LOVER UNDER COVER

by Justine Davis

It came out so tight, so hoarse it startled him. It seemed to surprise her, as well, because she started to speak, then stopped, as if reconsidering a sharp retort. It was a moment before she did speak. Softly.

  "Have you ever heard the phrase self-fulfilling prophecy, Quisto?"

  He hesitated, afraid of not having his voice under control, then finally risked a simple "Of course."

  "If the world thinks you're rotten, you might as well be rotten, since you're going to get blamed for it anyway. And if these kids know I don't trust them, then there is a proven tendency for them to live up to that distrust."

  "Theories are fine, when you're a psychologist in an ivory tower somewhere," Quisto said, his voice steadier now, as anger at her disregard for her own safety began to build again. "But you're down here, in the gutter, where kids like Eddie get murdered just to make a point."

  Caitlin paled, but she didn't waver. "That was the Pack, not my kids."

  "Where do you think the Pack comes from? Those kids you're so devoted to are the minor leagues, Caitlin. The Pack's own personal training ground. And those that survive, the ones that are tough enough and nasty enough to live through it, make it to the Pack as adults."

  She leaned forward. "Don't you see? That's what I'm trying to stop. My kids are still young. If I can just show them another way…"

  "I'll grant you that some of them may be salvageable. Some of the really young ones. But—"

  "I know they are, Quisto," she exclaimed. "Why, do you know, eight months ago Pedro, the boy whose paper I looked at, could barely read?" She gestured toward the stack of books on the table behind her. "And now he's read every one of those books I brought in for him. When everyone else was out in the big room, he hid back here and read, like a starving person who's eating for the first time in days. From Huckleberry Finn to Don Quixote, he read them all."

  Her enthusiasm, the pure joy in her eyes, was infectious. If she'd chosen to be a revolutionary, she could have inspired fighting in the streets. And perhaps she had done just that, he thought. But that joy, that light in her eyes, only made him even more vividly aware of what she was risking. He chose his words carefully, speaking as gently as he could, still battling that image of her lying dead on this very floor.

  "All I'm asking is that you be a little more careful about your own safety, Caitlin. Any kid who lives around here is going to understand you locking the doors at night. They're not fools."

  "Neither am I. I know better than to think a locked door is going to stop someone who really wants in."

  He drew back a little. She'd surprised him again with that sound judgment. She was such a strange mix of naiveté and wisdom, he never quite knew what to expect from her. She seemed to recognize his quandary, and pressed her point.

  "Besides, I don't know that what little I'd gain in security would be worth what I might lose in trust. The kids might see locking the door now, after nearly a year of not doing it, as a sign that I'm giving up on them."

  Exasperation was growing, along with his anger, both fueled by his fear for her. "Don't make this a symbolic thing you end up dying for."

  "My kids would never hurt me. They're—"

  "Thieves," he said, his voice turning cold in the face of her stubborn faith. "Burglars. Oh, and a purse snatcher who specializes in taking off little old ladies the day they get their social security checks."

  Caitlin stared at him. "What?"

  He yanked some folded sheets of paper out of his back pocket. He shouldn't be showing them to a civilian, but he couldn't think of any other way to convince her. Besides, Gage had put the bulletin out, and he didn't think he would really mind. In fact, he was a little surprised the Trinity West detective hadn't done it himself.

  He opened the stapled pages to the photographs, and held them out to her. Beneath each stark but clearly recognizable photograph was a list of offenses, most starting with petty theft, then escalating, one of them as far as assault with a deadly weapon on a shopkeeper who had had the nerve to ask for ID when the boy tried to purchase alcohol.

  "Six of Marina Heights' finest problem children," he said. "Real high on Trinity West's list of kids to be watched. And three of them were in here last night."

  She stared at the pages for a long, silent moment. Then, in a hollow voice, she said, "You weren't supposed to be a cop last night."

  "I wasn't, Caitlin. If I had been, if I hadn't promised you, I would have nabbed ol' Frank there. He's got an outstanding warrant for burglary. Broke into his own grandmother's house and stole her heirloom silverware." He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. "So if you think you're safe because a lot of these kids like you, think again."

  With slow, painfully precise movements, she refolded the documents. She handed them back to him without looking at him. She got to her feet, wrapped her arms around herself and walked a few feet toward the back of the office, as if she couldn't stand to be close to him.

  "What did you hope to accomplish with that?" she asked, in that same hollow-sounding voice.

  "I hoped," he said, "that you'd listen. That you'd be more careful. That you'd see some of these kids for who and what they are, and not wind up dead because you persist in wearing rose-colored glasses."

  She turned and looked at him then, and what he saw in her eyes made his stomach knot. Pain, sadness and awareness combined there to give her a look of somber wisdom far beyond her years. He'd meant to shock her into realizing the truth; he'd never meant to utterly tear down her defenses. She kept walking, then turned and sank down on the couch.

  "I know they're not angels," she said once more. "I've always known that. And I never expected them to magically become angels just because I'm trying to help."

  "Caitlin," he began, remorse welling up inside him, making him wish he'd never done this to her. She kept on, as if he hadn't spoken at all.

  "All I can ask of them is that they behave here, on my terms. And pray that some of them see the good side of … playing by the rules. They can't choose a better path if they don't know or believe it exists. And I'm not naive enough to believe I can make them choose a better path." She lowered her eyes, staring at her hands, which were clenched into fists on her knees. "I just want them to know there is another way."

  Quisto didn't know what to do. He felt slightly ill, as if he'd purposely destroyed something beautiful in his effort to make it fit into a mold it wasn't made for. The most he'd ever felt before, when dealing with a woman, was a slight discomfort if she refused to accept his efforts to keep things light and on the surface. But this feeling, this sickening combination of guilt and remorse, was something completely different, something he'd never encountered before. And he didn't know how to deal with it. Or the fact that he'd severely underestimated her; what he'd thought was naiveté was simply a fiercely determined optimism in the face of ugliness.

  "Caitlin…" he said softly. She didn't look up. He crossed the room, half expecting her to dodge away from him. She didn't. He sat down beside her. "Caitlin, I'm sorry. I never meant to … hurt you like this."

  She made a tiny sound he couldn't have labeled. "The truth hurts, isn't that what they say?"

  He swore inwardly. Barely realizing what he was doing, he put an arm around her shoulders. She stiffened, but then let him pull her against him. He still didn't know what to do, or say; he didn't get into emotional conversations with women. That was opening the door to a closeness he wanted no part of.

  But he couldn't deny that he badly wanted to undo some of the damage he'd done tonight.

  "You are doing good here, Caitlin. Really. It's just that … sometimes I…" He took a deep breath, searching for words. "I see so much of the bad sometimes, I forget there's just as much good."

  She moved; it was a tiny motion that could have been a shrug or merely a deep breath. He resisted pulling her more fully into his arms; he didn't think Caitlin Murphy was a woman who would respond to his more usual methods of comforting distressed females. But she seemed to be listening,
and that was more than he'd hoped for at first. And when he spoke again, he was shocked to hear himself pouring out what had brought him racing over here tonight.

  "And I've only been pushing you because I'm afraid something might happen to you if you're not more careful. I don't ever want to come over here and find you … a victim of your own trust."

  She leaned back then, looking up at him. "Is this how you … charm your ladies? Express a little sincere concern about their welfare, and then … what? Offer to protect them? To be the big, bad cop and chase away the bogeyman?"

  He winced, for once more ashamed of his reputation than laughingly amused by it. "Did I say you were too trusting?"

  "Among other things."

  "Trusting of everyone but me, it seems."

  "Maybe with good reason."

  He didn't want to know what those reasons were. He'd never worried much about what other people thought of him; he was who he was, and they could either take it or leave it. It was an attitude he'd reached long ago, when he came to terms with his life, his history, his family. But this woman made him question things he'd long taken for granted. She made him question himself, and that was something he didn't much care for.

  "Maybe," he said at last, on a long, weary exhalation. "But I wish you would believe that I really didn't mean to hurt you tonight."

  "You just meant to rub a little reality in my face."

  He sighed, closing his eyes. "Yes."

  "And now that you have?"

  His eyes snapped open. She was looking at him, whatever she was feeling for once hidden by a neutral expression.

  "I wish I hadn't," he admitted. "At least, not like this."

  "Then why did you?"

  He grimaced. "If I told you, you'd think I was loco."

  "Tell me anyway."

  He couldn't. He knew he couldn't. There was no way he could tell her about that ugly, bloody vision. And then, before he could stop himself, he was doing it. The words were coming in spite of his efforts to stop, coming in short, choppy bursts.

  "I … had this … thought about … something happening to you. About finding you … on the floor here, bleeding … dying … because you left that door open once too often… It was so damned real, I…"

  He finally managed to stop, shaking his head, wondering what the hell had gotten into him, talking like this.

  She didn't speak. Beyond a slight widening of her eyes, she didn't even react. But she leaned toward him once more and, without a word, let her head rest against his shoulder.

  And he felt as if he'd been given a medal.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  "He must have turned it over to V and I, because nobody in Detectives has it. Haven't heard a thing since the day they warned you off."

  Quisto frowned as he changed lanes, then spoke into the cellular phone again. "Can't you check with your vice guys, see if it landed on them?"

  Gage laughed. "Only if you can find them. Those guys take their superspy stuff real serious."

  "Great," Quisto muttered, squinting as another turn headed him directly into the morning sun.

  "If I hear anything— Yes, sir, that's right. Your son was given a bicycle citation for riding on the sidewalk."

  Quisto blinked, then chuckled. "Lieutenant Robards passing by?"

  "Absolutely."

  "So the gag's really on?"

  "And you might want to buy him a lock for that bike, sir."

  "That tight, huh?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Damn." Quisto eased into the left-turn pocket and came to a halt at a red light. "Listen, thanks for your help."

  "No problem. I know exactly how you feel."

  Quisto didn't know the young detective beyond their two meetings and a couple of phone calls, but he sensed the man meant exactly what he said. However young he might be, Gage Butler knew what it was like to be personally involved in a case and to have roadblocks thrown in front of you at every turn.

  "Someday you'll have to tell me why you know."

  "Someday I will. Okay, it's all clear now, Robards is headed for the can. With any luck, he'll be gone for half an hour."

  Quisto laughed. "Gage, my friend, how long have you been a cop?"

  He heard a rueful chuckle. "Don't you mean how old am I?"

  "Ah. You've been asked before."

  "Constantly."

  "So?"

  "Don't let the baby face fool you. I'm twenty-eight, buddy. And aging fast."

  Only a little younger than he was himself, Quisto thought. It must be that he was just feeling old lately. "The job will do it," he said.

  "Yeah. Listen, if I do hear anything else, I'll call you."

  "Thanks." Quisto meant it; he knew that if the other detective was caught passing on information on a case both of them had been ordered to leave alone, they'd both go down in flames. "Better take my home number, though. And my pager. I'm … taking a couple of days off."

  "Oh, really?" Gage's tone was dry. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

  "Sure it does. Because I didn't tell you that. You haven't even talked to me."

  "No, I haven't, have I? But in case I should want to, say, call you about a lateral transfer to the upper crust, give me those numbers."

  Quisto chuckled, and gave him the numbers. "Don't get yourself in a bind over this, though."

  Gage laughed. "Been there, done that. If Robards isn't mad at me, I figure I'm not doing my job."

  Quisto laughed again, really beginning to like the man. As he hung up, he wondered why Caitlin had apparently rebuffed his interest. Perhaps because of the man in that photograph on her desk. He wondered why she kept it there, instead of at home. Perhaps she had another one there.

  But most of all, he wondered who the lucky guy was.

  * * *

  "Gage won't tell me anything, either." Caitlin kept pacing her narrow office, as she'd been doing since Quisto had arrived and told her things were in limbo.

  "He can't tell you what he doesn't know. He doesn't even know who's got the case anymore."

  Caitlin turned to Quisto and gave him a baleful look. "Probably because nobody has it. They're not doing a thing, are they? They've just written Eddie off as another street kid who won't grow up to give them problems as an adult, haven't they? They're probably glad about it—"

  "Caitlin, stop. You know that's not true."

  "Do I?"

  She knew her voice was rising, but she couldn't help it. Eddie was dead, and nobody seemed to care. Nobody seemed the least bit interested. Not even Gage, and she'd thought he was different. And then she had hoped, when Quisto had seemed so shaken about Eddie's death and had even gone so far as to apologize to her when he found out she'd been right and it truly was murder, that he would take some action. But that hope had apparently been unfounded, as well.

  "So that's it? It's all over? Gage does nothing, you do nothing…"

  "I told you, I can't do anything. It's out of my—"

  "Jurisdiction. Yes, so you said. What a joke. If somebody robs a bank in Marina del Mar, do you stop chasing him at the city limits?"

  "Sure," Quisto said, sounding weary of the whole thing. "And we all hang out at doughnut shops all the time, too. And harass taxpaying citizens with traffic tickets instead of catching criminals. Or any one of a dozen other old stereotypes about cops you'd like to drag out."

  He said it in the way of a man who had heard such accusations far too many times. She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment; she'd never thought of it that way, that cops were on the receiving end of such stereotyping as much as anyone else. And it probably wasn't any more true than the assumptions people made about her kids.

  As if he'd read her thoughts, he went on, his tone more level now. "Why don't you go teach a class at Marina del Mar High next semester?"

  Caitlin frowned in puzzlement for a split second before his intent registered. "Because I don't work there," she said wryly. "Which is your point, I suppo
se."

  "Do it anyway."

  She sighed. "I'd be in big trouble. I get the point, Quisto."

  "I've been ordered off, Caitlin. So has Gage. It's up to whoever's handling it now."

  "And we don't even know who that is."

  "No. Not yet."

  She sat down on the couch, weary of pacing, weary of thinking, weary of everything. "I talked to Eddie's mother. They won't even let her … have him."

  "It's a murder case now. That means a full autopsy, and a lot of other details."

  "She's very worried. She wants to see him properly buried, but she's afraid she can't afford it."

  Quisto sat beside her, and for a moment she was deluged with memories of last night, when he'd held her so gently, when she'd sensed his genuine remorse at having so bluntly forced her to let down the resolute optimism that was her only shield against the misery she saw every day. She'd felt comforted in a way she never would have expected, and she'd begun to question her assessment of this man.

  "Does she blame me, too?" he asked.

  Her gaze shot to his face. He hadn't sounded hurt, or upset, but as if he were merely asking for routine information. But another memory, of her own emotional outburst to Rosa Salazar, castigating the then unknown Detective Romero for getting Eddie killed, rang in her mind, making her uncomfortable now that she knew he hadn't intentionally done any such thing. She looked away, staring at her hands in her lap.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I would like to go and see her, speak to her. But not if my presence is going to upset her."

  She felt even worse now, in the face of his gentlemanly concern for Eddie's grieving mother.

  "I … don't know how she feels now. She was very upset at first. And I…" She made herself look at him. "I didn't help much, I'm afraid. I was very angry at you."

  "I noticed."

  A ghost of a smile flitted across his face, and his mouth quirked at one corner. The left corner, she realized, where her slap had landed. She flushed, and looked away again.

  "I'm still sorry about that. I abhor the use of violence, and then I go and do something like that."

  "Maybe it's good that we're reminded of the power of rage and grief now and then," Quisto said softly. "It helps us understand why people sometimes do things they normally wouldn't."