Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland)

by Christine Gael

  Lucky stood in front of the little house, clutching a gaily-wrapped box and the massive container of potato salad she’d grabbed from the Carnegie Deli in front of her like a sword and shield.

  This was always the tricky bit. Making the choice to walk in. Once she was there, she'd be okay. The warmth of Carlos’s little family, and the joyful chaos, enveloped her like a cozy sweater. Viv would walk over to her and pull her into a tight, vanilla-scented hug, and the kids would rush up shortly after, tugging her face down to pepper it with sticky kisses.

  But standing on the outside looking in, knowing it would exist with or without her because they were all the pieces needed to make up this particular puzzle, always made her want to run for just a split second.

  She was ‘Los’s partner. She had a different piece of him. A place in his world, and some days…most days?

  It was enough.

  More than she deserved, that was for damned sure.

  She steeled herself and rounded the corner just in time to catch ‘Los trailing behind Viv as she moved toward a table laden with food on the far side of the yard. She was carrying a tray piled high with grilled corn and he swatted her backside playfully.

  “Babe, stop, you almost made me drop it!" she laughed, the fine lines in her round, pretty face disappearing as she shot her husband a wink.

  The sweetness of the moment made Lucky stop short as her heart gave a squeeze.

  "Titi!"

  A squeal of delight jarred her back into motion as a tiny body came hurtling toward her.

  "Hey there, sweetpea," she murmured, propping the salad onto one hip and using her free arm to return Emmie's fierce hug. "How's summer been treating you?"

  "Hot," she exclaimed, pulling back to wipe her brow dramatically. She was wearing a lemon-yellow sundress, her jet-black hair in braids that trailed down her back, and Lucky spun her in a circle by her fingertips.

  "Love the new dress. You look like a cup of sunshine."

  “’Lita made it for me," the eight-year-old exclaimed, jerking a thumb behind her.

  Sure enough, Viv's mother, also known as ’Lita Gisella, was seated at the picnic table under a tropical umbrella making chimichurri with a mortar and pestle. Her steel-gray hair was scraped back into a bun and she didn’t glance up at Lucky’s arrival.

  Lucky swallowed hard as she released Emmie and handed the child the gift she’d brought.

  “This is for you, little miss.”

  Emmie beamed and thanked her before snatching the gift and running toward the house with it.

  “I got another one, Juni!” she called gleefully to her little brother as she barreled through the door.

  Lucky made her way across the sun-crisped lawn to set her potato salad down.

  "Hello, Mrs. Ortiz." She smiled at Viv’s mom, but ‘Lita Gisella’s eyes stayed locked on her work. “How are you feeling today?”

  ‘Lita Gisella paused in her work just long enough to turn her head and spit on the grass before returning her attention back to her bowl.

  As much as ‘Lita’s hatred made things awkward, Lucky couldn’t help but respect her commitment to it. Didn’t matter who was around, she didn’t try to pretend she felt anything but disdain for her son-in-law’s partner. And damned if Lucky could blame her. Because they both knew the old woman saw something no one else did. Something Lucky had spent the better part of the last couple years doing her best to ignore.

  She shoved the thought away, cheeks burning with shame as she racked her brain to think of something to say to this woman that wouldn't be met with even more scorn, but she was saved from the effort by ‘Los, who swooped in to sling a casual arm around her shoulder.

  "Hey, Luck," he said with an easy grin. "You're late."

  “It’s New York. Twenty minutes isn’t late,” she shot back with a snort.

  She wasn't about to tell him that she almost hadn't come at all. That, on days like today, when nothing seemed to be going right? When that visit with her dad was still fresh in her mind? When she was mentally and physically exhausted, with a tough case weighing on her and felt at her most alone?

  Watching him with his wife and kids was akin to having her heart stuffed into ‘Lita Gisella's mortar and pulverized by moments.

  She cleared her throat. "It was hell getting a cab."

  Carlos lived out in Queens. She could've taken the train and walked the rest of the way, but in this heat, she'd needed that few extra minutes of a/c to keep her head straight.

  "Ella, you look great," ‘Los’s wife said, bustling toward her, arms open wide.

  Lucky’s eyes stung as she stepped into the other woman’s embrace.

  Viv. Lucky loved her. Loved the way she treated her kids, a mix of discipline and fun. Loved the way she treated Carlos, like he was her rock and her partner. She even loved the way Viv treated the neighbor, often sending over a plate with the kids to make sure the elderly woman who lived there alone had eaten.

  If there was such a thing as salt of the earth, Viv was it.

  “Judas!” a little voice in her head hissed as she returned Viv’s hug, squeezing her sturdy frame hard before letting go.

  "Thanks so much for inviting me. I really appreciate it."

  “Stop that! You don’t need an invite. You’re family,” Viv admonished with a frown.

  “Thanks.”

  But she wasn't. Her family was nothing like this one. It had been fractured into a million pieces the day Brad died. And Lucky?

  She'd dedicated herself to finding out who was responsible for the demise of everything she'd held dear, first by changing careers. She landed a job in the precinct based on her stellar GPA and performance at the academy. But she’d landed her promotion to detective and spot on the homicide squad largely due to her father's connections, thereby earning her the scorn of every single cop and detective in the building.

  Except Carlos.

  When no one else wanted to be her partner, he’d stepped up. He had treated her fairly, and had given her a chance to earn his respect. Soon enough, without her ever having to tell him the story, he’d managed to piece it together. One late night, he’d laid his theory, point blank, on the table.

  “You and your dad still believe that your brother was murdered. That’s why you wanted to get on homicide. You think it will give you an edge, is that right?”

  She’d almost denied it. But over the months they’d spent working together, as she earned his respect, he’d earned hers, too, along with her admiration and gratitude. So she’d let it all out.

  Told him about her promise to her father. About her heartache over Brad’s death. About her last conversation with him, and how she’d felt that she’d failed him. And when ‘Los had looked into her eyes and vowed that he would be there for her when the time came to bring Brad’s killer to justice, no matter what shape that justice took?

  She’d known the bond they’d created was the realest thing she had in her life. She would never take it for granted. Nor would she ever risk it by crossing the line.

  She wished she could tell ‘Lita Gisella that.

  “Come on, let’s get you a plate,” Viv said, tugging her toward the table full of food.

  Four-year-old Carlos Junior, “Juni” to his loved ones, came outside to join them, a scowl on his face as he approached. “Am I gonna get this much presents on my birthday, too?” he asked. “Seems like an awful lot of stuff just for being borned.”

  “Actually,” Lucky murmured, reaching into her purse and pulling out a miniature airplane kit made from balsa wood, “I brought you a little something today, too, Juni.”

  “Yesss, thank you, Titi!” he howled, taking it from her hand with a beaming smile, reminding her of exactly how aptly he’d been named. He was ‘Los’s doppelganger. A younger, softer version of his father.

  She grinned as she watched him run off with his prize.

  “Brilliant, Ella. You’re the best. Thanks for thinking of him,” Viv said as she piled food onto a plate an
d handed it to her.

  “No problem.” Lucky took the plate and moved toward the picnic table where ‘Lita Gisella sat. ‘Los and Viv joined them, and they ate while the kids played in the yard with their new toys.

  The conversation and cold beer flowed, and, eventually, she could feel some of the tension leave her as the evening wore on.

  What never left, though?

  ‘Lita Gisella’s obsidian gaze, cutting into her skull as deftly as a bone-saw.

  "Hey, how come you’re home?" Lucky stopped short as she stepped through the door and peered down at Abby, who was curled on the sofa like a cat.

  Lucky had left the Figueroas’ house a couple hours before, but had wound up at the local watering hole for one to unwind afterward. She was surprised to find that it was almost eleven by the time she got home, and even more surprised to find her sister there.

  “I live here, duh.”

  Lucky closed the front door and locked it before setting her purse on the side table. “I assumed you’d be working or out. So how come you’re not sleeping, then?” she said as she stepped warily into the room.

  Abby turned and shot her an eye-roll. "Because it's not even midnight and I'm not seven years old?" Her sister tugged the throw closer around her shoulders and ran a hand through her hair. “Plus, we haven’t seen each other, and I wanted to see your face. You okay?"

  Leave it to her little sister to be all flip one second and dig into the heart of it the next. It was exactly that kind of roller coaster that made it almost unbearable to be around her some days.

  "Yeah, a tricky case came my way this week."

  "I saw on the news," Abby said, scooching up into a sitting position and patting the space beside her on the leather couch. "Come tell me about it."

  Lucky almost declined, but as she started to shake her head, she could see the hurt in Abby's eyes. She shrugged off her sports jacket and tossed it on the dining room table before taking the seat by her sister's feet.

  "I don't need to know details. I just want to know how you're holding up, that's all." Abby's voice had lost the tough-girl edge and ever-present snark, leaving behind only genuine concern. Lucky almost preferred the snark. At least that made sense to her. That was the Abby she'd known for years, now.

  It wasn't her fault. Lucky knew that on the deepest level, most days. Abby had been in college at the prime of her life, courting adventures and finding herself, when everything had come to a screeching halt. Their once joke-loving, close-knit family had been shattered. Abby moved back home because their mother couldn't bear to have her on the West Coast and out of her sight, Lucky had moved back home because she couldn't bear to be anywhere else, and the four of them floated around the house, passing each other but never really touching, like a bunch of ghosts.

  Six months in, young Abby had had enough. She re-enrolled in school, albeit in New York, and started to live again.

  Lucky wasn't proud of the fact that she sort of resented her for it. And as much as her parents loved them all, the most special love was for Brad because they'd never have him again. So when Abby found the strength to move on, to live her life, and make jokes again, no one laughed. And when Abby laughed? Their mother died a little inside. The very thought that the world would continue spinning without Brad in it…that any moment would ever be funny or joyous or...anything again, seemed impossible.

  And still, Abby laughed. And lived. And, judging by the number of guys that rolled in and out of her bed those first couple years, loved. All while the rest of them had just tried to get through the day without eating a bullet. And the wedge between them grew.

  Now, as Ella sat by her little sister, she still felt it. Abby was still hurt. Ella was still broken, but they'd made a pact when they'd moved their father into the nursing home that they would try.

  So she would sit here for a few minutes and try, god damn it.

  "The press is all up your asses on this one, huh?" Abby asked, tucking a strand of white-blond hair behind one ear.

  "Yup. They eat this kind of thing up. Good ratings and all, but definitely makes it tougher on us."

  "Have any suspects so far?"

  "No one that's really popping for me, no." She spied her sister's fluffy orange socks and smiled in spite of herself. "You know it's just shy of a thousand degrees out there. You could maybe go barefoot and stop putting the a/c on sixty-five."

  "I like to keep it cold and then put the socks on to feel snuggly," Abby protested, and winked. "Besides, I'm not paying the bill, sooo.”

  "Nice," Lucky chuckled. "I'm going to make myself some toast, you want?"

  Abby nodded and followed Lucky as she stood and made her way to the kitchen. Abby sat on one of the stools at the island while Lucky went to work on their snack. For just a second, the tension between them had faded and it felt...normal.

  Then, Abby opened her mouth again. "I—I've wanted to talk to you about Brad."

  Lucky set the plate she'd been holding onto the countertop with a clatter. “It’s been a bit of a day, and if it’s okay with you, I’d rather not."

  "Everyone would rather fucking not,” Abby snapped, pulling her feet onto the chair and hugging her knees to her chest. "But you know what, El? Not everything is about you."

  "I could say the same," she shot back. "When was the last time you went to see Dad? I know they called you when he fell, and you couldn’t be bothered to even go down there and check on him, could you?”

  "What difference does it make?" Tears filled her sister’s leaf-green eyes and those only pissed her off even more. "He doesn't know who I am half the time anyway."

  "Yeah, well, boo fucking hoo. Same here.” The smell of burnt toast filled the air but she ignored it, too preoccupied with her righteous, cleansing anger and the soft target to fire it at to bother with food. "You think it's hard seeing him? Imagine being him. He can't wipe his own ass. He thinks he's at a doctor's appointment and that we left him there. Just abandoned him. Some days I get there and he's by the door with his coat and hat, waiting for me, looking lost and afraid. His only son is dead, his wife is dead, and we are all he has left. You could at least make an effort."

  The tears were falling freely down her sister's face now, and with her righteous anger all used up, Lucky had to turn away as bile coated her throat.

  "I'm going to bed,” she muttered, trudging into her bedroom, her stomach in knots.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Why did it always have to go like this? She knew full well a lot of the blame fell on her shoulders, but she couldn't work up the fortitude to walk back out there and apologize. Because that would mean they'd have to talk about it. To pick and pull at that only partly-healed wound that was one touch away from breaking wide open again, and she wasn't sure she could stand it.

  So tell her that, a little voice inside her whispered.

  Lucky yanked the noise-cancelling headphones off her nightstand, plugged them into her ears and flopped back onto her bed.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her, or Mel, or ‘Los, or ‘Lita Gisella. Don’t think about Brad, or Dad, or Mom.

  Don’t think at all.

  Slowly, the sound of the city streets faded away, and the voice in her head went quiet.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow was a new day and she would think about it all then.

  For now, she needed to get some sleep. Because tomorrow?

  She had a murderer to catch.

  13

  "When you walk out of here tonight with your tassels flipped, don't look back on all the things you'll miss. Look to the future. Keep your eyes ahead. That's the only way to ensure you won't miss all the blessings that God has laid before you."

  Bishop Michael Moncrief had let his wise words settle over the rapt crowd and then instructed the graduating class of St. Bartholomew's High School to join him in the Lord's Prayer.

  The sound of the voices had echoed through the church, melding into one, giving him a sense of peace like no other. It wasn't ofte
n he got to visit St. Patrick's, but when he'd received the call that the Archbishop was unwell, he'd been thrilled to do it. The church itself was stunning, made even more so in comparison to the surrounding buildings. A beacon of community and hope in a city of chilly skyscrapers and chillier strangers.

  His brother Stephen had always told him he just didn't understand New York. That the beauty of the city and its inhabitants was that their voices didn't blend into one. Each person, each block, each neighborhood had its own flavor. Eventually, they had agreed to disagree, and he continued to hold a special place in his heart for this cathedral, if not the city it resided in.

  He was still smiling at the warm reception he'd received from the students earlier as he swept his robes over his head and changed into his travel clothes that night. He’d considered staying at the hotel again and going back home in the morning, but had opted to take a late night flight and sleep in his own bed.

  A sharp rap on the door caught his attention and he bustled toward it. When he swung it open, he found Mrs. Brennan, the woman who had helped with his travel arrangements, standing there with a smile.

  “The car is here, Your Eminence.”

  “Excellent, thank you.”

  He picked up his suitcase and she led him out. He took a moment to glance back at the cathedral and bid it a fond farewell. It really was breathtaking at twilight, juxtaposed against the painted, orange sky. A gleaming pearl thumbed into the guts of a filthy, putrid oyster.

  “Have a safe trip back home,” Mrs. Brennan said.

  “Will do, and thanks for everything.”

  When they reached the top of the stone steps, she gestured to a black sedan on the corner.

  “That’s you.”

  He made his way down the stairs, shifting his bag from one hand to the other, wishing he’d brought the one with wheels. As he approached, the driver stepped out of the car to open the back door. Michael slid in with a nod of thanks, slightly miffed that his driver hadn’t offered to stow his luggage.

  “Good evening," Michael murmured, awkwardly stuffing his suitcase in first and then climbing in. The driver shut his door before sliding in to the front seat.