Black Velvet

by Steven Henry

  Erin had been raised Catholic. She still wore a silver crucifix around her neck most of the time, especially on duty. But she’d never really appreciated religious art until she’d seen this pure, beautiful portrait. There, in that dark gallery, looking on the holy face of the Virgin as imagined by one of the true masters, she felt a tremor of spiritual awe.

  “She’s really something, isn’t she,” a man said just to her left.

  “Yeah,” she said, and then did a double-take. Luke Devins stood there, hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants, staring at the Madonna. Erin felt a pang. He hadn’t called her since their last conversation in the Priest, and she hadn’t called him. But of course he’d be here. They’d left things awkwardly, and he’d been avoiding her. She didn’t know whether she was angry or missing him, but he’d left a Luke-shaped hole, and it hurt.

  “Luke,” she said, then realized she didn’t know what to say.

  “Erin,” he said at almost the same time, turning away from the painting and finally looking her in the face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I should have…”

  “Damn—darn right,” she said, glancing at the Madonna. Swearing in the presence of that face was simply impossible. She stepped away, leaving Schenk and Luisa in front of the painting. Luke followed her to a discreet distance. “What was I supposed to think?” she demanded in a harsh whisper. “You left me hanging!”

  “I didn’t know what to think either,” he said. “I had to figure it out, get myself straight, before I could talk to you. Erin, you’re amazing. You’re one of the toughest women I’ve ever met, you’re smart, you’re brave, and you’re beautiful.”

  “But?” she prompted.

  “I can’t deal with this,” he said, his face pained. “Since we’ve been seeing each other, you’ve nearly gotten killed twice. The way you work, your job… I can’t live that way. I’ve been losing sleep, wondering all the time if you were okay. Maybe I could get used to it, over time, but I don’t think so. There are all kinds of folks who handle it fine. Husbands and wives of cops, firefighters, soldiers. But that’s not me. I guess that makes me a coward.”

  Her anger seeped away. She understood. She thought of her own mother, wondering how Mary O’Reilly had kept herself together for twenty-five years, not knowing whether her husband would come home at the end of his shift. The relief of hearing the familiar footsteps on the stairs, the rush of joy at his safe homecoming, all the time knowing she’d have to go through it all over again the next day, and the next, and the next.

  “You’re not a coward,” she said. “It takes a special kind of faith, and not everybody’s got it. It’s okay, Luke.” And she meant it. It might have been thanks to the Madonna’s influence, but she felt serene. The pain and loneliness would come back later, when she was alone again, but for now, she could be gracious. She stepped forward, tilted her head up, and gave him a gentle, lingering kiss, for memory’s sake. He returned it. She felt his yearning, the way he moved toward her, and both of them wanted more, but she drew back.

  “You’re something else, Erin O’Reilly,” he said quietly. “I hope you find a guy who deserves you. There aren’t many out there. Thank you for finding the Madonna, and for solving the case. I wouldn’t… I didn’t want Van to get away with it.” He looked past her. “Dr. Schenk, I’m glad you could make it. How are you feeling?”

  “I live,” the German said tersely.

  “And congratulations, Doctor,” Luke went on.

  “For what?” Schenk asked, suddenly suspicious.

  Luke blinked, puzzled. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Didn’t they tell you?”

  “Tell him what?” Erin demanded.

  “They’re still working on the samples,” Luke said. “And the DNA testing takes a while, but the initial blood tests are pretty conclusive. The Association of Art Museum Directors has a set of guidelines for the recovery of Nazi treasure. Their main goal is to restore stolen paintings to their rightful owners. There’s some controversy regarding their methodology, but they tend to give the benefit of the doubt to claimants. Dr. Schenk, your uncle… does he have any other living kin?”

  “Of his family, I am the last,” Schenk said. “Hitler did away with most of us, and the rest have since dwindled.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Luke said. “The blood that was on the painting… the lab techs have matched it.”

  “Ja, it is my blood,” Schenk said. “I was shot.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Luke said. “The two blood samples matched each other. They’ve proved the relationship between the two of you. That means the painting is yours.”

  Schenk sat perfectly still as it hit him. “Mein Gott,” he murmured. “Can it be?”

  “You’ll have to wait for them to finish the tests,” Luke said. “But they’re convinced. Then you just need to file a claim. It may take a while. There’ll probably be legal challenges. This is America, after all, Land of Lawsuits. But she’ll be yours in the end. Congratulations. You’re a millionaire.”

  “Nein,” Schenk said, and there were tears in his eyes. “I will not sell her. What do you take me for? It would be like selling my grandmother.”

  “So what will you do?” Erin asked.

  Schenk looked at her. “I will let her rest in the city of the woman who saved her,” he said. “As so many of my people did, she has come to America. Here let her remain, one more orphan of that terrible time. She has been hidden from the world long enough.”

  “There’s going to be some pissed-off—I mean, some irritated guys out there,” Erin said, pointing a thumb toward the gathered throng of art collectors.

  “The vultures?” Luke said, laughing suddenly. “Look on the bright side. They may hate you, but the reporters are going to love this.”

  “Reporters, ha!” Schenk said. Then he choked. He clapped a hand to his mouth and was wracked with a fit of coughing. When his hand came away, there were flecks of blood on his palm.

  “No more,” Luisa said with that air of authority that experienced nurses use to order even doctors around. “We go back to the hospital now.”

  “We have to go,” Erin said. “Take care of yourself, Luke.”

  “You too, Erin,” he said, giving her a wistful smile. “I’m… sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she said, mustering up a smile of her own. “You’re going to find some nice girl in a nice, safe job and make her very happy.”

  Chapter 23

  Erin’s warm serenity lasted until she dropped Schenk and Luisa at the hospital. Alone in her car, she sat in the parking lot for several minutes. When she finally turned the key and the engine started, she responded to the roar of the motor by crashing her fist down on the dashboard. It hurt, but she did it again. Schenk got the painting, Lyons and Spinelli closed their case. What did she get? An ex-boyfriend, a Board of Inquiry, and the very real possibility that she might lose her job and her dog.

  She knew it wasn’t a good idea to drive angry, but she didn’t care. She took out some of her frustration by making hard turns, honking at slow drivers, and stomping the pedals harder than necessary. Still, she made it home without causing any accidents, so it could’ve been worse.

  Erin stormed into her apartment, slamming the door savagely shut behind her. Then she saw Rolf, standing beside the coat closet, tail wagging anxiously. He sensed her foul mood and approached carefully, keeping his head low, tail still sweeping side to side.

  Her fit of temper passed, leaving nothing but weariness behind. She kicked off her shoes, stumbled across the room to her love seat, and sprawled out on it. Rolf followed. He watched her for a few moments. Then he picked up one of his chew-toys, returned to her side, and carefully laid it in her lap. He rested his chin on her knee and gave her a deep, brown-eyed stare.

  Erin smiled sadly at him. “Thanks, partner,” she said. She halfheartedly tossed the toy across the room. Rolf bounded after it, retrieved it, and laid it back on her lap, tail wagging more enthusiastic
ally. They played for a while, and Erin found that her K-9’s mood helped lift her own. Eventually, her head cleared enough that she was able to go to bed. She didn’t bother to set an alarm. What was the point?

  * * *

  The buzz of her phone woke her. Disoriented, she fumbled for it, seeing the name MURPHY on her caller ID. Wondering what her Lieutenant could possibly want, not yet awake enough to recognize the possibilities; she hit the green answer button just before it could roll to voicemail.

  “What is it, Murph?” she asked.

  “Oh, good,” Murphy replied. “I thought maybe you were dead. Did I wake you?”

  “What if you did? I’m on vacation.”

  “Suspension, O’Reilly. Not vacation. That means I can call you back in. Get dressed and get over here ASAP. Be as presentable as you can.”

  Now Erin was fully awake, and scared. “Is it the Board?” she asked. “I thought they’d send me a letter or something.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” Murphy said. “We’ve got a guy coming down from Manhattan, a big-shot police captain, wants to see you. Now stop talking and start moving. He’ll be here at ten.” Her phone beeped and the call ended.

  It was just after nine thirty. Erin hardly ever slept in so late. Scolding herself for going soft, she tossed her phone aside and scrambled to find clean clothes that would be suitable for meeting—with whom? A police captain from downtown? What could he possibly want with her? She decided on black slacks and a blue blouse with conservative lines. She ran Rolf out to relieve himself, considered leaving him behind, and said aloud, “The hell with that.” He was her partner. They’d face the music together. On a stomach full of nothing but butterflies, avoiding the stares from her fellow officers, she strode into the precinct with much more confidence than she felt.

  Murphy was waiting for her in his office with another man. The guy was tall, a clean six-two, and thin. He wore an old-style suit, a Colt Police Special on his hip, and a truly glorious mustache that reminded Erin of Sam Elliott in the movie Tombstone. He had a full head of black hair, going gray around the edges. He looked like nothing so much as a Wild West Marshal come to visit the 21st Century.

  “Officer O’Reilly?” the stranger said.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, standing to attention. Rolf mimicked her, sitting straight-backed at her side, ears perked forward.

  He smiled. “At ease,” he said, extending his hand. “Fenton Holliday. I’m Captain of Precinct 8 up in Manhattan.”

  She gave him the firmest handshake she could muster. “Good to meet you, Captain. What can I do for you?”

  “I understand you’re on suspension,” Holliday said, “facing a Board of Inquiry regarding interference in an ongoing investigation?”

  “That’s right, sir,” Erin said. She’d been staring straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, but now she glanced into his face. What she saw there surprised her. There was a twinkle in his eye, as if the two of them were sharing a private joke. But if that was the case, the joke was on her. She didn’t know where he was going with this.

  “You can stop worrying,” Holliday said. “The Board has decided not to pursue the matter.”

  “Really?” Erin exclaimed.

  Holliday raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’d rather they continue.”

  “That’s okay,” she said quickly. “I just—I don’t get it, sir.”

  “There are two kinds of official inquiries,” the captain said. “The kind that stem from gross misconduct, and the kind that are motivated by personal animosity. Would you care to guess which yours was?”

  “I think maybe I can,” Erin said.

  “The Internal Affairs commander in my precinct brought your case to my attention,” Holliday continued. “He’s not the easiest man to get along with, but he has an eye for good police. You’ve shown initiative, insight, and the guts to see the job through to the end. He suggested you might be more useful in some other capacity than departmental scapegoat. I happen to agree.”

  “So where does that leave me?” she asked, bewildered.

  “That’s up to you,” he said. “You can stay here, doing what you’ve been doing, and keep doing it well. I’ve looked over your file. You’re a good patrol cop. You’ll probably make sergeant in a year or two. You can put in your twenty, or twenty-five, and retire with your pension.”

  “Or?”

  “Or you can come to Manhattan and work for me,” Holliday said.

  “Doing what?”

  “I’ve been asked by the Commissioner’s office to set up an auxiliary Major Crimes unit. Manhattan Major Crimes is a little overworked, and they’re setting up some new squads. There’s an opening, if you’re interested. It’ll be tough, interesting work. Detective Bureau cases.”

  “Don’t you want detectives for that sort of thing?” she asked.

  “Like your friend Spinelli?” Holliday said, raising his eyebrow again. “Lieutenant Webb would be your new CO, and he’s a detective, but the rest of the squad came from ESU and Internal Affairs. Someone from Patrol will round it out nicely.”

  “What about my current partner?”

  Holliday blinked. Then he smiled under his mustache. “I’m sorry; I misspoke when I said there was an opening. There are two openings. One for you, and one for your partner, who I hear apprehended an armed suspect only a few days ago. Say the word, and you’ll both be transferred to my command in Precinct 8, as soon as we can make it happen.”

  Erin felt breathless. It seemed like a miracle. Working major cases, in the big city! Getting beyond the day-to-day grind of the patrol beat, Rolf still with her! This was her chance, her shot at doing something extraordinary. She had a dozen, a hundred doubts and fears, but none of them showed in her face or her voice as she looked Captain Holliday straight in the eye.

  “I’m honored to serve, Captain.”

  “Then congratulations, Detective O’Reilly,” Holliday said, shaking her hand again. “I’ll put the paperwork through. It’ll be a few days, so take the rest of the week to get your things in order. I’ll expect to see you in Precinct 8 on Monday. You’ll be on the second floor. Bring your gun, your shield, and your partner.”

  “I guess you’ll be needing these,” Murphy said with a grin, sliding her Glock and shield across his desk.

  “Thank you, sir!” Erin said to both of them collectively.

  * * *

  Erin’s euphoria almost overrode her conscious thoughts, but she was already starting to make plans. She’d want to find a place to live closer to her new workplace, and housing in Manhattan was a nightmare. She might have to stay where she was and ride the subway to work. She’d be assigned a different vehicle. Did Precinct 8 have Chargers in their motor pool? She liked the tough, muscular Dodge, but supposed it didn’t matter much. What would her new colleagues be like? An ESU door-kicker, a detective, and an IAB cop? What sort of unit was this?

  But before she did anything else, Erin had a phone call to make. She waited until she was in her car, away from other eyes and ears, and hit her speed dial. The phone rang twice, and then was picked up on the other end. She took a deep breath.

  “Hey, Dad? It’s me. You’ll never guess where I’m going.”

  Here’s a sneak peek from

  Book 2: Irish Car Bomb

  Coming in 2018

  The duty sergeant at the front desk raised an eyebrow. “Help you, ma’am?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for Major Crimes,” she said.

  “And you are?”

  “O’Reilly, transfer from Queens 116.”

  “Okay, sign in,” the sergeant said. “Shield?”

  She flashed her ID and signed the spiral pad.

  “Welcome to the Old Eightball, O’Reilly. You want the second floor.” He angled a thumb. “Stairs and elevator.”

  Riding the elevator to the second floor would be ridiculous. Erin took the stairs.

  She and Rolf emerged into a wide-open space. The second floor of the precinct had structural col
umns dotted throughout. The only walls were around the captain’s office, the break room, and the bathroom. She saw a handful of desks with outdated, boxy computer monitors, a whiteboard, a copy machine, a fax, and a meeting table. The table and desks were scarred and scratched. No one was in sight.

  “I guess they don’t get here early,” Erin said. She glanced into the break room. There was a coffee machine, which was good, and a pot of coffee already made up, which was even better, but the couch and coffee table were just about the most disreputable pieces of furniture she’d ever seen.

  Her police instincts nagged at her. If a pot of coffee was brewed up, then someone had beaten her here. Where was he, or she?

  Even as she thought it, she heard the sound of a faucet from the direction of the bathroom. She turned in time to see Captain Holliday come through the door, drying his hands.

  “O’Reilly,” he said. “Morning. Glad you’re here.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, stiffening her spine. “Am I early?”

  He smiled through his mustache. “Far from it, Detective. I’m sorry about this, but it looks like you’re going to have one of those first days.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “You’ll have to learn on the job,” he said. “The call from Dispatch beat you here by a quarter of an hour. When the call comes in, the cavalry rides out. You’ll have to meet your unit on site.”

  “We’ve got a case?” Her heart was suddenly pounding, her jitters forgotten with the rush of excitement that always came when she went into action.

  “Apparently a man got blown up on his way to work this morning,” the captain said dryly.

  “Blown up, sir?”

  “Car bomb,” Holliday said. “Don’t ask me, I wasn’t there. You’d best get moving. Call Dispatch. They’ll tell you where to go. When you get to the scene, ask for Lieutenant Webb.”