Myra placed her hands on Aleta’s upper arms and squeezed. “You are doing good work here at St. Theresa’s.”
“I’m trying.”
“What did we say during your rehab? What was your mantra?”
Aleta attempted a smile. “That everyone deserves a second chance.”
Myra nodded. “That’s right.”
“What about Bubba?” Aleta whispered. “Is he entitled to another chance?”
Myra dropped her arms. “That murderer has run out of grace. I predict this is the end of the road for Mr. Bubba Burnett.”
“Death by cop.”
“Probably.”
Aleta nodded and stared at the floor. Maybe it’s the end of the line for me, too.
“What can I do?” Aleta shrugged and met Myra’s stare. “Pray that the cops catch Bubba the Beast before he finds me.”
“Praying never hurts, but you should take precautions.”
“What? Buy a gun?”
“That would be a wonderful idea, but I know how you feel about guns.”
“I couldn’t pull the trigger,” Aleta said.
“Even if Bubba the Beast wanted to strangle the life out of you?” Myra demanded. “Yes, you could.”
Aleta shivered at the image of Bubba as she’d last seen him, sitting next to his public defender in the courtroom. He’d bulked up even more in jail and shaved his head. He’d stared at her with so much hate, the force of his gaze had felt like a physical assault. When the prosecutor asked her to point him out in the courtroom, he’d raised his shackled hands and slid a finger across his throat and pointed back at her.
“You’re stronger than you believe, Aleta,” Myra said, jerking her back to the present. “Look how far you’ve come.”
“Thanks,” Aleta said. But Myra had no idea how physically strong Bubba was. A bullet wouldn’t stop him.
The only weapons he couldn’t take away were her brain and the education she’d worked so hard to earn. Could she talk Bubba out of killing her? Doubtful. The Bubba she’d known during her dark days had seldom listened to reason. His recent prison break didn’t indicate he’d gained any common sense.
“So what about pepper spray or a stun gun of some kind?” Myra suggested.
“I’ve carried pepper spray since the day Bubba threatened to kill me.”
“Thanks goodness.”
Aleta nodded. Fearing that someday Bubba would come for her, she’d thought all of this through years ago. If he ever got that close to her, she planned to blind him, slow him down long enough for her to make an escape.
Myra took a deep breath. “Father Mac wants you to move into the women’s shelter temporarily. He’s worried about you, and has an empty bed right now.”
“He wants me to hide?”
“Until Bubba is caught.”
“No.” Aleta shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? It would be safer. No dark walk from your car to your apartment.”
“I’d put other women in danger if he found me. Women who have already been abused by violent men.”
“I think you’re making a mistake.”
“It wouldn’t be the first. But I refuse to let Bubba destroy my life again.” Aleta smiled at Myra. “You gave my life back to me, and I’m going to live it.”
“Aleta, please.”
“He knew me by my gang name. Delilah. Maybe he won’t find me.”
“You had to give your full name when you testified.”
She’d blocked that out.
“At least promise me you’ll be careful. You need to remain aware of your surroundings at all times. Don’t go out alone at night.”
“I promise,” Aleta said. “But nothing I do will matter if he finds me.”
CHAPTER FOUR
WEARING HIS TOO-TIGHT clerical collar, Sean unlocked the gym door. He hated doing anything before his morning coffee, but the surveillance cameras were finally operating as designed, and he needed to review the previous day’s loop before the images were recorded over.
He’d check the feed again tonight and reset the system so he didn’t have to do this shit first thing in the morning. Sooner or later something would show up and he’d nab the thief, although that wouldn’t solve the parish’s more pressing gang problem. Father Mac refused to face facts, but he had something a lot more serious going on at Sunshine Center than petty theft.
And if the thefts ended because the thief knew he or she was being watched, that would be proof it was an inside job as Aleta alleged, unrelated to the gangbangers.
He smiled at the thought of Sunshine Center’s resident do-gooder, hoping he didn’t miss her in the cafeteria for breakfast. Their heated discussions about how her methods saved young people from a life of crime were entertaining, the best part of this undercover assignment.
He’d become convinced she was hiding something, something that made her nervous. He wasn’t sure what, but that was another reason to keep their conversations going.
As he stepped into the gym, he saw the overhead light in the office flick off. Sean froze. No one should be in here this early.
A noise echoed through the huge dark space.
He crouched and reached for his service weapon.
Shit. He wasn’t in uniform, didn’t have his service belt. Didn’t have the radio link on his collar to summon backup.
Another noise sounded from the office. Then a curse. In a youthful voice. Whoever was in there had tripped in the dark and fallen. Obviously an amateur.
Sean reached out and flicked on the overheard lights.
A tall figure darted out of the office and ran for the exit. Sean gave chase, recognizing him instantly.
He tackled Hot Shot before the kid made his escape.
“Get off me, man.”
“I don’t think so.”
Sean jerked Hot Shot to his feet and twisted his arm behind him in a hold so the punk couldn’t move without pain.
“What are you doing in the gym this early?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, right.”
Again wishing he had on his belt with all his police tools handy, Sean forced Hot Shot back into the office and shoved him into a chair.
The kid immediately leaped to his feet and tried to run.
Sean pushed him back. “Don’t move.”
“You can’t hold me here.” Hot Shot tried to act the macho fool, but his voice wavered, giving him away.
“You want to bet?”
Sean pulled a set of handcuffs out of his top desk drawer, snapped one end around the kid’s wrist and attached the other to Aleta’s desk.
“Hey,” Hot Shot objected, his eyes now wide and frightened.
Deciding against reciting the Miranda rights—Hot Shot was a juvie anyway and likely Father Mac wouldn’t prosecute—Sean sat in a chair, placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, getting in the kid’s space. Hot Shot was so tall he seemed too large for the chair.
“Let’s start over,” Sean said. “What were you doing in Aleta’s office?”
Hot Shot jerked at the restraint. “Nothing.”
“Try again.”
“I came to practice, Father. You know I need to practice for the tournament.”
“Funny how there are no hoops in here.” Sean glanced at Aleta’s desk. The drawers were all open. The kid had obviously gone through them.
Hot Shot followed his gaze, then refused to look at Sean. “I needed to find a ball.”
“Inside a drawer?”
“Aleta gave me permission.”
“She gave you permission to go through her desk?”
“Yeah, she did.”
“You’re not lying to me, are you, Hot Shot?”
The kid looked away.
“Let’s see
about that.” Sean removed his cell phone and punched in Aleta’s number.
“Where are you?” he demanded when she answered.
“Good morning to you, too, Father O’Malley.” Sounded like she was on speaker in her car.
“We have a situation. Meet me in the office.”
He disconnected and leveled a stare at Hot Shot. “What’s your real name?”
“Washington,” the kid mumbled.
“Washington? Like George?”
“Like Booker T.”
Sean nodded and settled back in his chair. He waited several long minutes before speaking again, allowing the kid to think about the situation he’d put himself in.
“How did you get inside?” Sean asked.
“The door was open.”
“No, it wasn’t. I unlocked it.”
“So I locked it behind me.”
“You need a key for that. Did you have a key, Washington?”
“Yeah.” Appearing deflated, the kid ducked his head.
“Give it to me.”
Hot Shot dug in his pocket with his free hand and handed over a key.
“You ever been arrested, Washington?”
“No, sir,” the kid said, his bravado diminishing by the second.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“Have you been stealing money from St. Theresa’s, Washington?”
The kid’s eyes went wide again. “No, sir. Never. I wouldn’t do that.”
“What were you searching for? Cash?”
Looking miserable, the kid shook his head.
“Do you need money?”
Washington shrugged.
“What do you need money for?”
“Let me go, Father. Please. I promise I won’t do nothing like this ever again.”
“Can’t do that, kid.”
The door to the gym burst open. Sean turned his head to see Aleta hurrying across the court floor toward the office. Breathing hard, she arrived at the threshold and focused on the handcuff attached to Hot Shot’s wrist.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
Sean held up the key given to him by the kid. “Did you give your star player a key to the gymnasium?”
“Of course not,” Aleta said, her gaze going to her desk and the rifled drawers. She brought a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”
“I caught him searching your desk,” Sean said.
Aleta entered the office and dropped her purse on the desk with a heavy thud.
“I’m sorry, Miss Porter.”
“Why would you do this, Hot Shot?”
“I need a new pair of shoes,” the kid said. “For the tournament. My momma ain’t got no money for shoes.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Aleta asked. “You know I have petty cash I could use.”
“I think that’s what he was looking for,” Sean said.
The kid shrugged, but Sean knew why he hadn’t gone to Aleta. Young men like Hot Shot were full of pride and hated to admit they needed help. Far easier to steal what they wanted than to work for it.
Aleta sat. “Where did you get the key?”
The kid looked down. “While you were at a meeting with Father Mac, I took your keys and had an extra made.”
“Oh, Hot Shot.”
Sean shook his head. Not good. The kid’s crimes were mounting up.
“I did it months ago,” Hot Shot said. “Not to steal anything. So I could get in the gym and practice by myself after hours.”
Sean sighed. “And then you got the bright idea of using the key for an even better purpose, right, kid?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he muttered.
“Not so smart,” Sean said.
“What are you going to do to me?” Hot Shot asked.
“I’m taking you to the police station to be booked.”
Aleta sucked in a breath, and then silence descended over the room.
Sean glanced at Aleta. Her face was pale, her eyes worried. Too bad she had to learn the truth about Hot Shot like this, but it couldn’t be helped. Sean shook his head. Just as he’d suspected all along, her star player was a common thief. This might even be a good thing for this kid; stop his downward spiral.
But likely not. The punk who murdered his brother had started with petty theft, had been in and out of juvie for years and should have been locked up the night he shot Patrick.
“Oh, man,” Hot Shot moaned, shaking his head in denial. “Oh, man.”
“Washington here is now my prime suspect in the rash of thefts at St. Theresa’s.”
Aleta narrowed her eyes. “Your prime suspect?”
“I swear I never stole nothing from the church, Father O’Malley,” Hot Shot protested. “I would never steal from God.”
“No, just from your coach,” Sean said.
Hot Shot ducked his head again. “Miss Porter got plenty of money.”
“Maybe so, but it’s not your money, is it? That’s the definition of stealing.”
“So you are arresting him?” Aleta demanded.
“I already did,” Sean said, shooting her another look. She stared at him, her luscious mouth open.
And then he got it. Her shock wasn’t because Hot Shot had committed a crime.
She’d just figured out he was a police officer.
* * *
ALETA’S HANDS WERE fisted so hard that fingernails dug into her palms.
O’Malley was a cop?
Of course he was. A lot of things made sense now, like why she hadn’t found anything on the internet about him. For safety reasons, most cops kept their lives private.
She didn’t know what to react to first. Fury that he had lied, hurt that Father Mac would hide the truth from her or disappointment that Hot Shot could do something so very, very stupid.
It all sucked.
She glared at O’Malley, but he didn’t look the least ashamed. She bit her lip, wanting to curse at him. She’d known he wasn’t a priest. But a cop? Oh, my God. She used to have such good radar for cops.
Unfortunately, ripping O’Malley a new one would have to wait. Father Mac must have had a good reason to hide the truth, and apparently Hot Shot hadn’t figured out that the bogus priest was a police officer. Likely because he was wearing the clerical collar. That tended to confuse people.
O’Malley released the cuff from her desk, and recuffed Hot Shot’s wrists behind his back.
Hot Shot fixed pleading eyes to hers.
She took a deep breath, hating the sight of one of her kids in restraints. No matter how pissed she was, Hot Shot had to be her priority.
It was up to her to figure out a way to save him.
“Wait,” she said. “You can’t do this.”
“Yes, I can.”
“If you process him, you’ll ruin any chance he has for an athletic scholarship.”
“He should have thought about that before he ransacked your desk.”
“I would have paid it back,” Hot Shot said. “I swear.”
O’Malley raised his brows. “How? Do you have a job, kid?”
“He sometimes does odd jobs around the parish to earn money,” Aleta said.
“So why didn’t he come to you and ask for some extra work before he broke into the gym?”
“Technically he didn’t break in if he had a key,” Aleta said.
“He stole the key.”
“Please, Father,” Hot Shot said. “I ain’t never done nothing like this before. Ask anyone.”
“That’s true,” Aleta said. “He’s never been in any trouble before now.”
“So why this time?”
“I really wanted new shoes,” Hot Shot muttered.
“Listen to me, O’Malley. Hot Shot is a good st
udent, makes good grades. He helps me out around Sunshine Center all the time, helps his momma at home. He’s a good kid. He just made a mistake, that’s all.”
“A bad mistake,” O’Malley said, shoving Hot Shot toward the door.
“Oh, man,” Hot Shot moaned again.
“Can’t you give him a break?” Aleta asked.
“Why should I?”
“It was me he was stealing from, and he didn’t get anything.”
“What if he’s been stealing the parish’s cash?”
“I can promise you he didn’t steal from the collection plate or the safe,” Aleta said. “He has no access to that part of the church.”
“He could have stolen a key to the counting room.”
“No way,” Hot Shot insisted.
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” Aleta said. She placed her hand on O’Malley’s shoulder, feeling the strength in the hard muscle beneath her palm. “Please, Sean. This one mistake could destroy a promising young man’s life.”
O’Malley finally met her gaze. Cold, vivid blue eyes stared into hers.
He flicked his gaze to Hot Shot. The boy who wanted to be a man was trying hard not to cry.
“Give him another chance,” Aleta said quietly. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Sean looked at her again, the ghost of a smile curving his lips. She held her breath. Was he wavering?
“So he’ll receive no punishment at all?” Sean demanded.
“He’ll be punished,” Aleta said, thinking fast. “He’ll have to set up and take down the bleachers for each game in the tournament. That’s hard work that you and I won’t have to do.”
“And what if he decides to never come back here?”
“He’ll be back,” Aleta said. “He lives to play b-ball in this gym. Right, Hot Shot?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “I’ll help do whatever.”
After another long hesitation, Sean nodded once and unlocked the cuffs from Hot Shot’s hands.
“Thanks,” the kid said, rubbing the skin on his wrist.
“Don’t thank me,” Sean said. “Thank Aleta.”
“You won’t regret this, Father,” Hot Shot said. “I promise.”
“Just know I’ll be watching you.”
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