.”
“Sick?” He winced. “Pregnant?”
“No. And way no.”
He sighed his relief. “And it’s not a guy because there haven’t been any in a while.”
“Thanks,” she said sarcastically and he smiled. “I’d nearly forgotten.”
“Just trying to help.” The smile faded. “If you need to talk, you’ll come to me, right?”
“Yeah.” She was glad that was over. “I have news. Remember Getts and DuPree?”
“I have a vague recollection,” he said, his voice gone dry again.
“Well, it seems you got DuPree before Getts got you.”
His eyes narrowed, focused. “Good. Hope the sonofabitch hurts a lot.”
“DuPree hurts worse now.” Her smile was a mere baring of teeth. “I got him today. Joanna Carmichael told me where he was.” His eyes widened in surprise and she nodded grimly. “Shocked the hell out of me, too. I guess all that skulking around she does is finally paying a dividend. But... Getts got away.”
“Damn,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Mia. You idiot. He shot you, too. Now he knows you know where he hangs. You got his buddy in custody. He’s either going to go under or come out fighting.”
“I’m betting he’ll hide.”
“Until he catches you unaware. I didn’t see either of their faces, but you did. You’re the only one who can identify Getts. We wanted them for murder before. Now we’re tacking on attempted murder of a cop. You think he’s gonna want you around?”
She’d already considered it. “I’ll be careful.”
“You tell Spinnelli you want a partner to watch your back. Until I come back.”
“I got one already. Temporarily,” she added hastily when his dark brows went up.
“Really? Who?”
“I’ve been loaned to OFI. Arson/homicide case. Guy’s name is Reed Solliday.”
Abe leaned forward. “And? Is he old, young? Rookie, experienced?”
“Experienced enough. A little older than you. Old enough to have a fourteen-year-old.” Her shudder was exaggerated. “Keeps his shoes too shiny.”
“He should be flogged.”
She chuckled. “He seemed obnoxious early on, but it looks like he might be okay.”
Abe opened the bag and she knew all was forgiven. “You don’t want any, do you?”
“I ate mine on the way. And if the nurse asks, the bag’s got mug shots in it.”
He cast a furtive glance at the door. “Do you hear her?”
Her lips twitched. “I thought you weren’t afraid of the nurses and their trash talk.”
“I lied. The night nurse is the antichrist.” He snagged a piece of the dessert and settled back against his pillow. “Tell me about the arson case. Don’t leave out anything.”
Monday, November 27, 11:15 P.M.
Penny Hill wasn’t home. Why wasn’t she home? He glanced at his watch, then fixed his gaze back on the house he’d scoped so carefully the night before. She’d been here last night, tucked into bed by eleven. He’d returned tonight, ready to roll and she wasn’t here. He peered in her front window, hidden from the street by thick evergreens. There was only a great big dog sleeping on the living room floor. He clenched his teeth.
He had three choices. One, come back tomorrow night. Two, torch the place without her in it. Three, be patient and wait. He considered the options. The risks of waiting here, of perhaps being seen. The rewards of the hunt. Last time he surrendered the kill, anxious for the fire. Tonight he wanted more. He remembered little Caitlin with a shiver of restless pleasure. He could remember the energy pulsing through his body. That incredible rush.
He wanted that rush again. The complete and total power of life and death.
And pain. He wanted the bitch to feel such pain. To plead for mercy.
He wanted Penny Hill to pay. His lips curved, wolfish. He’d wait. He had time. All the time in the world. She didn’t. She’d count to ten and go to hell.
Monday, November 27, 11:25 P.M.
Mia climbed the stairs to her apartment. She’d hoped an hour run would get rid of all her nervous energy, but all it had done was soak her in sweat and make her taped shoulder throb. The second she pushed her door open she felt the difference. The air was warm and it smelled like... peanut butter?
“Don’t shoot. It’s just me.”
A breath rushed from her lungs. “Dammit, Dana, I could have shot you.”
Her best friend sat at her dinette table, hands up. “I’ll replace the peanut butter.”
Mia closed her apartment door and flipped the dead bolts. “Ha-ha. Nobody loves a dead comedian. When did you get home?” Dana and her husband had taken their foster kids to Maryland’s Eastern Shore to spend Thanksgiving with Ethan’s old friends.
“About midnight last night. Getting the kids up for school this morning was such a joy. Ethan and I put them on the school bus and went back to bed.”
Mia pulled two beers from the fridge. “Going to bed with Ethan is such a hardship.”
Dana grinned. “I’ll survive.” She shook her head at the offered beer with a grimace. “No thanks. Doesn’t go with the peanut butter.” She waited until Mia was slouched in a chair. “You didn’t return any of my phone calls. I was worried.”
“Join the chorus.” Then she sighed when irritation flashed in Dana’s brown eyes. “I’m sorry. God, I feel like a fucking broken record today. Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Dana lifted a brow. “You done?”
“Yeah.” It came out surly and childish. Which was about right at this point.
“Okay. Look, I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you weren’t dead or something. Nobody loves a dead sulker. So what have you been doing with yourself the last two weeks, Mia, besides avoiding me, and apparently everybody else?”
Mia took a long drag from the bottle, then went to her kitchen cabinet and pulled out... the box. It was a simple wooden box, no decoration or labels. It was incredible that such a little box could hold so much hurt. She put it down in front of Dana. “Ta-da.”
“Why do I feel like Pandora?” Dana murmured and lifted the lid. “Oh, Mia.” She lifted her eyes, understanding now. “At least now you know. About the boy, anyway.”
“I found the box in Bobby’s closet when I was pulling together clothes to bury him in. I didn’t open it until I got home from the cemetery. I was going to put his shield in it.”
With great ceremony the shield had been presented to her mother at Bobby Mitchell’s graveside, lying atop the flag that had draped his coffin. Her face haggard and worn, Annabelle Mitchell had turned and placed them in Mia’s hands. Too stunned to react, Mia had accepted them. The trifolded flag was now propped up against her toaster. The flag probably had Pop-Tart crumbs in its folds, but apart from a reluctance to dirty an American flag, it was hard to care.
She pointed at the box with her bottle. “Instead, I found that.”
Dana pulled the photo from the box. “Damn, Mia. He looks just your baby pictures.”
Mia’s laugh was hollow. “Bobby had some powerful genes.” She walked around to look over Dana’s shoulder at the chubby-faced boy sitting in a little wooden rocking chair, a red truck clutched in his fist. The boy she’d never seen, although she now knew his name. His birthday. And his death day. “That should look like my baby picture. That’s our rocking chair, mine and Kelsey’s. Bobby had our pictures taken in it, too.”
“How tacky.” Dana’s words were bland, but her mouth was set in a firm line. “But then we knew that about him.”
Only Dana knew. Dana and Kelsey. And perhaps Mia’s mother. Mia wasn’t entirely sure what her mother knew. She star
ed at the little boy’s face. “He has Bobby’s blond hair and blue eyes, just like me. And like her, whoever the hell she is.”
“You’ve spent the last two weeks trying to find her. I thought you would.”
She was the stranger Mia had seen at her father’s burial. A young woman with blond hair and round blue eyes... just like mine. For one brief instant it had been like looking in a -mirror. Then the woman had dropped her eyes and -disappeared into the crowd of cops paying their final respects. After the burial service Dana had searched the crowd, leaving Mia to accept the respects of each and every cop there.
That had been the hardest part of the whole sham. Nodding soberly to each uniform as they grasped her hand, told her in hushed tones that her father had been a good cop. A good man. How could everyone on God’s earth have been so damn snowed?
When the last uniform was gone and Mia stood alone with her mother she’d lifted her eyes to Dana, who’d shaken her head. The woman was gone. One look at her -mother’s face had told her all she’d needed to know. Annabelle -Mitchell had seen her, too. But unlike Mia, her mother hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised. And like so many times in her life, her mother’s eyes had shuttered. She was unwilling to discuss the woman, the little boy. The damn headstone. liam charles mitchell, beloved son.
“I’m glad you saw her, too. Otherwise I might be on the shrink’s couch right now.”
“You didn’t imagine her, Mia. She was there.”
Mia finished off the beer. “Yep. I know. Then and later.”
Dana’s eyes widened. “She came back?”
“A few times. She never speaks, just looks at me. I’m never close enough to grab her. I swear this is driving me crazy, Dana. And I know my mother knows who she is.”
“But she won’t tell you.”
“Nope. Good old Annabelle. I did get her to tell me about the boy.” She set the beer down, its taste suddenly bitter. “I’ve got to tell Kelsey. She needs to know.”
The last time she’d spoken with her sister had been the day their father died, through the Plexiglas as she always did. Mia never asked for any special visitation with her sister. Having the other inmates know Kelsey Mitchell’s sister was a cop would not be in Kelsey’s best interest.