Snow Angels

by Fern Michaels; Marie Bostwick; Janna McMahan; Rosalind Noonan

  Mack sighs as they venture out of range of the music. “I never did understand that song. Who’s Gloria, and what does she have to do with the birth of Jesus?”

  “Gloria’s not a person. It’s Latin for…something.” In eight years of Catholic school Joe learned the basics about the Nativity story, but Latin was beyond him.

  Fortunately the crackle of the radio interrupts: “Nine-Charlie?”

  Joe pulls the radio from his belt and clicks to speak. “This is Nine-Charlie.”

  “Nine-Charlie, respond to a ten twenty-one. Past burglary at the Shuka Market.” The dispatcher gives the address and a call-back number. Joe knows the small grocery store just a dozen blocks away. A middle-eastern market.

  Immediately Mack stops humming, the goofball expression fading from his eyes.

  It’s not a crime-in-progress; no need to rush. Still, you never know what you’re going to find out there. Anticipation thrums in Joe’s chest as they approach their patrol car.

  “You ready to roll?” Mack asks.

  Joe opens the cruiser door. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Chapter 2

  Working her way through a display of miniature sweaters that would be oh-so-cute but oh-so-impractical for PJ, Sheila Cody presses her lips together and tries to get a grip. She must restrain herself. Keep the urges at bay. Ignore the AmEx card in her jeans’ pocket, the slender, shiny plastic that would be the easy answer to this shopping dilemma.

  What can she get for the kids with twenty-three dollars and seventy-five cents? That’s all the cash she has left to buy Christmas gifts. Damn.

  The traditional Christmas Eve shopping trip with her sister is turning out to be a bust this year. There’s Jennifer a few aisles away, toting around half a dozen bags of gifts and still looking to acquire more, while Sheila has politely declined every suggestion of a purchase. Jen must realize something is wrong, but since it’s Christmas she doesn’t want to approach a sensitive subject with Sheila. As in, why don’t you get a job, Sheila? As in, why didn’t you and Joe stay in that rattrap apartment instead of pouring all your money into a house?

  Moving on from the little sweaters, Sheila pauses at an elaborate toy train set up in the children’s department to entertain children. At this early hour there’s only one sleepy preschooler running a caboose over the track while his older sister, a teen in a St. Francis Prep sweatshirt, looks on.

  “Cool train,” Sheila says, more to herself.

  The little boy looks up at her, then back at the track as Sheila takes it all in…the elaborate train station. The bridge over the lake. The miniature trees and cars and houses. PJ will love this.

  Well, he would, but he’s not getting it.

  Way too expensive, and besides, this set isn’t for sale, though she’s sure they carry it upstairs in the toy department.

  Toys. She swallows over the knot in her throat. She knows her son; if there could be only one toy under the Christmas tree, it would be a toy police car, a “peeze car,” as he calls it, just like Daddy’s. She reaches for her back pocket; feels the hard corners of the card. The toy department upstairs would have something like that.

  She turns away, takes a deep breath. No. She promised Joe. She promised herself.

  There are ten gifts for the kids to unwrap under the tree. Granted, it’s all crap from the Dollar Store, things like a statue of a skating bear, a bubble necklace, and a dry erase board for Katie. A ball, a foam sword, and some tub toys for PJ. It’s the sort of junk she won’t let them buy because it clutters the house, but faced with the prospect of a Christmas without toys, well, she went for the junk.

  She lets her breath out. Okay. It’s going to be fine. The kids are getting junk for Christmas, but it will be their junk. Junk that won’t send Joe and her to bankruptcy court. Besides, Christmas is about more than toys and merchandise, and they might as well get that across to the kids now. They’ll certainly see that when they notice there are no gifts under the tree for Mommy and Daddy. Sheila and Joe have agreed not to exchange gifts, though Sheila still feels guilty about that. Nothing for her Joe, and he works so hard all year, snapping up overtime at work and being a father to the kids whenever he’s home, getting down on the floor with PJ or helping Katie with her homework.

  A surge of emotion threatens to make her all misty-eyed. Her Joe is a good guy. Well, she’ll just have to show him how much she loves him in a different way. Something more…personal.

  With new resolve she turns from the train set and heads back to the men’s department, where she left her sister browsing. She skirts around a display of men’s cologne—man perfume, Joe calls it—and finds Jennifer trying on a silly stocking cap from an outerwear rack.

  “Isn’t this great?” Holding the braids of the cap, Jen kicks out her feet and bobs back and forth, an offbeat clog dance that makes her look like a scarecrow. Thin, tall, and blond, Jen is the polar opposite of her petite, brunette sister. At times Sheila gets peeved that Jen can eat anything and not gain weight while she has to be careful, though Joe says he’s always had a weakness for more “shapely” girls.

  “Cute,” Sheila agrees, “but it’s not you. It doesn’t go too well with your briefcase and cashmere coat.”

  “I’m not that nerdy.” Jen flicks a braid toward her. “But I was thinking of it for Ian. Lots of students at Juilliard wear these hats. It’s the new big thing. I see them all over campus.” Jen works in the admissions office at Juilliard, a great job, except that she regrets leaving her three-year-old at day care five days a week.

  “Okay.” Sheila picks up a blue and gray knit cap. It is beautifully crafted, but a little dopey, a braid dangling from each earflap and a pom-pom on the top. “But Ian is three. Has this style hit preschool yet?”

  “Don’t be silly. Ian isn’t a fashion-follower.”

  “I hope not. At three you should have the freedom to buck the OshKosh B’Gosh pressure.”

  Jen snatches a pink hat from the stack and plunks it on Sheila’s head. “Oh, it’s priceless. Don’t you love it? It’d be so adorable on Katie, don’t you think? And see how warm it is? You can get one for PJ! The kid won’t get an ear infection with a hat like this on his head.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Come on, Sheila. We’ve been here since the doors opened at seven and you’ve found something wrong with everything I find.”

  “It’s not really a necessity, and I told you, Joe and I agreed to buy just the bare necessities this Christmas.”

  “Oh my gosh, since when is a hat nonessential? Our kids need these. Think about it, Sheila. You’re going to let Katie go out in the snow without a hat? She walks to school, right? You know how the wind whistles down Fifty-third Avenue in the winter.”

  Sheila can see it: her little Katie tromping through a snowdrift, her downy hair tossed by the wind. Her little ears beet red from cold.

  And PJ. Are his chronic ear infections brought on because he doesn’t own a warm hat like this? Of course he has hats, but none of them handmade in—she checks the label—Ireland, no less. Her Irish grandmother will be so proud, but…

  Her gaze lights on the price tag. Fifty. Fifty dollars?

  She can’t afford it, even though a good, responsible parent would buy these hats for her children.

  But Sheila can’t. She’s a failure as a mother. A stay-at-home mom who can’t pull together the cash for a roast for Christmas dinner or knit caps to keep her own children warm.

  Tears sting her eyes, tears of disappointment and shame. She pulls the pink hat off and turns away before her sister can catch her crying.

  “Sheila?” When she doesn’t answer, Jen continues. “What’s wrong?”

  “We can’t afford it.” Her voice is tight, strained, and she can’t face her sister. “We have a budget.”

  “Forget about the budget; it’s Christmas.”

  “I can’t.” A sob steals Sheila’s breath away. “Everyone isn’t loaded like you.” It’s rotten to snap at Jen li
ke that, but Sheila can’t help it.

  A moment later she feels a hand on her arm; her sister is turning her around. One look at Jen’s face makes Sheila burst into tears, full force.

  “Oh, honey…” Jen pulls her into her arms.

  “I’m a terrible mother,” Sheila sobs. “I can’t afford to take care of my own kids.”

  “You take great care of them.” Jen’s voice sounds fragile, like a thin panel of glass. “I’m the bad mother, spending so much time away from Ian. I love my job but…maybe you can’t have it all. He hates me working.”

  “How do you know? He’s three, Jen.”

  “But he’s sending me a clear message. Every morning when I drop him off at day care he crawls under the teacher’s desk and yells for me not to leave him. Every morning. And it tears my heart out, but I button my coat and go. I just leave him there. Every day.” Her voice quavers. “I’m a terrible mother.”

  “Me, too,” Sheila sobs.

  And for a moment their sobs turn to laughter, then back to sobs as the two sisters hug each other and hold on tight in the men’s department of the crowded store. Two not-so-terrible mothers having a sister moment.

  Chapter 3

  Despite the reported robbery, it’s business as usual inside the Shuka, the small grocery store a few blocks from Main Street, Flushing. There is something distantly familiar and comforting to Joe about this market, something about the smell or the language spoken by the two cashiers who exchange words before one disappears to find the store’s owner in the back.

  “Smells good in here,” Mack comments, glancing at his watch. “After this, we need to grab some breakfast. I’m starved.”

  “You’re always hungry,” Joe says. It isn’t even nine A.M. and Mack wants to go on meal? Then again, something in here is making his mouth water.

  Joe spots the small meat section of the market, the huge rack of meat turning against the wall of flames. Gyro. That must be it, the savory, tangy smell. His grandfather used to take him to a Greek restaurant in Astoria. World’s best gyros, Grandpa said. His eyes scan the aisles of specialty groceries. Shiny mandarin oranges. Plump, sweating grapes. Sticky figs and dates. A glass case with bowls of smooth hummus and baba ghanoush, fat olives, wedges and wheels of cheese. A pastry section, where flaky triangles of honeyed baklava glisten.

  “Greek food?” Joe asks the clerk, an older woman with fiery red hair and gems sewn into the neckline of her black sweater.

  She shrugs. “Greek, middle-eastern. Mr. Boghosian is Armenian.” Boghosian is the owner, the complainant.

  “Do you know anything about the robbery?” Mack asks her.

  “Only what Mr. B. says. At the end of the day, he is the only one who handles the cash. Puts it in the safe or to the bank.”

  “And how long you been working here, sweetheart?” Joe asks.

  “Eleven years. His wife hired me back in the day, but she passed a few years ago. There’s another gal who’s been here longer, Lizzy, but she’s not here today. She’s at home baking for her family. Quite a baker. Lizzy does all the baking for the Shuka.” As the woman recounts her employment history at the Shuka, Joe can’t help but wonder what that shade of hair color is called. Fire ant? Flaming carrot? It sure is bright.

  They are interrupted by a graying man who shuffles over as if he cannot straighten under the huge burden on his shoulders.

  “Officers.” He nods. “Garo Boghosian.” Despite the reading glasses tipped low on his nose, the man doesn’t seem so old when Joe catches his gaze. Forty, maybe fifty. One of those guys who has aged beyond his years. “Will you come with me, please?”

  Joe and Mack follow him to the office, which is really just a desk and some files across from a kitchen area in the room behind the store. The wide butcher block counter and stoves probably hail from the sixties, but they are clean, “spic and span” as Joe’s mother likes to say. The desk is cluttered with papers, circulars, and invoices that curl under the light of a desk lamp.

  “This is what I have to show you.” Mr. B. pulls the chair away from the desk, revealing a small safe tucked into the knee area. “When I left last night, it was locked up with more than fourteen hundred dollars inside. Receipts, too. As well as some private papers, my passport and such. When I returned this morning, the money was gone. Everything else is here, but the cash, the whole bundle of it, has been stolen.”

  Mr. B. backs away as Mack squats down beside the desk and shines his flashlight into the kneehole. “No visible scratches. No sign of forced entry. And you say they left credit card receipts?”

  “They did.” Mr. B. nods. “He just went for the cash.”

  “He? You sound sure that the thief is male. Any chance it could have been one of those ladies outside? Someone on your payroll, maybe in need of a little extra cash for the holidays?”

  “Those girls?” The scowl on the old man’s face is a road map of discontent. “Impossible. For years they’ve worked for me, never took a penny. Not one cent. Ruth and Maro are like family.” The words seem to drain him of air, and he opens his mouth with a stab of pain. “No, they are better than family. More loyal.”

  “I’m no forensic expert—” Mack straightens, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully—“but I got to say, this looks like an inside job, sir. No sign of force here, and though we haven’t checked yet, I’m willing to bet no one messed with your locks or the gates in the front.”

  “Of course, it is an inside job.” Boghosian pulls the lone chair against the wall, and then sinks onto it. “My son. My own son.”

  Joe shoots a look at Mack, who nods. Here’s where things get awkward, Joe thinks. Take off the cop hat, roll out the shrink’s couch.

  “Mr. Boghosian.” Joe makes his stance wider and evens out the weight; chances are he’ll be here a while. “Are you telling us you think you were robbed by your son?”

  “Ayo, yes. He is the only one with the combination. The only one with a set of keys. My son Armand. Yes.” He leans his face into his wide palms.

  “Did you talk to him?” Mack hooks his thumbs into his gun belt as though this is all a casual conversation. “Ask him about it. Maybe he’s planning to pay you back.”

  “Please.” The older man sighs. “Don’t patronize. We both know that a person looking for a loan does not steal money from a safe in the dead of night.”

  The guy’s right. Joe nods at his partner; Counseling 101.

  “Okay.” Mack adjusts quickly. “So you two aren’t talking? Did you have a fight or something?” When Boghosian doesn’t answer, he adds, “Did he come to you and ask for the money, and you said no?” Silence. “Help me out here, Mr. Boghosian.”

  “Let me ask you this, officers.” When he lifts his face, the gray ash of age has given way to lucid passion. “What is a father to do for a nineteen-year-old boy who wants to be a good-for-nothing bum instead of taking up the family business? Says he’s going to be a musician. Going to Juilliard. A music sensation, playing his saxophone. That’s what he says, but it’s all a ruse. The truth is he’s a bum mooching off his girlfriend. He shuns his father, sleeps all day, then spends his nights in bars and nightclubs.”

  Mr. B. points toward the store, where the scanner beeps, monitoring purchases. “And this store? This Shuka which I built with my own hands and blessings from God? This is where he should be, learning the family business. A good Armenian boy respects his father. A good son would be here, learning the business.”

  Joe nods as the big picture comes into focus. He doesn’t let on that he’s heard this all before, which he has. He thinks of his own son; can’t imagine losing track of PJ this way. Right now it’s hard to imagine his two-year-old just waking up with a dry diaper. But he can’t help Mr. B. get his son back. Right now he can’t do anything for this man but listen.

  “He’s nineteen?” Mack rubs his chin. “Law says he’s old enough to be on his own. But he can’t go on stealing your money. I recommend you change the combination of your safe. Change the backdoor locks.
Don’t give him the opportunity to do it again.”

  “Protect yourself,” Joe adds. “That’s the first thing you gotta do, Mr. B. We’ll take a report, send it up to the detectives, but since there’s no sign of breaking and entering…I gotta be honest; it won’t go anywhere.”

  “No, no. That’s not right.” Mr. B. waves at Joe to stop. “You must arrest him. I will give you the address where you can find him, his girlfriend’s apartment, and you must drive over there and apprehend him.” He smacks one hand against the other’s wrist. “Put the handcuffs on him. Take him to jail. That and only that might set him right.”

  “We can’t do that, Mr. B.” Mack is shaking his head. “We can’t arrest your son unless he’s formally charged.”

  “You don’t have to arrest him.” The older man leans over the desk to write the address, the strokes of his hand sure and polished. “Simply pick him up and toss him into your jail for a few hours. A few hours is all I ask. Believe me, this is the only way to get through to him. This will give him the message that what he is doing is wrong.” He offers the scrap of paper to Joe. “This is where his girlfriend lives.”

  Not to be rude, Joe takes the address and slips it into the pocket of his uniform trousers. “Can’t do it, Mr. B.” His voice is apologetic. He can understand this man’s frustration. “We can’t lock people up that way.”

  “Ah, but what if you find him with illegal drugs when you go to arrest him? That you can be assured of.”

  “He’s an addict?” Mack asks.

  Bingo. Joe feels his gut sink. Somehow he knew they were headed that way.

  “Narcotics.” Mr. B. squeezes his eyes shut. “He acts like it’s his own discovery, but it’s opium. We had it back in my country. Poppy plants. They turn the brain to jelly.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Joe knows they’ve come to the end of the interview; time to get the paperwork from the car, take down some information and give the job back to Central. Nothing to be done here.