Mercy Street

by Mariah Stewart

  “What about Mallory?” Charlie asked.

  “I’m not going to be part of this.” She shook her head. “You’re the cop, you tell the tale, you take the glory.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair,” he protested.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said firmly. “I don’t want any part of the publicity. The department has had one hell of a big day. Take the credit, look good for the hometown crew. Leave me out of it.”

  She turned to the chief and said, “I hear Cal brought the sniper down.”

  “That’s the story I got.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I thought so, too.” The chief nodded without conviction.

  “So who was this guy, this sniper? What’s his name? Where’s he from?” she asked.

  “He’s been identified as Hector Gomez. He’s originally from Florida, been up here for about a dozen or so years. Lived with the other street people down in that shelter they made under the Melrose Bridge.”

  Mallory and the chief stared at each other. Charlie had the sense they were almost reading each other’s minds.

  “The newspapers have been saying the sniper was using an assault weapon.”

  Drabyak nodded. “He was.”

  “So where did a guy who’s been living on the streets for over a decade get an assault weapon with enough firepower to have kept this city under siege for weeks? And how was it that he never actually shot anyone? What kind of a sniper ties up a town like that, but never hits a target?”

  “Been asking myself the same question,” the chief replied.

  “I’m guessing he had military training, though, right?”

  “None that I’ve heard about.” Drabyak shook his head slowly. “We found a brother in Miami who tells us as far as he knows, Hector’s never even owned a handgun.”

  “Curious.” Mallory nodded. “But how lucky for the city of Conroy that Patrolman Whitman was there to disarm him and take him out.”

  “Lucky, yes.” The chief raised both eyebrows. “Lucky, too, that Detective Toricelli just happened to be closing in on Gomez at the same time his good buddy Whitman was taking the shot.”

  “Well, now, wasn’t that a coincidence?” Mallory said flatly.

  “Wasn’t it, though?”

  “How do you suppose that coincidence came about?”

  “I’m still waiting for a plausible explanation.” The chief turned and pointed to the news van that was just pulling up the drive. “I’m going to try to head them off for now. Why don’t you take off while you can? Charlie, I’ll see you a little before six in the mayor’s press room. Second floor, city hall. Mal, we’ll be in touch.”

  “I saw you speaking with the Bauers,” Charlie said after Drabyak walked away. “How are they holding up?”

  “Great. Terrific.” Mallory smiled. “When you think about what could have happened out here…when you consider how this could have ended…”

  “It ended just right.” He took her hand. “It ended the way it’s supposed to.”

  He tugged on her hand. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  On the way, they listened to the news station on the radio, where the afternoon talk show was all abuzz about the capture of the sniper. The story of the missing teens being found hadn’t yet hit, though Charlie knew it was only a matter of time. He wasn’t happy that the part Mallory played was going to be shoved under the table as much as possible. It bothered him a lot more than it seemed to bother her.

  “Go get handsome for the cameras,” Mallory told him when he pulled up in front of her house. “And call your mother. Let her know you’re a hero.”

  “You’re the hero.”

  “Bullshit. Take the credit for the department, if not for yourself. Make Joe look good, make yourself look good. Maybe the mayor will free up some funds so that Joe can finally buy another squad car or two.” She smiled. “It’s all politics, you know that. So take the commendation for your file and move on to the next case.”

  Charlie nodded. He understood what she was saying even if he didn’t totally agree with it. She gave him a quick kiss on the chin and got out of the car. He watched her walk away thinking he’d rather be following her inside than going to city hall.

  Mallory lifted the mail from the box and glanced through it briefly, noting that the second piece in the pile bore the county’s seal.

  Hopefully, my license. About time.

  She ripped open the envelope and studied the license with satisfaction. Not that she’d need the license again, but at least now she could bill Robert Magellan for her hours.

  She tucked the mail under her arm while she unlocked the front door and closed it behind her. She went directly to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and studied the contents. She hadn’t eaten all day and was starving, but she hadn’t been food shopping in a while so there wasn’t much there. She opened a can of Diet Pepsi and drank from it, leaning back against the counter. She was hot and tired and hungry and just a little annoyed that she wasn’t still with the department to take part in that press conference. As much as she’d denied it, it rankled just a little to step into the background. She knew it was strictly her ego at work, but she’d have loved a commendation in her personnel file for bringing in someone like Regina Girard.

  Of course, she no longer had an active personnel file, and after today she wouldn’t have a job, either.

  She looked in the pantry for something she could fix, but all she had was soup and some Shredded Wheat. It was too hot out for the soup, and the cereal was past its prime. She drank a little more of the soda and thought about calling for a pizza. She thought she’d seen a flyer advertising a new place downtown, and she sorted through the stack of mail in search of it.

  A plain white envelope slipped from the pile and fell to the floor as if pushed by an unseen finger. It was addressed to her in neat handwriting and had no return address. The postmark was someplace in New Jersey called Elm Hill. Curious, she slit open the back with a fingernail, and took out the single sheet of paper. She read with increasing confusion:

  Dear Mallory,

  I don’t really know how to start this letter—I’ve already thrown away about thirty tries—so I decided I should just say what I have to say right up front. I know you’ve never heard of me, but I think we might be sisters. Well, half sisters anyway. Guess that got your attention, huh?

  You are probably wondering how I found you—it’s a story I’d like to share with you. But you’re going to have to contact me if you want to know. I’m afraid you won’t get in touch without that incentive, so I’m going to leave it at that, and hope you follow through. I pray you do. If you’re at all curious, well, it’s in your hands.

  Sincerely,

  Callen MacKenzie

  1305 Campbell Road

  Elm Hill, NJ

  609-555-1793

  Mallory read the letter over and over, as if she thought perhaps the contents might change with enough readings. But the message remained the same.

  But was it true?

  It couldn’t be true. Maybe it was some of her former coworkers, harassing her again.

  She’d find that easy enough to believe, except for one thing. Callen was her maternal grandmother’s maiden name, and no one—no one outside of her aunt Jess’s immediate family—would know that.

  So who was Callen MacKenzie, and how had she found out about Mallory?

  Mallory was still sitting on the sofa in the living room asking herself that question when the doorbell rang.

  She looked through the front window and was surprised to see that not only was it almost dark, but Charlie was on her top step holding a large white bag. She unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Nice showing at the press conference,” she said with a smile. “Good job, Detective Wanamaker. I’ll bet your mama was proud.”

  He grunted noncommitedly, then held up the bag. “I’m guessing you didn’t eat.”

  He walked past her and straight into the kitchen.


  “And even if you did, you can watch me eat. I’m starving, how ’bout you?”

  “Starving,” she said, following him. Whatever was in the bag smelled incredible.

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I picked up…Could you get a couple of plates? I wasn’t kidding when I said I was starving. Forks would be nice, too, though I don’t have a problem using my hands if I have to. Don’t know if you have any thoughts on that one way or the other.” He lifted several plastic containers from the bag. “Anyway, we have one meat loaf with a baked potato and green beans, and one roast chicken with mashed and…I think carrots in that one.” He dipped into the bag again. “Salads…got a selection of dressings here because, like I said, I don’t know what you like. Three different desserts—we have a chocolate cake, a lemon meringue pie, and some sort of fruit tart, because—”

  “—because you don’t know what I like,” she finished offhandedly.

  “I want to know, Mal.” He put the containers on the table and turned to her, his eyes solemn. “I want to know whether you like your potatoes baked or mashed. And whether you prefer lemon to chocolate. Cake or pie. Ranch, Italian, or vinaigrette. I want to know those things about you. I want to take it day by day, and learn as we go.”

  Despite her best efforts not to, she began to cry, the tears rolling down her face in fat drops. He gathered her into his arms and held her as if he understood, even if she wasn’t sure she did, where the tears came from.

  When she’d cried it out, she wiped her face with her hands and said, “Wow. Sorry. You come here to bring me dinner and you get flooded out for your efforts. Sorry. It’s just that…”

  She struggled with her words.

  “Take your time,” he said softly. “We have all night.”

  “Don’t you have to get home…?”

  “My mother took herself to rehab a day early. Well, her friend took her, they went together. She left me a note.”

  “She didn’t get to see you on TV. She’d have been so proud.”

  “I’m more proud of her. Hers is the bigger accomplishment. I had help. She didn’t.”

  He reached up and pulled something from her hair.

  “Straw.” He held it up for her inspection. “I think I see a little more there.”

  “I’m not surprised, crawling around barns, falling face-first in the henhouse, who knows what’s in my hair. I haven’t had a shower yet.”

  “Hmmmm. Neither have I.” He nuzzled the side of her face. “And the way I see it, you owe me one.”

  Mallory laughed and took him by the hand. “You’re right. And it’s the least I can do.”

  She led him through the living room and up the steps to the second floor. Later, she would try, but could not remember who took off whose clothes, or how warm the water was, or who soaped who first. He’d murmured something in her ear, but she couldn’t remember the words. All she recalled was that moment when he’d lifted her and leaned her back against the cool tile wall. She’d stared into his eyes, watched them go from dark blue to smoky, and she was lost. His mouth had been hot on hers, on the skin of her neck, her breasts, and an urgency swept through her that had left her weak. She’d wrapped her legs around his hips, seeking completion, aching desperately to take him inside, then reached up and wound her arms around his neck, and held on for the ride.

  TWENTY-SIX

  A phone was ringing somewhere, but Mallory couldn’t place the sound.

  “That’s mine,” Charlie mumbled from the other side of the bed.

  His hand reached out from under the sheet and groped clumsily on the bedside table.

  “Hello,” he said. “Yeah. Sure. Be there in twenty minutes.”

  Mallory rolled onto her side and raised herself on one elbow. “You can’t get anywhere from here in twenty minutes. Unless you’re planning to go as you are.”

  “It’s still my first week on the job,” he told her as he turned to her. “I think I need to behave myself for the first month or so.”

  He leaned down and kissed her mouth. “That was Drabyak. He wants to see me before the shift begins.” He glanced at the clock. “Which is in less than thirty minutes.”

  “You better get moving, then. Traffic into the city is tough this time of the morning.”

  He disappeared into the hall, and several minutes later returned wearing his slacks and buttoning up the front of his shirt. He finished dressing, then leaned over to kiss her again.

  “Did Joe give you any idea of what he wanted to talk to you about?”

  “None. Just said it was important.”

  “I’m sure it is for him to call you in on a Saturday morning.”

  He took his watch from the table next to the bed and strapped it on, then leaned over and kissed her good-bye. “I’ll call you later.”

  She sat up and listened to his footfalls on the stairs, heard the front door open and close quietly. Then she lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling, and remembered that she hadn’t told him about the letter from Callen MacKenzie.

  She got out of bed and went downstairs for coffee, picking the letter up as she passed through the living room. She read it again while she measured coffee into a paper filter and poured water into the top of the coffeemaker, and wondered if Callen MacKenzie had grown up feeling as lost as she herself had. There had never been a day in her childhood when she’d felt as if she belonged anywhere, to anyone. Had Callen felt that way, too? Who had their mother passed Callen off to? Or had she kept her?

  “Connie Theresa Russo.” Mallory spoke her mother’s name aloud for the first time in a very long time.

  The coffeemaker beeped to let her know it had done its job. She poured herself a cup, then poked in the open bags that were left on the kitchen table and found the fruit tart untouched. She got a fork from the drawer and was just about to dig in when the phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “When I get back there, I expect that tart to be right where we left it,” Charlie said.

  She laughed. “Are you looking through the window?” She walked to the back door and peered out, expecting to see him through the glass.

  “No, I just figured you for a dessert-in-the-morning kind of gal.”

  “You figured right.” She gazed at it longingly. “I’m standing here with fork in hand.”

  “I’ll bring you another one tonight.” He paused. “Pecan or apple?”

  “Another apple,” she told him. “It’s my favorite.”

  “Apple it is,” he said, then added, “It’s my favorite, too.”

  She hung up and polished off the tart, standing with her back against the counter and staring out the window, pushed Connie Russo back into that dark corner where she kept the name, and turned her attention to the now. How she would spend her day? There was the book she was working on, she reminded herself, but working on it wasn’t the same as working a case. She envied Charlie, having someplace to go, a new case to dive into. She hadn’t permitted herself the luxury of missing the job these past few months. Getting back into it, even for a few weeks and on a limited basis, had reminded her of all the reasons why she’d wanted to be a cop in the first place.

  She was just about to open the back door for a breath of fresh air when the phone rang again.

  “Mallory, it’s Susanna Jones. Congratulations. We saw the news this morning. Well done.”

  “Thank you. I’m just glad things turned out the way they did.”

  “We’d like to settle up with you. Is there a time that’s convenient for you to drive out to the house to pick up a check?”

  “My license finally arrived, so yes, I can drive out today. I’ll need some time to get my hours together. When my house was broken into, my laptop was stolen along with some of my notes.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to re-create a reasonable time line. Is two o’clock all right?”

  “I should be able to make it by two.”

  “We’ll see you then.”

  Mallory
took her coffee out back and sat on one of the plastic chairs. It wobbled slightly when she sat, and she thought maybe this year might be the year to buy a few real chairs. Maybe a small table with a glass top where she and Charlie could have dinner sometime.

  Assuming Charlie was still around.

  She pondered that possibility for a while before admitting to herself that there was a good chance he might stick. The realization that she wanted him to didn’t surprise her as much as she once thought such feelings might. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt that connected to anyone.

  “Like the man said, day by day,” she said aloud, and went back into the house to prepare her time sheets.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Robert Magellan stood in his kitchen and eyed the fresh-from-the-oven scones.

  “Strawberries and pecans, I think,” he murmured as he reached for one.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Trula warned. “Those are for Father Kevin and Mrs. Corcoran. You can have an English muffin.”

  “How does Kevin rate fresh scones and I get a dried-up English muffin?” Robert protested. “It’s the priest thing, isn’t it? You figure, the better you feed him, the harder he’ll be praying for you.”

  “I don’t have to bribe Kevin to pray for me,” she sniffed. “And I made scones for you last week.”

  “That was then, this is now.” He stared longingly at the baking rack.

  “You’ll have one later, when our company arrives.”

  “Only one?” He frowned. “And since when is Kevin company?”

  “He isn’t. Mary Corcoran is.” She shooed him away from the counter.

  “Remind me again why she’s coming.”

  “She wants to thank you for saving her grandson’s life.”

  “I didn’t save him. I was playing golf when he was saved.”

  “You hired the woman who found him. Same thing.”

  “It’s not the same thing. And she could just as easily thank Kevin for both of us. It was his idea to hire the detective, not mine. And she already thanked me on the phone. Three times, last night.”