by Mary McBride
* * *
The squad car, its lights flashing and its siren blipping at intersections, escorted them to the Third Precinct headquarters. Emergency vehicles and television news trucks blocked the streets around the three-story building, but the mayor's limousine was guided summarily through the tangle of vehicles and finally coasted to a stop directly in front of headquarters.
"I don't know how long we'll be here, Henry," Sam Venneman said to his driver.
"That's no problem, boss. I'll wait right here." The barrel-chested chauffeur extended a gray-gloved hand to assist Melanie from the rear of the limo. "I'm sure sorry about your husband, Miss Melanie. He was a fine man."
As she slid from the back seat, Melanie merely murmured, "Thank you, Henry," for the condolences rather than explain to the man that it was impossible for Sonny to be dead because… Because… Well, if for no other reason, then because she simply wouldn't permit it.
Sam grasped her arm and began to lead her toward the front door of the building. He used his free arm to wave away the oncoming horde of journalists with their extended microphones and Minicams.
"Can you give us a few words, Mayor?"
"Have they told you the identity of the victim yet, Sam?"
"We're hearing it was Lieutenant Sonny Randle, Mayor? Can you confirm that?"
"Melanie, can we get a quick statement? How do you feel? What have they told you?"
The mayor moved a protective arm around Melanie's shoulders and pressed relentlessly through the crowd. "No comment," he said again and again. "No comment."
It occurred to Melanie all of a sudden that this was the first time Sam Venneman had ever told members of the press to buzz off. In all the time she'd known him and worked closely with him, Sam had never refused to take advantage of any sort of emergency—no matter how gory or grim—to get his pretty face on TV screens all over the city and his pearls of wisdom printed in the newspaper.
Melanie started shaking. My God. If Sam was behaving like this, so out of character for him, then this nightmare might be real. Maybe it was true. Maybe Sonny was dead.
No. No. No. She absolutely refused to allow that thought to take up residence in her head. If she didn't think it, then it couldn't possibly be true.
Her knees were feeling liquid and loose, her heart was pounding, and she was starting to hyperventilate by the time they went through the front door of the building with the press still on their heels. Without Sam to steady her, she might have crumpled to the floor. The mayor was apparently leading her toward the elevator when Melanie caught sight of Mike Kaczinski standing in front of a rest room door.
"Wait, Sam. There's Mike," she said, pulling her escort in that direction.
As they approached Mike across the precinct's lobby, Melanie got the impression that Sonny's friend and partner was standing guard in front of the rest room door. She distinctly heard him say to someone, "This one's out of order. Sorry. You'll have to use the rest room on the second floor."
"Mike," she called as she got nearer. "Mike. Oh, my God. What's going on? Where's Sonny?"
"Melanie! I'm glad the patrolmen could find you to bring you in right away," he said, then added a quiet, "Hi, Your Honor" in acknowledgment of Sam.
"Sam brought me," she said. "Where's Sonny?" Melanie could barely control her voice. "Where is he? I want to see him right this second. Now. Sam seems to think that… I won't let him be dead, Mike. I just won't. I won't."
"Whoa. Slow down, kiddo." Mike reached out to wrap an arm around her, tugging her closer to him to whisper in her ear. "Sonny's in here. In the men's room, Mel. That's why he sent the guys in the squad car instead of coming himself. He just needed to be alone for a couple minutes."
"He's all right, then! He's alive! Oh, thank God," she cried.
"Wait just a moment," Sam said, edging closer. The three of them must have looked like a trio of conspirators. "I was informed that Sonny's Corvette was blown up in the parking lot this morning. Are you saying that's incorrect?"
"Yes, sir. It was his vehicle. Well, his former vehicle, actually. But Sonny wasn't in it. It was Patrolman Timothy Moore, but we're withholding his name pending family notification, sir."
"I see." The mayor's tense mouth relaxed a bit and his pallor seemed to diminish. His tan even appeared to improve slightly. "Well, that's good news, then. Melanie? Good news, right?"
She could only nod. Unable to cry earlier, she was now making a monumental effort to hold back tears of relief.
His Honor consulted his watch, then fiddled with his French cuffs and gold cuff links. "I'll just have a few words with the press, and then I'll get back to city hall. Can I give you a lift, Melanie?"
"No, thanks, Sam. I'm going to stick around here a little while."
"All right. I'll talk to you soon." He planted a warm kiss on the top of her head, nodded to Mike, then turned and strode toward the waiting reporters.
Melanie glanced at the small stick-figure placard behind Mike that indicated the gender of the rest room. "I'm going in," she said.
"Maybe you better wait, Melanie. I don't know if…"
"I'm going in, Mike." Her hand was already flattened on the door, pushing in.
* * *
"Sonny?"
He heard her voice-sweet and soft and full of warmth—just on the other side of the metal door of the stall where he'd been both hiding out and retching for the past fifteen minutes.
He'd witnessed his share of brutal deaths, maybe more than his share of gore and grisliness in fourteen years on the job, but the sight of young Timothy Moore's charred body sitting behind the melted steering wheel of the Corvette had rocked Sonny to his very core. That bomb had been meant for him. That should have been his body, burned beyond recognition. Jesus. Poor Moore.
Well, hell. He could breathe more easily now, knowing Melanie was safe. But she was the last person on earth he wanted to see him right now in this kind of shape, and at the same time she was the only person on earth he desperately needed to see and to hold.
"I'll be right out, babe."
Snagging some john paper, Sonny rubbed the tears from his eyes and the sweat from his face and neck. He pitched the paper into the water, kicked the flush handle with his foot, then turned to slide the bolt on the door.
Melanie was leaning against the bank of sinks. If Sonny had expected her to appear flustered or uncomfortable with being in a men's room, he quickly discovered how wrong he was. His ex-wife stood there like a pillar of calm and confidence. She looked absolutely beautiful and quite serene, except for the fact that her lips trembled slightly when she asked, "Are you okay, sweetheart?"
Now he was. Sonny cleared his throat. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just a little queasy."
He turned the water on in one of the sinks, then cupped his hands under the tap for a couple mouthfuls of cold, clean liquid to swish and spit out. When he finished, Melanie was beside him, handing him a paper towel.
"Thanks." He wiped his face, then dried his hands. Just as he was about to pull Melanie into his arms, she moved there of her own accord.
"I'm so sorry about Moore," she whispered against his chest. "But so so happy about you."
He tilted his head, pressing his cheek to the fragrant warmth of her hair. "God, that poor kid, Mel." His voice wasn't as steady as he wanted it to be. "It should have been me. Not him."
"It shouldn't have been anybody, love." Her arms tightened around his waist. "It wasn't your fault."
"I guess not… I don't know. Hell."
Sonny's throat clogged and his mouth twisted. He couldn't even speak anymore. All he could do was stand there, feeling Mel's warmth, feeling so damned guilty that he was alive, feeling so goddamned grateful it was Moore instead of him.
"I love you so much. Melanie," he said. "I need you. God, honey, I need you. I'll do whatever you want about a baby. Just let me be with you. Always."
"Always, Sonny. All I want is you. That's all. This morning, when I thought you might be dead…" Her cool
composure came apart. "All I want is you. The baby doesn't matter. Not really. Whatever happens, happens. All I want is you."
They stood there a long time, holding each other, holding on for dear life.
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
Melanie peeked around the red sandstone brick wall that enclosed the back porch of Sonny's house. She'd been ordered to stay in this protected place a safe distance from the driveway where Sonny and Mike and the guy with the bomb-sniffing German shepherd went over both the minivan and the Miata with mirrors, noses, and the proverbial fine-toothed comb.
She'd also been ordered to pack an overnight bag and informed she wouldn't be coming back to Channing Square
until Slink Kinnison was safely behind bars. Ever since they'd emerged from the men's room at the precinct, it seemed all Sonny had done was give her orders. Stay behind him. Keep her head down. Pack. Sit. Stay.
"I don't want to stay at Mike and Connie's. I want to stay with you," she called out from her little bunker. "Sonny? Did you hear me?"
"I heard you," he called back from the driveway.
Well, hearing her wasn't the same as agreeing with her, was it?
It wasn't that she minded going to Mike and Connie's so much. She just didn't want to leave Sonny. Not now, for heaven's sake. Not when they'd just truly realized how much they loved and needed each other. It was all Melanie could do to remain a hundred feet away from him right now while he checked out the vehicles.
This morning she'd thought she'd lost him forever. She never wanted to feel that way again in her life.
"How much longer?" she called.
"We're almost done."
She sighed, pulled her planner from her handbag, and slid the little pen from its leather loop. So much had changed in the past week that she didn't even know where to begin making lists. After she printed To Do at the top of the page, she just sat there, staring, tapping the pen against her teeth.
They'd have to get married again, obviously, and that meant a blood test, a license, all the details of the ceremony. Did they want a church this time instead of city hall? What about a honeymoon? That would be nice. Mmm. That would be wonderful. But where? And when? How long?
Between them, they owned two houses. Something would have to be done about that. Sell one? Rent one? Get rid of his and hers to find the perfect ours?
Every idea that came into her head seemed to beget another idea, then another. Every problem led to half a dozen more. Every question had myriad possible answers. After several minutes Melanie found herself merely doodling on the margins of the page, making dollar signs and daisy chains and figure eights rather than a neat, numbered, logical list. It wasn't that she couldn't think. And it wasn't because she had once again come under the influence of Chaos, Incorporated. It was just… Well…
It was because she didn't care!
All of a sudden it occurred to her that Sonny didn't disrupt her neat and precise little world. He merely changed its focus. The details that mattered so much when she wasn't with him became insignificant when he was part of her life. All that was important was Sonny.
God, how she loved him!
She closed her planner, then dropped it back in her bag without even bothering to replace the pen in its loop.
"All clear." His sexy, sandpapery voice sounded just above her head and his open hand appeared to help her up.
When she stood, he gazed down at her for a long moment. There was still a trace of red in his beautiful blue eyes, a worried turn to his mouth.
"Mike's going to drive the Miata," he said. "We'll keep it at his place till this all blows over. You, too, Mel. I want you to stay there until I tell you otherwise. No arguing on this one. Kinnison's liable to do anything now."
"How long do you think it will take until he's brought in?" she asked.
"Not long."
There was something so hard and unyielding in his tone that Melanie knew instantly what Sonny planned to do. This had turned personal for him. Personal, as well as lethal. He blamed himself for Timothy Moore's death, and so Sonny was going after Slink Kinnison on his own, without department approval, without backup, and probably without mercy.
She sucked in a long, slow breath, girding herself to face the inevitable.
"You're risking your job, you know," she said in a meager effort to dissuade him. "If you'd just wait until next week…"
He shook his head. "That'll be too late. I have to do this, Mel. Nobody else in the department can get to him as fast as I can."
"I know." She kissed his chin. "Just be careful, will you?"
"Always, darlin'."
"Okay. I guess we better not keep Mike waiting. I'm ready."
Sonny reached down for her bag. "Hey, it's light," he said, sounding surprised. "Where's that kitchen sink you always pack?"
"I left it in the kitchen for a change," she said, trying to sound far more cheerful than she felt.
"No kidding? You left it? No sewing kit? No seven pairs of shoes? No umbrella and overshoes just in case?" He unzipped the big canvas bag a few inches and peered inside. "Jeez, Mel, where's your pillow you absolutely, positively, cannot sleep without?"
Melanie couldn't help but laugh. It was true. She'd wrestled with that one. Leaving behind her sewing kit and umbrella had been fairly easy, though. Leaving behind her pillow that she absolutely, positively, could not sleep without had been nearly impossible. But she'd done it, by God, to prove something to herself as well as to Sonny.
"That was the old me," she said. "You're not the only one who's capable of change, you know, Lieutenant."
Sonny zipped the bag closed, then looped an arm around her shoulders and grinned. "I believe you. Way to go, Felix. I'm proud of you."
"Thank you very much."
He grinned at her for a few more appreciative seconds before he said, "Let's go."
* * *
It was Sonny who was making a mental list now as he backed the minivan out of the driveway, then followed Mike and the Miata down Kassing Avenue
and then left onto Channing and past the burned hulk of the Forresters' house.
For all of Slink Kinnison's ability to keep his drug empire intact and below the police radar, the guy was a complete screw-up when it came to exacting revenge. In his attempt to get Sonny to lay off after he'd failed to kill him two weeks ago at the meth lab bust, Slink had had the wrong house torched, and followed that by blowing up the wrong car. By Sonny's calculations, the only thing the idiot had done right so far, God damn him, was kill Lovey.
First on Sonny's list was to make certain Melanie was safely away from Channing Square
at the Kaczinski house. He knew Mike couldn't be there all the time, but Connie was a drop-dead shot with the .22 they kept locked in their bedroom closet.
Next on his list was stopping by his loft to change into one of his derelict disguises. He still had two weeks remaining on the lease, and he'd left his undercover wardrobe—greasy, ripped clothes, broken-down shoes, assorted mustaches, beards and theatrical scars—there while he decided whether or not he would wear it again or burn it or pass it on to the next department sucker willing to spend half his life on the streets.
Sonny was done with all that. If he hadn't truly acknowledged that fact before, he did now. He wasn't even all that sure he wanted to be a cop anymore. Not his kind of cop, anyway.
He stole a glance at Melanie's tense face and her clenched hands. "It's going to be fine, Mel," he said. "Don't worry. Once this is over with…"
Before he could finish the sentence, a big blue-and-white and chrome-decked car swerved in front of the minivan, forcing Sonny to turn the wheel abruptly to the right. The van jumped the curb and barely missed slamming into a parking meter. Sonny stomped on the brakes, then rammed the gearshift into Park. Meanwhile, the blue-and-white vehicle had screeched to a stop just a few yards ahead.
Sonny didn't even have to read the rear license plate to know who was behind the wheel
. The Big Man. Elijah Biggs.
"What's going on?" Melanie's voice was shaky as she eased her death grip on the dashboard.
"Wait here," he told her. "Lock up after I get out."
"But…"
"Just do it."
Once out of the van, he slammed the door and made sure it was locked before he charged toward the blue-and-white pimp mobile parked just ahead at a hazardous angle. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware that Mike had circled around in the Miata and was waiting to cut across the center line to join him. He offered a silent little prayer of thanks for a partner who religiously checked his rearview mirror.
Elijah Biggs was attempting to heave his four-hundred-pound bulk out of his car. The sun flashed on his diamond rings and gold necklaces and turned the chrome on his vehicle a blinding silver. Something else caught Sonny's attention. The sunlight glittering off a chrome-plated pistol in the pimp's big fist.
He reached for his own weapon while he crouched behind the car's trunk and shouted, "Put the gun down, Biggs."
The huge man, only half out from behind the wheel, bellowed something Sonny couldn't understand.
"I said drop it, Elijah. Put the gun down. Now."
Mike was suddenly at Sonny's shoulder, breathing hard, his weapon drawn. "What the hell's going on?"
Keeping an eye on the big man with the big chrome gun, Sonny replied, "Beats me." He shouted to the pimp again. "Put the gun down and let's talk, Elijah."
"We can talk after I kill that son of a bitch who murdered my little Lovey," Biggs wailed. His black face was glistening with sweat and his eyes were wild and wet with tears.
Sonny and Mike exchanged quick glances. "What son of a bitch?" Sonny called.
"Slink. That's who. The son of a bitch who killed my Lovey." The pimp had about three hundred pounds angled out of the car now. He was waving his gun while he screamed. "I'm gonna blow the sucker's head off."
"You know where he is?" Mike asked.
"Damned straight I know. He's in there. I just got a call from one of my girls."
Biggs gestured toward the tan brick building to the right of his car. Until that moment, Sonny hadn't paid much attention to any of the businesses that lined this block of Grant Parkway