Suddenly Daddy and Suddenly Mommy

by Loree Lough

  It wasn’t until something cold and wet pressed against her cheek that she realized she’d fallen asleep, too…had been out quite a while, from the looks of things.

  Chester’s fur was still damp. “So you’ve had yourself a bath, have you?” she asked, rumpling his shining coat. I must have done something mighty good in my childhood, she thought, to have earned a husband like this.

  Mitch bent over to pick a speck of lint from the carpet, noticed her staring. “What…? Do I have spinach on my teeth or something?”

  “No. I’m just trying to decide if you’re real, or a very pleasant mirage.”

  Grinning, he walked over to her, leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose. Her cheeks. Her lips. The kiss lasted a long, delirious moment. “Could a mirage do that?”

  Sinking back into the pillows, she sighed, a dreamy smile playing on her freshly kissed mouth. “If it can, I don’t know why folks are so all-fired disappointed when they discover they’ve seen one.”

  “I’m making your favorite for supper,” he said, changing the subject.

  Unconsciously she licked her lips. “Gnocchi?”

  Mitch frowned slightly. “I thought breaded cubed steaks were your favorite.”

  “They’re great,” she replied with a wide smile. Maybe too wide, she quickly realized. You are an insensitive boob, Ciara Mahoney. Now you’ve gone and hurt his feelings. “Oh, that favorite,” she quickly added.

  “I don’t even know what a naw…a no…what is it, anyway?”

  “Nyaw-kee,” she pronounced the Italian pasta. “And it’s plural, because just one wouldn’t be the least bit satisfying. They’re fluffy little potato dumplings that melt in your mouth. They sell them, frozen, at the grocery store. They’re not nearly as tasty as the ones they make at Chiaparelli’s, down in Little Italy, but they’ll do when a craving strikes.”

  He jammed the handle of his feather duster into a back pocket, leaned over to clean up her snack plates. “So, you’re having cravings, are you?”

  She shrugged, thinking of their massage session. “Maybe one or two….” Then, giggling, she added, “You look like a rooster, with that thing sticking out of your pocket.”

  He shook his bottom and cock-a-doodle-doo’d for all he was worth, sending Chester into a feather-chasing frenzy. Mitch and the dog rolled on the floor for a moment, playfully wrestling over the cleaning tool. “You two are going to make a terrible mess,” she warned, laughing. “You’ll be cleaning up feathers for a week.”

  “But,” Mitch groaned, chuckling as he tugged on the plastic handle, “he won’t let go.”

  “Chester,” Ciara ordered, “sit.”

  Immediately the dog obeyed.

  “And only one feather out of place,” she boasted, buffing her nails against her chest.

  He plucked the peacock blue feather from the carpet, tucked it behind her ear. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are while you’re sleeping?”

  “You’re pretty cute with your eyes closed, yourself,” she said.

  Mitch smiled. “I’ve got to get back in there before the meat burns. Can I get you anything? Your wish is my command.”

  She couldn’t think when he looked at her with that dark, smoldering gaze. “I can have any wish I want?”

  “Any wish you want.”

  I wish we could make love, she thought, remembering their recent intimacies, the way we did before you left me. “Is it too late to whip up some of those fantastic home fries of yours to go with the steaks?” she asked instead.

  Chapter Eight

  “Don’t pull the plug till I get back, ’cause we don’t want you going down the drain….”

  Ciara grinned with disbelief. “Six months ago, maybe, but now? Down the drain? I can barely fit in the tub, so you’ve got to be kidding.” She adjusted her headset and snapped an Amy Grant tape into place, then waved him away. “Go on, read your morning paper and leave me to my bubbles.”

  “Back in ten,” he said, smiling as he pulled the door shut behind him.

  From the semicircular window in the landing, he could see all the way to the end of their driveway, where the mailbox stood. Earlier, Ciara had sent him outside to put a card in the box and flip the flag up. “Can’t forget Ian’s birthday,” she’d said, grinning, “not this year. It’s the big four-oh, y’know.”

  Mitch craned his neck; if the flag was down, it would mean the….

  Instead of the red flag, Mitch spotted a sleek black Ferrari, parked behind Ciara’s Miata. One of Pericolo’s goons drove a car like that…. Every muscle in him tensed as he took off down the stairs. In the foyer he breathed a sigh of relief. All’s secure here, he thought, jiggling the bolted knob. Now for the back door…. He headed for the kitchen by way of the family room and stopped dead in his tracks.

  The man in Mitch’s recliner wore a black suit, maroon tie, and peered over the pages of the newspaper he held in one hand. “Well, now,” he said, assessing Mitch’s summery attire, “aren’t you the picture of suburban life…deck shoes, Bermuda shorts, madras shirt.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated the side yard. “Don’t tell me…there’s a cabin cruiser out there with ‘Mahoney’s Bah-lo-nee’ painted across its back end, right?”

  Mitch’s fingers balled into fists. “What’re you doin’ here?” he demanded, planting himself in front of the chair.

  “Just paying my weekly visit to the little woman.” He shrugged. “You don’t expect us to go cold turkey, just ’cause you’re home, do you?”

  Mitch leaned both palms on the arms of the recliner. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Bradley, but it ain’t gonna work. Now beat it.” He straightened. “Way I’m feeling ’bout you, this is a dangerous place for you to be….”

  Bradley shifted uneasily in the chair. “Hey,” he said, grinning nervously, “is that any way to talk to your boss?”

  “Ex-boss. I made a couple of phone calls, and—”

  The grin became a scowl. “You tryin’ to scare me, Mahoney? ’Cause if you are…”

  Mitch’s upper lip curled in contempt, his arm shot out as if it were spring loaded, and he grabbed a handful of Bradley’s collar. “If I was tryin’ to scare you,” he snarled, twisting the shirt tight against Bradley’s throat, “I wouldn’t need a telephone.”

  Bradley shrank deeper into the chair cushions, eyes wide with fright as frothy spittle formed in the corners of his mouth. The hand that had been holding the newspaper went limp, and the sports section of the Baltimore Sun fluttered to the floor like a wounded gull.

  Through the thin material of his T-shirt, Mitch felt something cold and hard pressing against his ribs. Looking down, he saw that Bradley’s other hand, sheathed in a surgeon’s glove, held a chrome-plated, pearl-handled .35 mm handgun.

  The face-off lasted a terrifying moment, Mitch increasing the tension on Bradley’s collar, Bradley stepping up the pressure of the gun. “Like I said,” Bradley husked, his face reddening further from lack of oxygen, “just stopped by to see how the missus was doing.”

  In response to the unmistakable tick-tick-tick of the hammer being pulled back, Mitch unhanded Bradley’s shirt and slowly straightened, held his hands in the air. The man had a loaded weapon trained on him, and he could see by the wild glint in his eyes that he was fully prepared to use it. “Nice piece,” he spat. “New?”

  “Yes and no.” He smirked. “It shoulda been tagged as evidence, when our boys busted Pericolo last week.” Shrugging, he added, “It got kind of, ah, misplaced.”

  Mitch’s brow furrowed. “You stole it from the evidence room?”

  “You’re not as smart as everybody thinks, are ya, Mahoney? It never—”

  “Never made it to the evidence room?”

  Using the gun as a pointer, he answered, “Have a seat, Mr. High and Mighty, and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  Ciara was upstairs in the tub, alone, naked, vulnerable. Stress was as potentially deadly for her and the baby as that gun in Bradley’s hand. Yo
u’ve got to get that weapon, Mitch commanded himself. Somehow you’ve got to disarm this son of a—

  Still standing, he said, “They’re on to you down at headquarters. Anything happens to me, or to Ciara, they’ll know exactly who to—”

  “A bluff like that might be useful in poker…” A sinister smile cracked his face. “Speakin’ of cards…” He slid a pack of Bicycles from his jacket pocket, slammed it onto the coffee table. “Pick a card, any card.”

  Mitch’s lips formed a thin, stubborn line.

  “Do it,” Bradley demanded, leaning forward in the chair, tapping the deck with the .35 mm.

  He wouldn’t know about Pericolo’s trick unless—

  Stay calm, he warned himself. You lose your cool and you’re a dead man. And Ciara… Mitch didn’t want to think what Bradley might do to her in his present state of mind. He took a breath to steady his nerves, reached out and grabbed a card.

  The ace of spades.

  “You know what old Giovanni says about black cards….”

  Mitch knew, only too well. He’d passed the sociopath’s test that first night, but during his months in Philly, he’d seen two men fail it. Something told him he’d hear their screams of anguish and terror till he drew his last breath.

  Bradley reached out, flipped the deck over. Skimming a hand over them, he spread the cards in a neat arc, displaying the ace of spades…times fifty-two.

  Then he laughed, a sound that chilled Mitch’s blood. “So where’s your pretty little bride?” Bradley asked, interrupting Mitch’s worrisome thoughts.

  He stood taller, squared his shoulders, pretended not to have heard the question. He’d do whatever it took to keep Bradley’s focus off Ciara, even if it meant stepping in front of a—

  “Don’t look so worried, Mahoney. I’d never do anything to hurt her.” He snorted. “Won’t have to. Once you’re out of the way, she’ll come with me willingly…she and that…baby she’s carrying.” He smirked. “Who do you think the little guy’ll look like?”

  His blood turned to ice, freezing in his veins. It isn’t true, can’t be true, Mitch told himself. Because if it was, everything he believed, everything he held dear about their relationship had been a lie.

  And there sat the one man in the world who knew the ugliest fact about him. Mitch was filled with such fury that he wanted to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t ever forget.

  But Mitch had no proof of her sin. None…except the word of this…to call him a cur or a swine would be to insult all pigs and dogs! Mitch thought. He wanted to punish the smooth-talking, low-life predator. But having no weapon at the ready, he settled for a mild insult. “Come with you? Have you taken a good look at yourself lately? You’re nothin’ but a good-for-nothing hunk of garbage.”

  “Shut up,” Bradley snarled.

  “So when did you turn, Bradley? Or have you always been like this, even as a rookie?”

  “Careful what you say,” Bradley interrupted, waving the gun in the air, “or I’ll…”

  He was beyond reason now. Nothing scared him as much as the thought of this animal touching his wife. “Or you’ll what? Take me out? How’re you gonna explain that?”

  Bradley licked his lips, wiped perspiration from his forehead with the back of his gun hand.

  Mitch’s fingers splayed, and he tensed, ready to grab it.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” came Bradley’s gravelly warning. His green eyes glittered, like a panther ready to pounce. Then he rested an ankle on a knee, balanced the gun there.

  “I could always say I stopped over to see how you were doin’,” he said, answering Mitch’s question. He laughed softly. “Does this have post-traumatic shock written all over it, or what? I mean, think about it from the point of view of those knuckleheads down in Internal Affairs…guy like you, undercover all those months with a maniac like Pericolo….” He shrugged nonchalantly. Chuckling, he added, “Here’s the cherry on the sundae—I could plug you, call it self-defense, and you’d still get a hero’s burial. Wouldn’t be your fault you went nuts.”

  The way Bradley was quivering, Mitch believed he could wrest the gun from his hand, if he could just get in closer….

  “Naw, that’s way too complicated. There’d be a hearing, I’d be on administrative leave while IA investigated. Truth is, you ain’t worth all that bother.”

  He tilted the weapon left and right. “For your information, this little number here has Pericolo’s prints all over it.” He grinned proudly. “I’ve got this one all tied up with a pretty red bow, eh, Mahoney?” He stared hard, as if debating whether to answer his own question or pull the trigger.

  “The weapon may have Pericolo’s prints on it, but the guards on his cell block will give him an airtight alibi—or did you forget that small detail, Bradley?”

  Bradley got to his feet. “Enough conversation, wise guy. Turn around.”

  Mitch lifted his chin defiantly and, crossing both arms over his chest, planted his feet shoulder width apart.

  “You never did like taking the easy way, did you, Mahoney?” Bradley took a step closer, prepared to forcibly turn Mitch around.

  It’s now or never…. He grabbed the deck of cards. “Mind if I shuffle and draw again? Might improve my odds.”

  Bradley chortled. “What’s the point? You know they’re all—”

  Mitch flicked the deck in Bradley’s face, and as his hands instinctively went up to protect his eyes, Mitch’s left hand shot out, grabbed the gun barrel and pointed it at the ceiling. In a heartbeat, he elbowed Bradley in the Adam’s apple, socked him in the stomach, stomped on his instep, rammed a hard shoulder into his nose.

  Bradley doubled over, wheezing and moaning. Mitch had the gun now, and he knew it. Holding up the gloved hand, he choked out, “Don’t…don’t shoot….”

  Mitch snorted with disgust. “You’re not worth the mess,” he ground out. “Now assume the position, while I—”

  He heard a thump overhead, and Ciara’s muffled voice: “Mitch…what’s going on down there?” Mitch cut a quick glance toward the ceiling, and Bradley used that tick in time. Hot on his heels, Mitch ran for the back door and saw the lieutenant leap the fence and duck into the yard next door, where the neighbor’s toddlers were splashing contentedly in their blue plastic wading pool.

  Mitch drew a bead on Bradley’s left shoulder, squeezed back on the trigger, slowly, slowly…

  Just then, one of the twins jumped up, putting herself directly in the line of fire. “Mine!” she squealed, grabbing an inflatable horse from her towheaded brother.

  Mitch eased up on the trigger as the little boy pulled her back into the water. “No,” he insisted, “mine!”

  Squinting one eye, he zeroed in on Bradley’s shoulder once more, every muscle tense and taut as he held his breath. And then the kids were up again, right in his sights, hollering for their mommy.

  From the other side of the forsythia hedge, Bradley saluted and disappeared.

  The car…he’s gonna circle ’round to get the Ferrari.

  Slamming the back door, then bolting it, he blasted through the house. Cursing the knob lock and the dead bolt, he struggled to yank open the front door.

  Somebody was out there, all right, standing behind the Ferrari’s back bumper. “Good morning, Mitch,” said Mrs. Thompson. “How’s Ciara this morning?”

  Heart hammering, Mitch ran a hand through his hair, jammed the gun into the belt at the small of his back. “Fine…you?”

  “Oh, my arthritis is acting up, but in this humidity, what can a seventy-two-year-old expect?” She nodded at the Ferrari. “Fancy car….”

  “Belongs to a—” He couldn’t make himself say friend. “One of my coworkers left it here.” The .35 mm wasn’t Bradley’s, and neither was the car. The lieutenant couldn’t afford to come back for either. Mitch knew that now, like he knew his own name. “I think I hear my wife calling,” he said, closing the door. “You have a nice day.”

  Mrs. Thompson smiled, waved. “Tel
l Ciara I said hi.”

  Mitch’s shoulders slumped and he walked back to the kitchen. He hid the gun in the cookie jar on top of the fridge and grabbed the phone, dialed Parker’s extension down at Headquarters. The guy didn’t seem the least bit surprised when Mitch filled him in on what had just happened.

  “He’s never been wrapped too tight,” Parker admitted, “but lately…” He whistled the “Twilight Zone” theme.

  “You’ve gotta find him,” Mitch interrupted. “My wife’s—”

  “I know, I know…Bradley told us all about her condition.”

  “Listen, Parker, he’s still out there. I’ve got his weapon, but he won’t have any trouble getting another.”

  “Okay, okay, Mahoney. Settle down.”

  “Don’t tell me to settle down! If my guess is right, now that I know he’s been on the ‘take,’ and his reputation is ruined, he’s got nothin’ to lose. I don’t have time for your patronizing—”

  “Sorry, Mitch. I didn’t mean to.” He paused. “Look, I know it won’t be easy, but you have to settle down, for your wife’s sake.”

  Mitch took a deep breath. “When you call in the APB, get a tow truck out here to pick up this Ferrari in my—”

  “Ferrari?” Parker snickered lightly. “Did you get a raise for this last caper, buddy?”

  “It’s Bradley’s…or else it belongs to whoever he’s workin’ for. You’ve got to get it out of here. If Ciara sees it, how am I gonna explain…?”

  “I’m on it, Buddy.”

  “Keep me posted, will ya?”

  “You bet.”

  “And send somebody to—”

  “I’ll get a surveillance guy out there, pronto.”

  “‘A guy’? I put my neck on the chopping block to nab Pericolo. You’ll send more than ‘a guy’! Who knows what kind of backup Bradley’s got…or where he got it. I’m a sittin’ duck out here, and—”

  “Sit tight, Mitch. I’ll see what I can do.”

  He exhaled loudly, ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Keep me posted, will ya?”

  “You bet,” Parker said, and hung up.