It wasn’t supposed to be that way.
Mitch frowned as he turned down a short street. He and McAffee were answering a call from one of the most exclusive homes in Beverly Hills, if a twenty-room mansion could be called a home. After a short hiatus, there’d been another burglary.
Clancy was dulling his edge, erasing it. By now he should have been able to zero in on his father’s whereabouts.
But she had taken up so much of his time, he hadn’t had a solid opportunity to follow up on his suspicions.
Mitch had managed to hit only a few of the places his father had liked to haunt when they had lived in Westwood. He was surprised and pleased to see that some of the same old crowd were still there, their faces creased and wrinkled, but recognizable. There was Sam-Too, so named because he’d always prided himself on emulating the elder Mitchell. And Andy and Jake. All friends of his father. All citizens of a netherworld.
It was almost as if they had spent their entire lives in the small, shadowy bars that his father had enjoyed frequenting, reminiscing together over watered-down drinks.
They’d known Mitch as a boy, had teased him and regarded him as an extension of his father. But when he entered these same places now, he was the outsider, standing apart from their secret society, where honor among thieves still seemed to flourish.
The lines had been drawn. And the lines were there to protect them and clearly keep him out.
Jake, a rumpled bartender who, the man liked to brag, had once run a statewide confidence game, had squinted as he’d stared at Mitch’s face and conjured up the tall, skinny boy he’d once known. There was nothing about the muscular policeman that faintly resembled his father.
“Sam?” Jake had pretended to think as he elaborately rubbed a ragged cloth at a spot on the bar that had long since been etched in. “No, he’s been clean for a while, Alex. Gone straight.” One eye had been almost shut, with folds of skin shrouding the tiny slit. The other had shifted toward Mitch. “Someone said he’d found religion. More than likely it was a rich widow.” The cackle had been incongruous coming from the big-boned frame. “Your daddy always had a silver tongue. Me and him could’ve done big things in this state.”
Jake had gone on rubbing the sticky bar. And talking. He’d digressed into memories, and Mitch had known he’d get nothing further from him.
Andy had given him less than Jake.
A two-pack-a-day habit had given Andy a permanent hack and turned his skin a sickly yellow. Smoke from his ever present cigarette had wreathed him as he’d slowly rocked to and fro on the bar stool, as if he was lulling himself to sleep.
“Looking to arrest your old man, Alex? Didn’t raise you right, did he, boy?” Andy had laughed to himself. The sound was dry, like wind whistling across an old, rusted pipe. It had ended in a cough.
Mitch remembered accompanying his father to the bars unwillingly. Sam, never a mean drunk, grew boisterous when he imbibed. Mitch went with him only because his mother had pleaded with him to go. She’d wanted to be sure that his father would come back home.
“He didn’t raise me at all,” Mitch had countered. “My mother did, when she could.”
Andy had squinted at him through the smoky haze. “Didn’t have an easy time of it, did you?” Shrugging, he hadn’t waited for an answer. “Neither did Sam, boy. Neither did Sam.”
The words had lingered in Mitch’s mind for a long time.
He’d never thought of life from his father’s point of view—that he’d been driven to crime because things hadn’t turned out for him. Mitch had known that his grandfather, a man he’d never met, had beaten his father regularly with his grandmother’s blessing and that Sam Mitchell had run away from home at age thirteen. Mitch had always assumed that his father did what he loved to do: steal and foil the authorities’ attempts to catch him. In his entire career, Sam Mitchell had spent only thirty days in prison, and that had been when he was first starting out. He liked to brag about that, Mitch recalled.
The memory left him cold.
Whether the older man had had a hard time of it or not, that still didn’t give him an excuse to steal from other people, Mitch thought now as he and McAffee got out of the squad car.
A distraught maid appeared at the door and showed them in. Mitch and McAffee found the Art Lover’s latest victim in a large room that seemed to utilize the morning sun to its best advantage.
The man turned when they entered and regarded them coldly. Behind him black velvet curtains framed a conspicuously empty space on the wall. Obviously he’d been very partial to a painting that was probably now in Mitch’s father’s possession, Mitch thought.
He didn’t bother offering his hand to the man. “Mr. Wade, I’m Officer Mitchell.” He nodded toward his partner. “This is Officer McAffee. We’re here to take your statement.”
Hamilton Wade looked toward the doorway expectantly, but there was no one following in the policemen’s wake. “I asked for detectives.”
Mitch took the dismissive tone in stride and, for the most part, ignored it. “They’ll be here.”
“We’re here to take down a preliminary statement,” McAffee added.
McAffee had seen the annoyed look flickering in Mitch’s eyes. This wasn’t a good day to push his partner. It seemed that every time they received one of these Art-Lover calls, Mitch’s temper was on a choke chain. He wondered why.
“So if you could just give us a general rundown...” McAffee began soothingly as he took his small notebook from his breast pocket.
“I saw him, you know,” Wade blurted out. He ran his fingers nervously through his thinning black hair. The diamond on his hand caught the light and flashed. “We’re supposed to be away on vacation. Hawaii.” The disdainful look on his face told them what he thought of the location. “Nothing but sand, water and souvenirs. I might as well have been home. So I left the family and returned. Had some work waiting for me.” His breathing shortened as he relived the past hour.
“When I walked in, the bastard was just about to take the Warhol off the wall.” Wade gestured toward it. The frame was askew, as if someone had hastily replaced the painting.
Mitch had stopped listening right after the man uttered the first sentence. “What did he look like?” he growled.
Wade had been addressing McAffee. He looked at Mitch and seemed to shrink a bit when he saw the expression on his face.
“He was thin. Very thin. And tall. But he wore a ski mask. I never saw his face.” Disgust filled Wade’s voice. “Broad daylight. What the hell’s the world coming to?” Belligerence filled his features. “The house is almost never empty. How did he know?”
Sam had always made it a point to get to know his mark. To study the comings and goings of the people who lived in the house he planned to burglarize. He’d never liked to be on the receiving end of surprises.
“It’s his business,” Mitch said curtly. “He’s apparently very thorough.”
He looked around the room. There was an opulent, white marble fireplace opposite the wall where the painting had been. Hand-crafted, floor-to-ceiling shelves bracketed it on either side. The furniture in this room alone would have cost him a year’s salary.
It was the kind of house, he thought, that Clancy was probably accustomed to. The kind of house she might have grown up in. Where the word bug referred to a vintage Volkswagen, not something that was seen scurrying under the kitchen cabinets whenever the lights were turned on.
It was the kind of house where he knew he didn’t belong.
Mitch turned around and looked at the homeowner again. “Exactly what was taken?”
Wade opened the center drawer of a highly polished desk and extracted an envelope. There were several photographs in it. Two were of the stolen painting.
“The Monet.” He handed the photograph to Mitch, who passed it on to McAffee. “It’s a lesser-known one, but it’s still very valuable.” Wade gestured toward the wall. The overhead light was on, highlighting a pale gray area betwe
en the black velvet curtains. “He had his hands on that,” he added, nodding toward the other painting. “If he had to steal something, why wasn’t it that one?”
As if the full weight of what had happened had just fell on him full force, Wade crumpled into the swivel chair next to the desk. “Why did he have to take my Monet?” he asked again, of no one in particular.
It was a voice, Mitch thought, befitting Job, had the latter wanted to finally confront God about the plagues that had been visited on him. “Discriminating taste,” he replied.
They stayed another half hour, questioning Wade, gathering as much information as possible. The same pattern resurfaced. None of the jewelry in the house had been taken.
Wade assumed that was because he had surprised the burglar before he had had an opportunity to take it. Mitch didn’t bother correcting him. It would probably lessen the sting somewhat if the man thought he’d foiled the rest of the burglary.
McAffee gave Wade a card and told him to call if he thought of anything else. He advised him to contact his insurance agent immediately and said that they would be in touch.
Wade forgot to ask about the detectives.
McAffee followed Mitch out the door, down the gleaming white stone steps that someone washed every week, to the squad car at the far side of the gate.
“Well, at least we know he watches his fat and cholesterol intake.”
Mitch had been preoccupied, trying to think of who else he could contact to help track down his father. Opening the door on the driver’s side, he looked at his partner over the roof. “What?”
“Tall and thin,” McAffee reminded him. He got in on his side. “With highbrow tastes and probably a degree in computers or something like that.” The psychological profile they’d had made up went far deeper than that, but McAffee had summarized the gist of it.
“You don’t need a degree. Just experience,” Mitch told him. The squad car rumbled once in protest as he turned the key in the ignition, then came to life on the second attempt.
By now it was a well-worn routine. They would make copies of the photograph of the stolen painting, attach a detailed description and pass it along to all the known dealers.
It seemed futile. The procedure didn’t begin to account for the private collectors who didn’t care where a painting came from. They cared only about possession. There were enough of those for his father to make a very decent living.
He remembered that Sam had maintained a dozen different bank accounts at a dozen different banks. He and his mother had never known about any of them until Mitch had stumbled across the passbooks. The accounts had been cleaned out the next day. His father had left at the same time. And their life-style plummeted soon afterward.
On a hunch, Mitch had already checked the same banks. There were no bank accounts listed under his father’s name nor under any of the aliases Sam Mitchell had once used.
Mitch had hit a blank wall. He knew his father was out there somewhere; he just couldn’t find him.
“This really has you bugged, doesn’t it?” McAffee asked as they drove away. “Or is it Clancy?”
Mitch thought of ignoring the question, but McAffee had let him use his hot tub. He owed him something. It never occurred to Mitch to lie.
He drove slowly down the tree-lined street, letting the tranquil atmosphere work its way into his system.
“Both.”
McAffee reviewed what they knew about the elusive burglar. “Well, he’s slowed down. This is the first job he’s pulled in over two weeks.” He flipped the notebook closed and tucked it into his pocket. “Maybe he’s getting cautious and ready to move on.”
With blind luck, McAffee had hit upon his father’s pattern. Never overstay your welcome, he’d always said. What he’d meant was never stay long enough for the police to track you down.
“Or maybe he’s just getting old,” Mitch said aloud.
McAffee considered the suggestion for a moment. “Think he’s old?”
Mitch didn’t want to say anything one way or the other. It hadn’t been proven yet that the burglaries were his father’s handiwork. There was still an outside chance that someone else was involved. “Experience would point to that.”
McAffee had his doubts. “I dunno, sometimes you’re just born with it. There are some hotshot computer hackers out there just out of diapers.” He chuckled. “Alicia’s ten-year-old niece knows more about programming our VCR than I do.”
Mitch laughed shortly at the revelation. “A baby chimpanzee knows more about programming a VCR than you do.”
McAffee took umbrage at the comment, even though his knowledge of an entertainment unit began and ended with the On/Off button. “Thanks.”
Mitch didn’t hear him. He’d made up his mind. If his father was the one committing the burglaries, there was nothing else he could do. He’d arrest him, even though he didn’t want to.
If it turned out that he wasn’t involved, Mitch knew he’d be relieved. Maybe it was a character flaw, he mused, but the man was still his father. That had to count for something in someone’s book.
There was that dulled edge again, he thought. Clancy was making him soft.
He stole a glance at his watch as he turned the steering wheel to the left. She was making him look forward to coming home, too.
McAffee caught the sideways glance. He looked at his own watch. “Isn’t it about time you checked in on her?”
Mitch bristled at the observation. He hadn’t thought McAffee paid any attention. “What are you, my keeper?”
A newborn couldn’t have worn a more innocent expression. “I just don’t want you to fall behind schedule.” McAffee grew serious. “She’s a special lady, Mitch. Don’t mess it up.”
Mitch squared his shoulders, withdrawing. “There’s nothing to mess up.” He turned the squad car into a shop-lined street, one of several small ones that abruptly ended in inaccessible places. He always felt as if he were driving in a maze when he patrolled the area. “I owe her and I’m going to pay off the debt, that’s all.”
There was a hell of a lot more to it than that and they both knew it. McAffee turned and looked straight ahead. “Sure.”
The word mocked Mitch. “All right, spit it out. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.” The younger man raised and lowered his shoulders in an exaggerated show of innocence. “Except a blind man could see by the way she looks at you that she thinks there’s something going on between you, even if you say you don’t.”
Mitch heard the inference and corrected it before it got out of hand. “I don’t say, I mean. Understand?”
Humor quirked McAffee’s mouth. He was laughing without making a sound. “Sure.”
Mitch grunted. The steering wheel felt hot under his palms. “You know, I could put in for another partner, too.”
McAffee laughed. “No one else would have you.” He pointed toward the next corner. “There’s a phone over there.”
Mitch glared at him, even as he began edging the squad car over to the right-hand lane. “I know the area, McAffee.”
“Just being helpful.”
When he called her, Clancy sounded tired, but very upbeat. She’d been working for most of the morning, preparing. “Don’t pick up dinner,” she instructed cheerfully.
He’d brought home a bagged dinner every night now. “Why?”
There was a satisfied smile in her voice. “Because I have a surprise for you.”
“I don’t like surprises.” He didn’t. They were very rarely ever good. He’d picked that up from his father, he thought.
A woman hurried by, jaywalking in the middle of the small street. Traffic was so clogged she would weave her way through without a problem. Mitch shook his head and looked the other way.
“You’ll like this one,” Clancy promised. “Just hurry home.”
Mitch liked the sound of the last sentence and knew he shouldn’t. That was part of the trap. It was all too easy to fall into a pattern with her. �
�I’ll do my best. Doing your exercises?”
“Yes, master.”
The affection in her voice seemed to embrace him. He shook off the feeling. “Good. We’ll pick up where we left off when I get home.”
“Promise?”
He knew exactly what she was thinking. The smile came of its own accord. “I’m talking about the therapy.”
“So was I,” Clancy answered innocently. “See you tonight.”
He tried not to think about how much he wanted to be with her. “Yeah.”
Mitch hung up the telephone and blocked out the feeling that was wrapping itself around him with long, tenuous tendrils. Contentment. It would be far too easy to get accustomed to.
And this, he reminded himself, was just temporary. He was more assured of that fact than ever. She was making headway. Within weeks, she’d be walking again. He would bet his soul on that, if he had one to bet. Once she was walking, she wouldn’t need him anymore, and there would be no reason for him to remain.
Which was the way he wanted it. This strange, bittersweet feeling like cactus needles pricking through him made no sense to him.
But that was her fault, too. She’d drawn out his emotions and gotten them completely tangled. He wasn’t accustomed to having feelings of any sort.
These highs and lows he was experiencing were all due to Clancy. They were messing up his life.
* * *
The aroma greeted Mitch before he had time to take his key out of the lock. He couldn’t place it, but it was wonderful. The significance dawned on him a moment later. Either someone else was here or she was cooking.
“What are you doing?” Crossing to her, he pocketed the key.
Two plates were in her lap. She’d set the rest of the table already. Clancy turned her head, startled. She’d been so engrossed in getting everything ready on time that she hadn’t heard the door opening.
“Cooking.” Her eyes shone with pride. Bit by bit, she was reclaiming her life. Because of him.
He glanced toward the stove and thought of all the things that could have gone wrong. At the very least, Clancy could have burned herself. “You didn’t have to do that.”
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