Epiphany

by Rita Herron

  “Max will think I’m crazy,” Sheila admitted.

  Angelica smiled. “I hate to say it, but you’re probably right. I can’t imagine him at a desk job, but you have to do what’s right for you.”

  Not that she would have ever asked Max to change for her. He loved his job just as she loved teaching. Her heart belonged with the children she worked with. But, thankfully, those kids were home with their families, enjoying the winter break.

  Like Stevie should have been doing.

  “I hope I can salvage some part of the holiday for Stevie.”

  Sheila patted her hand. “He’s lucky he has you, Angelica.”

  “And Max working on the case.” She met Shelia’s gaze, saw the questions teetering on the surface.

  “I won’t ask what happened between you two,” Sheila said with a small smile. “But he cares about you. That’s obvious.”

  Angelica smiled as Stevie kicked the soccer ball into the net. Even if Max did care, he wasn’t a commitment guy. And she could no more picture Max taking on a ready-made family than she could see him at that desk job.

  Besides, now that her sister was gone, she couldn’t dwell on her own life. Stevie was her priority.

  DAMMIT, the kid had seen him.

  He scrunched the bag beneath his coat and slipped into the alley where the homeless gathered at night, checking to make sure no one was around. Not that anyone in this neck of town would give a flip what he was doing, but his Italian loafers would call attention to the fact that he was out of place. Hell, the vagrants might even try to steal them off of him. That, or they’d start begging, and he wasn’t about to give up a cent of his hard-earned money. Or the shoes his dear mama had given him. She’d scraped and saved and worked her butt off so he could have things better. And he’d wanted to make her proud.

  But then he’d hooked up with Gina.

  As he hunkered near one of the old rusted-out barrels where the street people built fires, the events of the night before rocked through his mind. He’d thought he’d heard something upstairs before he’d run from Gina’s house, but he’d had no idea her little boy had been home. He’d chalked the feeling up to paranoia. His mistake. He should have searched the place before he’d left.

  But he’d been too nervous.

  He stared at the evening edition of the local paper he’d tucked under his arm, reread the section about Gina North’s murder, and cursed again, wondering if the little boy had already ratted him out.

  Then again, there was no way. He had been in disguise.

  Besides, what could the twerp tell them—that there was a bad Santa who’d killed his mother?

  A low chuckle reverberated in his chest. Hell, the little guy might as well learn early on that there was no such thing as miracles, or angels, or a real gift-giving Santa.

  He tossed the newspaper, then the Santa suit in the bin. If one of the old homeless men found it, he’d probably use the furry coat to keep him warm. Hell, two or three of them might even turn it into a blanket and share it.

  But he had to get rid of the evidence.

  Just as he would the kid if he started talking.

  He dumped the beard and hat in the rusted trash can next, poured lighter fluid on top, then lit a match and caught the newspaper on fire. As darkness descended across the city, he watched the orange flames burst up from the can, then ripple along the Santa suit, eating the white cottony beard and fringe. The black plastic buttons melted into the red velvet, the fabric glue disintegrating as heat engulfed it.

  Within minutes the suit had turned from an apple-red costume into a pile of black ashes and rubbish. Just another barrel of trash.

  Just like that chick Gina North.

  Not that she hadn’t been a pretty one. Or that he hadn’t wanted her. He had. And that was the problem.

  She had betrayed him.

  And in doing so, she would have hurt his mama.

  He could still see Gina’s eyes bulging in horror as he’d pulled the gun. Could feel the cold numbness of her body as he’d knelt to check her pulse to make sure she was dead.

  Thank God he’d come to his senses in time and shut her up.

  Her son’s face flashed in his head. If he had to, he’d take care of the little boy just like he had his mother.

  Chapter Five

  After his partner left with Angelica and Stevie, Max reviewed the notes from the officers who’d canvassed Gina North’s neighborhood. Unfortunately no one had seen anything suspicious that night. The couple who lived on the left hadn’t been home. The woman who lived in the house on Gina’s right had been pulling a night shift at Grady Memorial Hospital. And the elderly couple across the street had gone to bed early, removing their hearing aids before retiring.

  But each of the neighbors confirmed Angelica’s story. Gina had entertained several boyfriends over the past few months. No real steadies. A few sleepovers.

  Had the sleepovers occurred with the boy in the house, or had Stevie stayed every night with Angelica? Max wondered.

  Her anguished face flashed in his mind and his lungs tightened. She needed answers. He just hoped his investigation didn’t lead to more disturbing revelations about her sister.

  Did Angelica know that Gina’s place of employment, Pandora’s Box, had been raided twice for drugs and prostitution?

  Curious about the men Gina had met there, he phoned the CSI tech to see if he had results on the fingerprints taken at Gina’s house.

  “Kenny, did you find any matches on prints?”

  “We found three distinct male ones that are in the system. One belongs to Larry Bevels, the bouncer at Pandora’s Box. The other to a man named Ricky Wallers, aka Ricky Turner. Arrested twice for gambling. In fact, he’s in jail now. The last belonged to the boy’s father, Eddie Germane.”

  “Any more trace evidence?”

  “The shoeprints outside the house came from a man’s boots. Size thirteen. We’re trying to narrow it down.”

  Max thanked him and hung up. Knowing the nightclub didn’t start hopping until later, he logged on to the computer. Several minutes later, he’d learned that Bevels had served time for assault and battery, and that his ex-wife had filed several complaints of domestic violence.

  Turner had had a gambling problem, had embezzled money from the insurance company he’d worked for to pay off his debts, but there was no honor among thieves—he’d accepted a plea bargain in exchange for spilling his guts about a larger insurance fraud going on at his company. However, he was back in jail on a parole violation.

  Max ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. Man, Gina North could pick ’em. Either man looked like a candidate for a bad ending.

  Curious about the bartender at Pandora’s Box whom Angelica had mentioned, he typed in his name. Seconds later he learned that Will Inkling had been a runaway, had had a cocaine problem, but was supposedly clean now, and that he’d had several run-ins with his boss, Coper. Hmm. Max wondered what that was about, and would ask Inkling.

  Knowing that he had to find out everything he could on Gina, he plugged her name into the system and discovered that she’d been arrested twice for solicitation.

  Did Angelica know about the charges?

  And if Gina had been turning tricks, had her lifestyle gotten her killed?

  “YOU’VE REALLY gone out of your way to be good to us today,” Angelica said as she and Sheila helped the boys spread cookie dough on a cutting board.

  “Hey, I needed the day off. And it’s almost Christmas, we have to bake cookies, don’t we, Mikey?” Sheila tilted her head toward her young son and wiped flour from his cheek.

  He grinned, pinched off a chunk of cookie dough and popped it into his mouth. Stevie smiled, and mimicked him, poking his cheek full of dough. For the past hour, he’d imitated Mikey’s every move.

  In spite of Sheila’s cheerful demeanor, Angelica knew Max’s partner was working today, keeping an eye on them so Max could investigate her sister’s old boyfriends. That fact was
never far from her mind. But at least the activities had distracted Stevie.

  Angelica pointed to the array of cookie cutters Shelia had placed on the kitchen island. “Stevie, do you want the Christmas tree cutter or the snowman?”

  Stevie chose the snowman, carefully placed it on the sugar cookie dough and pressed down. Mikey made a Christmas tree cookie, then added sprinkles in red and green.

  “Here’s some chocolate chips if you want to give the snowman buttons, eyes and a nose,” Mikey offered.

  Stevie nodded, his attention focused on the task as he completed the snowman. Next, he moved on to make himself a Christmas tree, then a silver bell.

  “How about a Santa?” Angelica suggested.

  He shook his head no and frowned. Angelica glanced at Shelia, confused, and Sheila offered her a sympathetic look. The phone trilled and Sheila answered it. “Yes, Max, everything is fine here.” She paused, then handed the phone to Angelica. “He wants to speak to you.”

  Angelica’s nerves fluttered. Did he have news on the case? “Max?”

  “Hey. I’m going to stop by your sister’s house to look around. Then I’m going to the club. I’ll pick you and Stevie up later and take you home.”

  She angled herself away from Stevie, speaking in a hushed tone. “Any leads so far?”

  He hesitated. “Not really. But you didn’t mention Stevie’s father the other day. His name is Eddie Germane?”

  Angelica carried the portable phone into the other room to be out of earshot. “Yes, but when Stevie was born, he didn’t want anything to do with him. I don’t think Gina’s seen him in years.”

  “His fingerprints were in the house, Angel.”

  Angelica gasped, absorbing that information. “You think he killed her? That he might want Stevie?”

  Max shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he wants Gina’s inheritance.”

  Angelica’s blood ran cold. With Gina dead, Eddie could gain access to it through Stevie.

  “What else do you know about him?” Max asked.

  “Nothing, except that he was a pool shark. I have no idea where he is now.”

  Anxiety riddled Angelica as she hung up. What if Stevie’s father did show up and want Stevie? Or what if he’d killed Gina, thinking he could get her money? Angelica had no legal rights to Stevie, whereas Eddie was his biological father.

  Emotions clogged her throat. She’d lost Gina, she couldn’t lose Stevie, too. He belonged with her, not with Eddie. And she’d do whatever she had to do to keep Stevie with her.

  MAX SEARCHED THROUGH Gina’s desk for phone numbers, notes, anything that might offer a clue as to any problems or threats she might have received. Past-due bills were crammed into the top drawer along with photographs of her and the boy and a calendar marked with several rendezvous with Ricky Turner. Germane’s name also appeared on the calendar, indicating she had reconnected with Stevie’s father.

  Not a good sign.

  Next he skimmed through her bank statements and noticed three large cash deposits, which raised his eyebrows. Too large for prostitution? Had Gina been involved in some kind of illegal scheme?

  He searched her bedroom and personal belongings, but learned nothing, except that she liked decadent, expensive underwear. He couldn’t help but imagine the flimsy pieces of satin and lace on her sister instead, although he was sure Angelica had never spent money on frivolities. She was too busy taking care of everyone else.

  So who had taken care of her all these years?

  No one.

  The thought shouldn’t disturb him, but it did.

  He remembered the few hot nights they’d spent together. Pure heaven. Erotic and wild, and…wonderful.

  Which was all the more incentive for him to solve this case. Then she could resume her life and he could forget about her.

  Shaking off the thoughts, he went into the little boy’s room. The sight of the toys sobered him. Poor Stevie’s innocence had been shattered with his mother’s death just like the Christmas tree ornaments that still lay broken on the living room floor. Exactly what had the little boy seen? Could he identify the killer’s face?

  Max glanced around for any evidence the CSI team might have missed and spotted a sketch pad lying on the bed. Curious, he picked it up and read Stevie’s crude writing.

  Dear Santa…

  Unable to spell very well or to write complete sentences, he had drawn a picture of a woman—his mother, Max assumed, because she had white-blond hair. But she was standing at a distance from the picture he’d drawn of himself. Beside him, he’d drawn another female, this one smiling, with bright blue eyes just like Angelica’s. Below it, he’d drawn a bicycle with the training wheels lying off to the side.

  Hmm, so the kid wanted a bike without training wheels. He wondered if Stevie knew how to ride one, then dismissed the thought as he turned the page and saw a sketch of the Christmas tree the way it had once stood with the train running in circles around the base.

  Max had wanted a train like that when he was a kid. But it had been too expensive.

  Because his old man had to pay for his bourbon instead.

  Damn, he had to stop thinking about the past. It was always that way this time of year.

  Would little Stevie always remember Christmas as the sad holiday where his mother died?

  And what about Angelica? Would she cry every Christmas for the sister she had lost?

  Angry, he strode down the stairs, headed outside to his car, then drove to Pandora’s Box.

  The minute he entered the smoky, crowded bar with its seedy decor, clear glass boxes with half-naked women dancing inside beneath strobe lights, he forgot about Christmas.

  This dark side of the world was the one he knew. The very reason he didn’t belong with Angelica and her nephew, or any child for that matter.

  The bartender slid a napkin in front of him. “What will you have?”

  “Club soda,” Max answered. “And some answers. Are you Will Inkling?”

  The man’s friendly stance immediately changed. “Look, buddy, I don’t want any trouble. What do you want?”

  Max removed a photo of Gina from his inside pocket. “You knew this woman, right?”

  Inkling’s face paled. “Yeah, she worked here.”

  “And you had an affair?”

  “I wouldn’t call what Gina and I did an affair.”

  Inkling laughed, but Max didn’t. “Where were you night before last? Say around 2:00 a.m.?”

  Inkling handed him the club soda. “Right here. Worked till four.”

  Easy enough to check.

  “Know anyone who might want to hurt the lady?”

  Inkling cut his eyes toward the back room. “She and the boss had an argument a few days ago.”

  “About what?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I will. And I also need a sample of your DNA,” Max said.

  “You got a warrant?”

  “You want to be dismissed as a suspect, you won’t argue.”

  Inkling glared at him, then threw up his hands. Max removed a Q-tips and swabbed the man’s mouth, then placed it in a bag and marked it for evidence. He tossed a few single bills on the bar, downed the soda and stalked through the smoky room to an exit leading to a hallway where he assumed the offices were. A hulking man wearing all black stopped him at the door. “Where do you think you’re going, mister?”

  “To speak to your boss. Are you Larry Bevels?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Max flashed his badge. “The Atlanta Police Department.” In spite of the man’s six-foot stature, Max glared down at him. “I heard you and Gina North had a relationship.”

  “I tried to help the bitch, but she wasn’t very smart.”

  “That’s obvious from her choice in men.”

  “I didn’t hurt her,” Bevels said. “I…tried to warn her off.”

  “Off what?”

  “Off playing games with the big man. He doesn’t like anyone yanking hi
s chain, especially a woman.”

  “Then he’s the one I need to see. His name?”

  “Darnell Coper doesn’t want to see you.” Bevels folded his arms and blocked the hallway again.

  “We can do it the easy way or the hard,” Max said in a lethal tone. “I can run you in for suspicion of murder and hold you twenty-four hours. What do you think your parole officer will think of that?”