Snow Angels

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

  “They sure do.” His eyelids are tight, tense, as if it’s painful to keep them open. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay. Hey…” she calls after him as he opens the door. “Merry Christmas.” She steps toward him for a big hug, but he plants a kiss on her forehead and ducks out the door into the chill of Christmas morning.

  “Well…” She folds her arms across her chest, shivering. This has the potential of being the coldest Christmas on record.

  Chapter 15

  Main Street, Flushing, is uncharacteristically quiet and sparsely populated this morning as Joe wheels the cruiser past small shops, the lone department store, and the gaping staircase that leads down to the subway.

  In the passenger seat, Mack is equally subdued. Joe shoots him a scowl. “You falling asleep on me?”

  “I’m awake.” Mack stretches, his knees banging the glove compartment. “Just moving in slo-mo. I don’t think we slept at all last night, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. How’d Nayasia like the ring?”

  “She loved it. Hollered and screamed and stamped her feet like a crazy person. Her mother and her aunties were all grabbing me and kissing me like ‘We’re so happy for you!’ and ‘Welcome to the family!’ when last week, they hated my ass.” He sighs. “It was great.”

  “Good for you. Hard to believe you’re getting married,” Joe’s voice is flat, lackluster.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just saying. It’s hard to believe.”

  “Yeah, well, you can start believing, Cody, because I’m ready to take the plunge. You are looking at Mr. Responsibility. Gonna get me a house and a dog and a shitload of kids.”

  “Good for you, Mack.” Joe shakes his head. When did his American Dream go sour? He’s got everything but the dog and his life has fallen flat around him.

  They’re about to stop for coffee when the first call of the day comes in.

  “Nine-Charlie, respond to a ten twenty-one. Past burglary at the Shuka market.”

  “What the hell…” Joe recognizes the address right away—Mr. Boghosian’s place.

  “I know, I know, you don’t like to pick up a job before you’ve had your first cup.” Mack scribbles down the address, but Joe is already turning the cruiser around.

  “Don’t bother,” Joe grumbles. “I remember where it is.”

  As he drives, Joe mulls over possible reasons Mr. Boghosian has called the police. Maybe someone broke into his safe again last night, which would mean that the burglar wasn’t his son, after all. More likely the older man is reaching out for help, needing someone to talk to, working through denial.

  Sad, but it happens. Shit happens and people call the police. There have been plenty of times when Joe has played a therapist on jobs, but today he’s in no mood for it.

  Hell, the way Sheila was looking at him last night, he could probably use his own therapist.

  The Shuka looks the same as it did yesterday when Joe backs the patrol car into an alley across the street and parks. “Like Yogi Berra said, ‘It’s déjà vu all over again.’”

  Bleary-eyed, Mack squints at the market across the street. “Yeah, right. Who was Yogi Bear, anyway?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Okay, yeah, I know. Cartoon dude, had his own show.”

  Joe scowls as they cross the quiet street. “You ever hear of the New York Yankees?”

  “Now you don’t have to go and get all condescending about it.” Mack waits as the electronic door slides open. “You know I’m not into baseball. Hoops. Basketball is my sport.”

  Inside the Shuka, savory smells lace the air. The sight of pastries and gyro and candied fruit remind Joe that he barely touched Sheila’s crumb cake this morning, left the house before he finished his coffee.

  Only one of the cashiers is on duty today—the woman with the Day-Glo red hair. Maro…or is it Ruth? Today she’s wearing a leopard-print sweater that hugs every curve.

  “Mr. Boghosian called us?” Joe nods toward the back office.

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

  “Only what Mr. B. tells me.” She flicks her hair from her eyes. You might mistake it for a sexy flick if she were twenty years younger. “He’s very upset. Someone robbed the safe last night.”

  “Not again.” Joe gives her a hard look, hoping she’ll provide further detail, but the cashier simply nods.

  “A terrible thing, to wake up and find money missing on Christmas morning.” The woman shakes her head, her gaze flitting to the back of the store as her boss emerges. “Ah, Mr. B. The police have arrived.”

  He shuffles over, stooped but wiry. “And not a moment too soon.” Mr. Boghosian’s face is pinched, his tone sour, but this is not the despondent man they dropped off here last night after identifying his son’s body. It’s going to be a problem; Joe can feel it in his gut. Mr. B. is delusional, lost in denial.

  “Officers, my safe was robbed last night. Would you like to step into the backroom? I have left everything in place in case you would like to collect evidence. Fingerprints and such.”

  Joe catches his partner’s eye; Mack shrugs.

  “Let’s have a look,” Mack says.

  “It’s in the office—” Mr. Boghosian points, but Joe is already striding down the aisle past crates of mandarin oranges and plastic containers of chocolate jellies.

  “That’s okay, Mr. B. I remember,” Joe says.

  “You must be mistaken,” Mr. B. says. “I’ve owned this store twenty years, and I have never before invited the police into my office.”

  Joe rubs his forehead. It’s going to be a long morning. “Yeah, okay. So why don’t you show us your safe, Mr. B.?”

  Nothing in the backroom has changed since the previous day when the store owner showed them the safe under the desk. When Mack squats down and shines his flashlight on the safe under the desk, Joe feels a stab of impatience. It’s one thing to indulge the man for his loss; do they need to play out this charade in denial?

  Joe stands back and watches as the conversation follows the same pattern from yesterday. Like a repeat of a bad TV show; it isn’t any better the second time. Mr. B. assures them the “girls” in his employment would never steal from him. He insists that it’s an inside job; he knows who did it.

  His son.

  Joe’s heart sinks. This is going from bad to worse.

  Mr. Boghosian launches into the same story he told them on Christmas Eve. That his son is the only one with a set of keys. That his son plans to go to Julliard, but right now wastes too much time playing his saxophone and staying out late in clubs.

  It pains Joe to listen to him, like a cat clawing at his heart. And how is Mack staying so calm, listening and nodding passively, as if he’s never heard this story before? Watching the two of them, it’s freaky. You would never know that this older man lost a son yesterday.

  When Mr. Boghosian tells the cops he wants them to arrest his son, Joe interrupts. “Excuse me, Mr. Boghosian, but do you mind if I consult with my partner a minute?”

  “Of course not.” The older man pushes away from the desk and shuffles toward his shop. “Use my office. I’ll go check on the girls up front.”

  Watching him leave, Mack shakes his head. “The girls are pushing forty, but whatever.”

  “That’s the least of his denial.” Joe keeps the rumble of his voice low; he doesn’t want to be overheard. “Can you believe this guy?”

  Mack shrugs. “Yeah, the son sounds like trouble.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Joe squints at his partner. “Bad joke, Mack.”

  “I’m not squirreling around. You know the son is the one who stole the cash.”

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?” Joe rubs his forehead, a headache coming on. Is this what happens when Mack is sleep-deprived? His partner’s brain was definitely not firing on all pistons. “Think, Mack. This job is identical to the one we handled yesterday morning. Remember the resul
t? The kid in that apartment off Main Street?”

  Mack’s eyes close, skepticism in his gaze. “Actually, I don’t remember anything like that.” He hooks his thumbs into his gun belt. “What the hell are you talking about, Cody?”

  “Don’t play with me, man. I’m in no mood…”

  “Who’s playing?” Mack’s voice is shrill with annoyance. “I’m just trying to help this man out, get this job done, and get some coffee. You want to go to the car and get the paperwork, or should I?”

  “Mack…” Joe lowers his voice again. “The guy’s just claiming theft because he needs help. Which is understandable, since he lost his son yesterday. It’s a cry for attention, but taking a report isn’t going to do it.”

  “Wait. Just hold—hold on, there.” Mack holds a hand up. “You saying this guy’s son died yesterday.”

  “The kid in the apartment, remember?” When Mack’s eyes glaze in confusion, Joe growls in frustration. “The overdose?”

  “Not ringing a bell for me.”

  “Come on, Mack. Cut the crap.” Aggravation needles his usual composure. He can’t wait to get back to the precinct and shove yesterday’s report into his partner’s face.

  “Excuse me, officers?” Garo Boghosian pokes his head in the doorway, then shuffles in. “I have an idea. My son doesn’t think I know these things, but I can give you the address where he is staying. His girlfriend’s apartment.”

  “Sounds good.” Mack steps away from Joe, relieved at the interruption. “I’m going to the cruiser for paperwork. Officer Cody will take that information.”

  Joe mouths a sarcastic “Thanks” before Mack ducks out the backdoor of the grocery, but the older man doesn’t see. Mr. B. is bent over his desk, scrawling something on a notepad.

  “There.” He tears off a piece of paper and hands it to Joe. “His girlfriend’s address. Chances are, you will find him there today.”

  “Yeah, okay.” A sick feeling curls his stomach as Joe takes the paper, wishing he didn’t have to be a part of this horror show. Mr. Boghosian is obviously in deep denial and Mack is being an idiot. Things have gone from maudlin to bizarre.

  When Mack returns with the paperwork, Joe leans back into the shadows and lets his partner take the lead. Mulling over it all, he wonders if this could all be a nightmare, a really sick dream. He shifts from foot to foot, considering. He’s never had a dream with such great odors before—the smells of citrus and cinnamon and gyro wafting in from the grocery. Nah. It’s no dream. Just a really twisted reality.

  At last the paperwork is wrapped up and the store owner walks the cops back through his shop.

  “You got a nice little shop here, Mr. Boghosian,” Mack says. “We’ll file this report and the detectives will let you know if they find anything.”

  Translation: Don’t hold your breath.

  Mack heads out, but Joe can’t leave without trying to get through to this man; he just wants to scrape a patch of reality, to bring the man back, painful though that may be.

  Joe pauses at the register, then extends his hand. “You know, everyone has regrets in life. Things we wish we could change.”

  Garo Boghosian clasps his hand, a surprisingly strong grip. “Sage words, officer.”

  “Let me ask you, Mr. B., if you could have your son back, right now, what would you say to him?”

  The man clenches his jaw as he draws in a breath, his chest rising like a puffer fish. “It’s not what I would say, but what I would do. I would take my money back and wash my hands of him. No son of mine shall be a thief! He is no son of mine.”

  Joe just nods and waits, expressionless, knowing this is not the end.

  A moment later, Boghosian’s face crumples in pain. His breath comes out in a gasp as his chin drops to his chest, despondent.

  Joe waits as a sob breaks the air; there’s nothing he can do for this man, nothing anyone can do.

  “You know the truth, officer. You know that is a lie.” When Garo Boghosian lifts his head, tears shimmer in his eyes, reminding Joe of the man who had sobbed over his son’s body just yesterday. The huddled man lifting his son in his arms, rocking the grown man’s body as if it were as light as an infant’s.

  Joe nods. “I know.”

  “If you find my son, please bring him back to me. I will make sure he gets help. I will make sure he is placed in a very good rehabilitation hospital.”

  The man’s words, so steeped in pain and delusion, are a knife in Joe’s gut. “I’m sorry,” Joe says, looking to the door, looking to escape. He’s got to get out of here. Now. “I’m sorry about your son.” His chest tight, he leaves the despondent man behind and escapes to the cold, fresh air.

  He glares at Mack, who falls into step beside him.

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” Mack asks.

  “What the hell were you doing in there?”

  “Following procedure.”

  “Yeah? Since when is lying to a man about his dead son procedure?” They reach the patrol car, but Joe can’t get in yet. He can’t sit in a tight, super-heated space and think about that man and his dead son. He can’t go back to a job that has him answering after the fact and taking reports.

  Joe stares down at the side of the car. “CPR. I’ve always hated that logo. I hate this job. Guys go into the NYPD for excitement, but really it’s all a paper chase. And don’t think you’ll be helping anyone. Like I always say, cops in this city are the garbagemen of humanity.”

  “Cody, I know you’re pissed off, but I don’t know what you’re talking about with the dead kid. We didn’t sit on a body yesterday.”

  Joe wheels around, slams his hand on the roof of the patrol car and curses. “Like hell we didn’t. Why can’t you remember?”

  “Because it didn’t happen.” Mack holds his hands up. “Hold on. I got a perfectly legitimate way to solve this. We’ll go back to the precinct and pull out all the paperwork from our last tour. You can show me the forty-nine on Mr. Boghosian’s son. What’s his name…Andrew?”

  “Armand.” Joe fishes in his pocket for the keys, but comes back with the note Boghosian gave him—the girlfriend’s address. “See this?” He hands it to Mack. “That’s the address where we found the kid yesterday.”

  Mack frowns at the paper. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Still searching for the car keys, Joe reaches into the pocket of his uniform pants and finds another square of paper. He checks it, the bold handwriting nearly stopping his heart. “Okay, this is where things are getting spooky.”

  “What?” Mack asks as he opens the passenger door.

  Joe squares his jaw, trying to absorb the Twilight Zone moment. He flashes the note at his partner. “Got this yesterday from Mr. Boghosian.”

  It’s an identical scrap of paper with the same scrawled address.

  Chapter 16

  “Katherine Bernadette Cody, put those presents down and help your mother decorate these cookies,” Sheila calls from the kitchen.

  Katie peeks at her mother from behind a gift wrapped in red foil, but she doesn’t give up her spot under the tree.

  Icing drips over Sheila’s fingers as she tries to glaze a church-shaped cookie. “Don’t make me give you a timeout.”

  “But Mom, it’s Christmas morning, and you know I love to do this. I like to guess what’s inside.” She gives the red foil present a shake, then tries to squeeze it.

  “Katie, stop! What if it’s breakable?” Sheila doesn’t recall what’s inside, but she’s losing patience. She drops the sticky knife into the bowl of icing and charges into the living room. “Come on, now. Put the present down and come into the kitchen.”

  “But, Mom…”

  How many times a day does Katie say that? Sheila has a feeling she’s going to hear that expression a million times before her daughter turns eighteen.

  Sheila licks her knuckles, then points to the base of the tree. “Put it down, and leave the gifts alone. You’ve become a real Christmas nut.” Just like your mother, Sheila
thinks. Watching like a hawk, she waits while her daughter releases the package, then picks up another.

  “This one’s from Santa. He brought it last night.” Katie hoists the large, flat box, nearly half her size. “Who’s it for, Mom?”

  “I don’t know.” Sheila recognizes the paper, a pattern of triangular gold and silver angels, but she doesn’t remember wrapping the gift. “Well, that’s why I don’t recognize it,” she says as she reads the tag. “It’s for me.”

  “You got something from Santa, Mommy.” Katie’s rosebud lips curve in a smile, as if the notion of adults getting gifts strikes her as silliness.

  “I guess so.” Annoyance swells in her chest at the thought of Joe buying her a gift after they promised each other they wouldn’t. How could he?

  Then again, the writing on the tag doesn’t look like Joe’s. So who’s it from?

  As Sheila bends down to replace the gift, she notices a few others wrapped in the angel paper. “This is weird.” There’s one for Katie, one for Joe, and a good-sized gift for Patrick Joseph who, at the moment, is taking a blissfully long nap upstairs.

  Very strange. Sheila straightens, staring down at the presents. “Where’d these gifts come from?” she says, thinking aloud.

  Katie giggles. “Mommy! They’re from Santa.”

  “Of course they are.” Sheila puts her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and guides her back toward the kitchen. “Now let’s wash your hands so you can get to decorating. The trees and snowmen are looking pretty bare.”

  She’s just getting Katie settled at the kitchen table with an apron and colored sugars when Joe calls.

  “PJ’s napping and Katie’s helping me decorate cookies,” she reports. “What’s up with you?”

  “Shee, I’m having a bizarre day.”

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Remember that kid I mentioned yesterday? The one who overdosed?”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.” Their heated discussion of the previous night was not characteristic of their relationship. She’d never seen Joe storm out like that; it was the most tumultuous Christmas Eve of her life.