Brooding Angel

by Marie Ferrarella

  Brooding Angel

  Marie Ferrarella

  To Marcia Book Adirim, for her patience.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter One

  The noise, because it was so intimate, seemed to diminish the harsh cacophony of the city outside his car window, pushing it into the background. His stomach was growling like an irritated, hungry jungle cat, waiting to pounce on some unsuspecting prey that would become dinner.

  In this case, the unsuspecting prey came in the form of a hamburger and fries, which his partner was supposed to have already returned with. It wasn’t much of a lunch, but then, he didn’t exactly have the time or the option to be choosy. Besides, it was more than he’d had for breakfast. That had been a serving of hot, inky black coffee, guaranteed to make a man alert by the time it hit bottom. These days, an L.A. policeman couldn’t afford not to be alert.

  Impatient, Officer Alexander Mitchell unconsciously rubbed long, tanned fingers over his abdomen, wishing that McAffee would hurry up.

  How long did it take to pick up two orders of greasy burgers and fries? It was supposed to be fast food, wasn’t it?

  Mitch leaned forward and craned his neck, looking out of the squad car for any sign of his partner walking down the crowded block. The usual indigenous mix was out on the street. Aimless drifters and the genuinely homeless melded with white-collar workers who had hurried out of their towering office buildings to make use of the tiny portion of the day allotted to them for lunch.

  None of the scores of people in his line of vision was a tall, gangly, two-year veteran of the police force.

  Damn, what was he doing, killing the cow and preparing the burgers himself?

  Blowing out a huff of air, Mitch sat back against the sweat-soaked vinyl upholstery. He could feel his shirt sticking to his spine. As he leaned his head back, the bones in his neck cracked three times in quick succession. The cracking sounds preceded another loud rumble from his stomach.

  Mitch shifted his shoulders, trying to get comfortable in what was basically an uncomfortable confinement. He was, he thought, too tense. Maybe he’d ease up on the coffee a little, or at least not make it so strong. It was probably burning a hole in his stomach at this very moment.

  Absently, he glanced at his watch. One o’clock on the nose. Two more hours until his shift was over.

  And then what?

  There wasn’t anything waiting for him at home, or anyone, but then, that was his choice. He had selected this path by design, not by default. His own company suited him well enough and eliminated a host of problems he wouldn’t want to deal with. If you got close to people, they started asking questions. McAffee had tried to befriend him in the beginning. It had taken very little from Mitch to set the matter straight. There was a boundary that he didn’t allow anyone to cross. In his private life, it was as if the world were divided into two islands. He was on one; everyone else was on the other.

  And he liked it that way.

  He’d already turned down McAffee’s invitation to take in a movie and grab a few beers tonight. As Mitch sat in the squad car, watching life drift aimlessly by him, boredom had him debating his response.

  Maybe...

  No. He got along well with McAffee, as well as he did with anyone, but there was no reason to encourage any further fraternization. Getting close to someone would take the edge off, and Mitch needed his edge. A cop always needed an edge. He’d almost lost it once. Willingly. But then he’d returned to his senses and backed away.

  Of course, if the damn fool didn’t come back with lunch soon, there wouldn’t be an evening to debate about. He’d kill him, Mitch thought, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

  Damn it, where was he?

  The heat seemed to swirl all around him, rising in wisps from the pavement. According to the headline in the paper this morning, Southern California was in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave. Mitch didn’t usually mind the heat—or the cold, for that matter—but this oppressive spate of weather was getting difficult to ignore. It was almost as if the heat were trapped within the boundaries of the city, feeling itself a prisoner there, along with the other hapless inhabitants who moved about the area.

  Mitch’s mouth quirked slightly. Philosophy 101. Or what he’d imagine that sort of class to be like. He’d never had the opportunity to go to college. Getting a degree had never been in his plans.

  Hell, he mused, watching a crusty old man across the street tip back something wrapped in a ripped, stained paper bag. Survival was the only thing that had ever been in his plans.

  Survival and payback.

  That was what this job was all about: paying society back as best he could for the crimes his father had committed. The sins of the father, he mused cynically. Repaying debts had always been important to Mitch.

  He hadn’t really expected to like being a cop, but he did. Liked the good and the bad. Liked the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, he made a difference. It helped balance things out for him.

  At least a little.

  The small, weather-beaten man rose shakily to his feet from his perch on the curb. Mitch debated getting out of the car and giving him a warning about drinking in public. There was little doubt what was in that paper sack he clutched so fiercely. Mitch knew that Rafferty would have not only warned the man, but unceremoniously ushered him on his way.

  But Mitch wasn’t his sergeant. He doubted if the old man needed any warnings. He looked as if he was well aware of the batterings that life held in store for him.

  Mitch caught the old man’s eye and beckoned him forward. For a second the man looked as if he was going to flee, but then common sense obviously took hold. Or perhaps fear pushed him forward rather than back. The shabby vagrant approached the squad car in looping, weaving steps.

  He held the paper sack behind his back in the manner of a small child, certain that something would be forgotten because it was out of sight.

  “I wasn’t doing nothing wrong, Officer.” The man was visibly trembling.

  How much of that tremble was due to fear and how much to the effect of drinking? Mitch wondered. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded five-dollar bill. “Here, get yourself something to eat.”

  The man snatched the money from Mitch’s hand, then stared at it as if it was manna from heaven. “God bless you, Officer.”

  “Never mind about blessings from God,” Mitch ordered sternly. “Make sure you use that to get something to eat and not drink.” He fixed him with a long, serious look. “If you don’t, I’ll know.”

  The rummy eyes stared at Mitch as the man slowly shuffled backward, mimicking a servant bowing his way out of the presence of a monarch. “Food,” he muttered. “Yes, sir, right away. You bet. Food.”

  Mitch doubted he’d spend the money on food, but he could hope. Nobody deserved to be that dirty, that hungry.

  The word brought back thoughts of his own errant lunch. He squinted down the block again. He could just make out a tall, dark blue-clad figure coming around the corner.

  Well, it was about time.

  At that moment, the radio crackled. Annoying static filled the inside of the car, a precursor of things to come. Mitch unconsciously braced himself as he swallowed a curse. He hoped this wasn’t going to be something that woul
d require his attention. His present state of hunger didn’t put him in the best of moods to deal with details.

  He stared at the radio, waiting. The voice coming over it became more audible. “Two-one-one commercial at a jewelry store on Beverly and Wilshire. Owner and one passerby wounded. Suspect escaped, heading north on Beverly. Driving a tan sedan. Partial license number two Adam-Charlie-Thomas. Suspect is reportedly armed and dangerous. Approach with caution. All cars in the vicinity please respond.”

  The rest of the transmission was lost to Mitch as he saw a car fitting the description the dispatcher had just given pass not three feet away from him. He squinted, focusing on the license. The call letters were there.

  And we have a match.

  He turned on his siren. The tan sedan instantly sped up, tearing down the street. Brakes and tires squealed as motorists on either side attempted to get out of the driver’s way.

  Damn it! There went lunch.

  Mitch yanked off the receiver, depressing the button with his thumb as he simultaneously pulled out of his parking space, guiding the squad car into the street with his other hand.

  “This is Mitchell. Suspect just drove past me. I’m at Beverly and Lancaster. I’ve got him in my sights and am in pursuit.”

  He released the button, but didn’t bother replacing the receiver, letting it drop to the floor. From the looks of it, he was going to need both hands on the wheel. The suspect was flying down the street like the proverbial bat out of hell. Cars were fishtailing every which way in his wake.

  Mitch glanced in his rearview mirror. He just barely made out his partner. McAffee had dropped the paper sack he was carrying and was running toward him.

  There was no time to stop and wait for his partner to catch up. The suspect was already getting out of range.

  Adrenaline surged through his veins. Mitch’s eyes were riveted on the rear end of the sedan as he swerved out of the way of another car, determined to catch up with the suspect.

  * * *

  Life was wonderful. It was absolutely, positively wonderful. There was no question about it in her mind.

  Humming, Mary Elizabeth Clancy unlocked the rear passenger door of her cream-colored BMW and lovingly deposited the long white garment bag across the back seat. The bag contained her wedding dress.

  She sighed as she looked at it, not seeing the protective plastic, but envisioning the dress the way it had looked a brief twenty minutes ago, as she had stood in the dressing room of the exclusive bridal shop, examining herself in a three-way mirror. A saleswoman had hovered close by, murmuring all the appropriate words that Clancy knew she told every bride-to-be.

  She had looked beautiful. Clancy wasn’t vain, but she knew she actually had looked exactly the way the woman had gushingly said she did. Like a vision.

  Every woman deserved to look like a vision on her wedding day, Clancy thought as she locked the door. She glanced at her watch and bit her lower lip. She was going to be a late vision if she didn’t hurry back to work right away.

  Clancy slid behind the steering wheel of her car. Mechanically buckling herself in, she turned on the ignition. Her wedding was approximately four weeks away. Three and a half to be exact, but Clancy liked to be prepared. That was a habit that had long since been ingrained in her. It came from moving around like a nomad during her childhood.

  A very pampered nomad, she thought with a smile as she eased into the sluggish flow of traffic. By the time she was in her teens, she had been to every major country in the Eastern Hemisphere, courtesy of her parents. Helen and Allen Clancy were both in the diplomatic corps and had been for the last thirty years.

  Though she didn’t have any long-lasting friendships to call her own from those days, the life Clancy had led had certainly had its perks. Her education had been extensive and dazzling. She spoke several languages and felt at home almost anywhere. That, too, had come from necessity. It was either acclimate or shrivel up and die. Clancy had never been the type to shrivel.

  But she had to admit that it was really nice to finally settle down in one place. In one home. To know that when she woke up in the morning, she would see the same set of furnishings, the same scenery outside her window as she had the week before.

  And that she would have the same man in her life as she had had last night, last week and last month.

  Clancy’s generous mouth curved in a warm smile as she thought of Stuart.

  In some ways, he reminded her of her father. Stuart Holden was handsome, brilliant and hardworking, with an excellent future ahead of him. He was the last word in dependability. If he lacked her father’s sense of humor, well, that was just because Stuart was still young. Once he had a few years on him, once his goals were all met—as she knew they would be—Clancy felt sure that some of his intensity would abate.

  And so what if he was a little intense? No one was perfect, and Stuart Holden came closer to being perfect than most.

  Impatience nibbled at Clancy as she just missed a light. At this rate, she was going to be late. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the light to change again.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm the agitation, coupled with excitement, that was racing through her veins. She was really looking forward to being with her parents again. It had been over seven months since she had seen them, when they had stopped by her apartment for an extended visit, en route to their newest assignment—the American Embassy in India.

  They would be flying in three days before the wedding. Stuart had made reservations for her parents to stay at the luxurious Sheridan in Beverly Hills. The suite, he’d announced, would be on him. A wedding gift to her, since he knew how much having her family present meant to Clancy.

  Her father had sounded duly impressed. “The man knows how to treat his in-laws. Can’t ask for a better son-in-law than that.” Allen Clancy had laughed during their last conversation. Then he had become serious before surrendering the telephone to her mother. “Really, honey, as long as you’re happy, we’re happy.”

  Well, she thought, glancing at her reflection in the rearview mirror, she was happy. Very happy.

  And having her parents here would be icing on the cake. The wedding cake. All three feet of it. Though they were halfway around the world, Clancy spoke to her parents fairly regularly. A strong sense of family had always been part of her life, even when she had been away at college.

  She knew she was looking forward to starting her own family. It was on that topic that she and Stuart ran into somewhat turbulent waters. She was twenty-eight and wanted to have a baby within the next three years. Stuart thought that was too soon.

  “Children equal expenses,” he had argued more than once, “and I want a good cushion before we take on that burden.”

  Clancy didn’t think of children as a burden, but if she tried hard, she could see Stuart’s point of view, at least to some extent.

  Holding her breath, she maneuvered her car into an opening in the adjacent line of traffic. The driver behind her leaned on his horn in protest. She lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and offered an apologetic smile that she was almost certain he couldn’t see.

  She supposed that was what made Stuart and her get along so well together. She could always see his point of view, even when it differed so drastically from hers. She just wished that he could see hers.

  “You’d make a hell of a diplomat, honey,” her father had said, only half teasing. She knew that in his heart, Allen Clancy had hoped his only daughter would follow him and her mother into the diplomatic corps rather than turn her attention to computers. But that sort of life wasn’t what she wanted for herself.

  The only strategic negotiation she intended to engage in was to make Stuart relent his position about children.

  God, she sounded as if she were complaining, she realized. And she wasn’t. Stuart treated her with the utmost respect and was completely supportive of her career. Of course, he’d had to bow out of a few functions she’d been
required to attend, while he’d made certain that she graced his arm at every law-firm gathering of his.

  But that was petty, only petty, and she was feeling much too happy to be petty.

  Clancy grinned to herself and began humming along with the music on the radio. Pressing a button on the control panel, she rolled down her window and absorbed the weather. She loved everything about Southern California, even the occasional bouts of heat. It was the best place in the world to her.

  Things, she decided, just couldn’t get any better.

  With a sigh of relief, she saw the sign announcing Beverly Glen Boulevard just up ahead. Traffic along the street was moving rapidly in both directions. Clancy congratulated herself on making good time. She’d be at her office within five minutes.

  The light at the intersection was turning yellow just as she approached it. Clancy pressed down on the gas pedal, determined to squeak through before it turned a glaring, traffic-freezing red. She wasn’t reckless by nature, but she didn’t relish hearing a lecture about abusing “privileges,” courtesy of her supervisor. She’d already asked for an extra half hour for lunch as it was.

  The rest happened so fast that Clancy wasn’t completely certain that she hadn’t been pitched headlong into a dream.

  Or a nightmare.

  A tan car came barreling through the intersection from the opposite direction. It was going so fast it appeared to be almost airborne.

  For a second, Clancy froze, horrified, as the car came straight at her. The next moment, she was frantically tugging on her wheel to maneuver to the right, out of range.

  She turned the wheel too hard and lost control, and the car went in one direction, then the other, spinning around wildly. The fleeing automobile hit her directly on the driver’s side.

  Clancy’s world split open like the shell of an egg splattering on pavement. The sky and the earth seemed to reverse positions outside her vehicle.

  She heard screaming.

  Who was screaming? Was someone watching and screaming a warning?

  No, it was her own voice she heard, echoing in her mind. In her lungs. Her throat was aching from the sound that was exploding within it.