Broken Toy

by Tymber Dalton

  No murders.

  Hmm. It was rare that a Miami news report didn’t lead with a story of a homicide, or serious injury from a shooting or stabbing, or gang violence.

  She knew the bucolic Sarasota area was famous for retirees, a film festival, and being a former winter home to a circus. Beyond that, she’d readily admit her knowledge about this part of her adopted home state was woefully lacking.

  When she walked over to the sliding glass doors that looked out onto the patio, she realized her assumption the evening before had been correct. The condo overlooked a narrow wooded section that opened into a golf course. In the grey light of early morning, it looked peaceful.

  Then she spotted the headlights on a golf cart toodling down a path.

  At least it’ll be quiet here.

  Her condo in Kendall wasn’t in the best neighborhood in the world, but she wasn’t in the worst, either. She had a mix of neighbors, most around her age and older, including a population heavy on retirees.

  I could go for a run.

  She waffled on that point. In Miami, she didn’t jog. Not outside, at least. Not unless she was chasing down a suspect on foot.

  Which, fortunately, she didn’t have to do very often. She had a gym membership and forced herself to go three times a week despite hating every minute of it. She’d put on a little weight over the years, developing a pear shape from too much time sitting in front of a computer at her desk, but her size eighteen, five-seven frame hadn’t tipped over the edge into the unhealthy range.

  Yet.

  She could still pass the yearly physical, still meet minimum job requirements for running and everything else, even though she wasn’t in nearly as good of shape as she’d been in her early army days.

  It’d be better to scope the area out first. No sense getting herself in trouble hitting a bad neighborhood by accident.

  You should fire up your work laptop and check your e-mail. You should be working.

  That mental nagging bore too many hints of Maria’s tone. Gabe shoved it away.

  For now.

  She knew it would come back at some point.

  It always did.

  * * * *

  After three cups of coffee, reading her online newspapers, and eating yogurt and a banana for breakfast, she opted to take a walk around the complex. With a loose, unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt over her tank top and shorts, which helped conceal the holster holding the .380 along the back of her waist, she got her bearings and explored. The pool and hot tub area were nice, clean, and well maintained, like the rest of the complex. She found the mailboxes and for the hell of it decided to check the one for her unit.

  Nothing.

  Still, it was nice to know where it was. She rarely received any mail anyway. All her bills were handled electronically, and the few people who wanted to get in touch with her outside of work either did so via e-mail or called her.

  Well, except for one cousin, Jennifer. They’d connected via Facebook while Gabe was in college after the army. She was one of only twenty-seven friends Gabe had on the social networking site. They had an understanding that Jennifer never mentioned her grandmother’s sister—Gabe’s grandmother Maria—or revealed to anyone else Gabe’s mailing address.

  At least I have one person in the world besides my boss who might miss me if I drop off the planet.

  Not that she felt sorry for herself over it. She’d learned to eschew self-pity in her childhood.

  Maria had done an excellent job of beating that out of her as well.

  * * * *

  After returning to the condo, Gabe was deciding on her next action when Walker called her on her personal cell. “So? Do you like it?”

  “Yes, it’s nice. Who’s the photographer?”

  “Huh?”

  “On the walls in the living room. Who took the pictures?”

  “Uh, me. Why?”

  “You have prints matching the ones in your office. I figured it was probably you or your wife. They’re very nice. I like them.”

  “Excellent, Sherlock. And thank you. It still doesn’t get you off the hook.”

  “Look, I’m here. I’ll stay out of the office for twenty-one days. I said I would.” Having a little time to reflect upon her actions, she did feel badly that she’d acted unprofessional and put the case, as well as other cases, at risk. “I’m taking time off.”

  She also couldn’t deny she’d felt more than a little satisfaction watching the rivulet of blood drip down Martinez’s face.

  “I think I actually believe you, Gabe.”

  “Is there a reason for this call other than wanting to gloat and bust my balls?”

  Walker’s tone turned serious. “I’m not gloating, and I’m not busting your balls. You have to trust me. You’ve worked for me long enough to know I don’t usually give ultimatums like this.”

  He was right. “I know,” she mumbled.

  “So please trust me when I say this was the only recourse. I also want you to understand the level of trust I have in you that I sent you there in the first place. You are probably the only person I would have handed the keys and alarm code to like that.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “Damn well should be.” He laughed. “And yes, I saw you took files and your laptop. No, I’m not sadistic enough to forbid you to do any work outside of the office. I know that would be stretching the limits of your sanity.” His tone turned solicitous again. “I’m simply asking while you’re gone that you please strike a healthy balance. All right?”

  She felt a little of the weight roll off her shoulders. Yes, she should have known he would have paid attention to that. That he hadn’t said anything the day before surprised her and had made her wonder if he was slipping. “Thank you. I will.”

  “Good. Now go have fun. I’ll e-mail you some great local restaurants in a little bit.”

  “Thanks.” She hung up the phone and stared at her work and personal laptops sitting side by side on the eat-in counter. She was itching to get back to work, to run down information on some of her active investigations.

  If Walker can make concessions, so can I. She decided she’d like to take a drive through the downtown area. And now that she knew what the condo had in the way of kitchen equipment, she did need to go shopping.

  She headed for the bathroom to grab a shower and make her mental lists.

  * * * *

  She opted for a little cruising first, driving to the downtown area and getting her bearings. She wouldn’t call it sightseeing, it was more reconnoitering. She now had an idea of neighborhoods to avoid, where the condo was in relation to those areas, and the relative safety of the area she was in.

  Fortunately, she didn’t spot any bars on windows of houses in the neighborhoods surrounding the condo complex. In fact, it looked like a gated community of upscale homes surrounded the golf course. Well-manicured lawns and expensive cars were the norm.

  It all put her twelve-year-old Honda to shame, but she refused to think about trading in the car despite being able to afford something newer and better. It still ran great, was cosmetically in decent shape, and had been paid off years earlier.

  It would be wasteful to buy a new car when hers was perfectly fine.

  She didn’t fail to recognize the irony that some of her condo neighbors might be a little suspicious of her because of her car, and yet she was law enforcement.

  It was well after noon when she returned home with groceries, several bags of the fiber stuffing she used to fill her amigurumis, and a bag full of yarn from a shop she stumbled across during her explorations. And Walker had e-mailed her.

  You’ll love these places. Definitely give Ballentine’s a shot. Excellent prime rib.

  She thumbed through the rest of the message. Not only had he sent restaurant recommendations, but places to go see, like Mote Marine and the Marie Selby Botanical Gardens.

  This was the most non-work-related contact she’d had with her boss in several years. She wasn’t
so emotionally dead she couldn’t recognize that he felt concerned about her and was trying make amends for sending her away in the only ways he could.

  The only ways she’d let him.

  Hey, my boss is telling me to go do “fun” stuff. Maybe it’s time I start to listen.

  Maria’s voice tried to argue, but very faintly.

  Screw it.

  She sent back a quick e-mail from her phone. Thanks, I’ll try Ballentine’s on Sunday. I don’t want to go out on a Friday or Saturday night when it’s too busy.

  She hoped that made him happy that she was trying, too.

  After putting away the groceries and making a sandwich for lunch, she forced herself to look away from the laptops. She’d left the bag of yarn on the coffee table.

  There’s something soothing.

  Even though the yarn shop had offered to ball the skeins for her with their machine, she preferred to do it by hand. She turned on the TV and, one by one, began unwinding each skein and transformed it into a ball. As she worked her way through them, she ran through the list in her mind. She had the patterns committed to memory that she made all the time. Newborn hats, mittens, and booties. Lap robes. Shawls. Adult hats, which were mostly used by the elderly since south Florida sported very few days cold enough to need a heavy coat, much less a warm hat. Fingerless gloves, also more popular with the elderly.

  She’d also packed some amigurumi patterns, little whimsical animals that were always a hit with kids, like dogs, rabbits, alligators, dolphins, and other cute designs.

  But not bears.

  Never bears.

  She had more than enough to keep her busy for a while. At least for the nearly four weeks she’d be there in Sarasota.

  If nothing else, I can get caught up on all the donation projects I want to make.

  * * * *

  As the yarn pulled through Gabe’s fingers, she eventually started ignoring the TV, which she’d tuned to the Weather Channel. Her breathing slowed, her pulse calmed, her mind drifted. She knew it was a form of meditation for her, the only kind of spirituality she felt despite Maria’s best and most painful attempts to beat her draconian version of Catholicism into Gabe.

  I’m a Yarnist. I should start my own cult. “All hail the fuzzy and the slubs, the frogged and the finished.”

  She mentally giggled at that.

  It was, in fact, how she’d gotten Lil Lobo nine years earlier. The day she’d taken charge of a terrified little girl they’d just rescued from a horrifically abusive situation as an accidental byproduct of another investigation they were conducting. One of several children, it turned out, who’d been abused by the perpetrators. Gabe had immediately scooped the girl up in her arms and carried her outside to the vehicle she’d rode to the scene in, where she had her purse.

  Inside, a just-finished alligator she’d completed while waiting several hours for the signal to make the approach for the entry. She’d sat with the little girl in the car, air-conditioner running and doors closed against the noise and disruption of the raid, and spied the green amigurumi sticking out of her purse.

  Grabbing it, she’d handed it to the child. “You look like you need an attack alligator to keep you company. I was looking for someone to give him to. He really likes to help people by protecting them. Would you like him?”

  The little girl, who turned out to be six-year-old Rachel Dunning, victim of parental abduction from a good foster home by her drug-addict parents a few weeks earlier, nodded and clutched the alligator to her.

  Gabe never wanted kids of her own, but even she didn’t understand the affinity she had with the little victims she had to deal with on a regular basis.

  She wouldn’t question it, either. It was something that made her good at her job, able to break through to kids when sometimes even trained mental health professionals couldn’t get them to open up and speak to investigators about what they’d been through.

  After safely shepherding Rachel to the hospital personally and awaiting the arrival of her frantic foster parents, Gabe had finished her official duties for the day and then went home to make another amigurumi.

  Another alligator, the only way to get her mind to zone out, to try to not think about the horrific pictures they’d found on a digital camera at the scene, of Rachel and other young children being sexually abused, the pictures being sold online.

  The next day Lisa, Rachel’s foster mom, called Gabe and said Rachel wanted to see her. When Gabe arrived at the hospital room, the little girl held a crudely wrapped blob in her hand.

  As Gabe approached the bed, Lisa whispered in Gabe’s ear, “She picked it out from the gift shop downstairs and wanted to wrap it herself. The nurses got us some tape. She insisted on doing it. I’ve never seen her so adamant about anything.”

  Rachel sat up and waved it at Gabe. “This is for you!” In her other hand, she clutched the crocheted alligator. Gabe had to force the smile to stay on her face as she tried to ignore the bruises on the girl’s cheeks and arms. She knew from the reports and evidence that the child had plenty of other injuries in places no child should ever have to endure.

  Gabe sat on the bed and took the present from the child. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She unwrapped it to find a small grey and black stuffed wolf. “I love him! What’s his name?”

  Rachel hugged Gabe. “One of my nurses said lobo is Spanish for wolf. How about Lil Lobo? Just like your name.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  Rachel made her alligator kiss the wolf on the nose. “Now I have Alex to protect me, and you have Lil Lobo to protect you.” She nodded firmly, finalizing it.

  Gabe pulled herself out of her thoughts as she finished the current skein she was balling. Rachel was now a freshman in high school, an honor student. Her foster parents had adopted her, and she was one of the handful of friends Gabe had on Facebook. Rachel still had Alex the Alligator and frequently took pictures of him with her in various places she went with her family, such as on vacation to the Grand Canyon.

  Likewise, Gabe took pictures of Lil Lobo and sent them so the two animals could continue their long-distance “friendship” over time. Unfortunately, the girl hadn’t emerged emotionally unscathed from her trauma. She dealt with issues such as cutting, and bouts of depression.

  But as they’d talked throughout the years, Gabe giving Rachel insights to her own trials during childhood, Gabe knew the girl would eventually be okay.

  She put the ball of yarn aside and started on another skein.

  Maybe I’ll make some more alligators tonight.

  Chapter Six

  Bill gave thought all the next morning to his discussion with Rob and Laura the night before.

  Why not go to the class?

  As far as he could tell, the private club was operating completely within the law. He suspected the members he’d already met through the course of the investigation would be more than willing to keep his identity a secret.

  And it was a fairly innocuous class. Basic rope bondage.

  Cart before the horse. First, he had to make it through dinner with everyone that evening. Depending on how that went, he might decide he didn’t even want to go to the club that night, much less attend next weekend’s class.

  He finished his morning workout and headed outside to mow the grass. By the time he was done with the yard work, it was nearly noon and he debated whether or not to cancel going to dinner.

  In the bedroom, he stopped in front of a picture on the wall of him and Ella at their wedding and took a deep breath.

  He knew she wouldn’t want him to be alone. They’d had this conversation early in their relationship. Just as he’d told her if he didn’t come home one night that he wanted her to move on and be happy, she’d wanted the same for him.

  Although, in all truth, he’d never expected to lose her so young, or during what was, by all accounts, supposed to be a routine operation. The agonizing four weeks she’d lain in a coma after her stroke on the operating table were some
thing he hated to think about.

  He knew she wouldn’t have wanted to stay hooked up to machines when there was no chance of her ever coming back. It had broken his heart to do it, but he wouldn’t let her body suffer when the essence of her had ceased to exist in the middle of a gallbladder surgery.

  Reaching out, he stroked the glass over the picture. “Miss you, babe. Every damn day. I hope I’m doing the right thing. I know I can’t ever replace you, and I don’t want to try. But I know you’d want me to keep moving forward.”

  Okay. I need to do it. I need to go. Resolved, he headed to the bathroom to get his shower.

  * * * *

  Bill was standing in the restaurant’s lobby twenty minutes before the agreed upon time when Rob and Laura pulled into the parking lot.

  They both greeted him with smiles and hugs. “Glad to see you didn’t back out,” Rob lightly teased.

  “Well, I almost did. I talked myself into coming.”

  Laura touched his arm. “Look, I don’t mean to be forward, but even if nothing else comes out of this, you’ll make a good bunch of friends. You saw how supportive they were for us during…last year.” She nodded. “They’re really good people. You’ll like them.”

  “To be honest, that’s sort of what I used to get myself here.” And he had. All through his shower he’d rationalized that he needed more than Dori and Papa Tom, Al and Sue, Craig, and the handful of people who took pity on him. He used to have friends, he and Ella. She had been more the social, and he hadn’t done his part after her death to keep them close once the shock and initial grief wore off. And in his job, there were plenty of days the last thing he wanted to do after work was socialize.

  He had more than enough self-awareness to recognize that was all on him.

  The hostess led them back to a far corner where several tables had been arranged together. “We’re regulars,” Laura said. “We call them every week to give them a head count and they prepare for us.”

  “Ah. Where do you want me?”