by Nora Roberts
sorry after.”
“When I make a choice, I don’t play the hindsight game. I also know you’re not warning me, you’re warning yourself.”
He dropped his hands and rose. “We’ve got other things to deal with today. What are you doing about the shop?”
“We’re closed today.”
“Good. We’ve got to get down to the station house. Get yourself together, and I’ll make some breakfast.”
“Can you?”
“I can pour milk on cold cereal.”
“Yummy.”
She tossed the quilt aside as he started out. “Oh, Conroy,” he said over his shoulder, “I like your pig.”
While Jed and Dora were sharing a box of cornflakes, DiCarlo paced his New York apartment. He hadn’t slept. He’d worked his way through half a bottle of Cutty Sark during the long night, but the effects couldn’t dull his fevered mind or give him peace.
He couldn’t go back to Philadelphia. The dead cop was one thing, but he’d left behind two witnesses. Two who had certainly seen his face well enough for an ID.
They’d make him, DiCarlo thought grimly, and poured another glass. And they’d tie him to the dead patrol. If there was one thing DiCarlo knew about cops, it was that they were relentless in pursuing anyone who’d killed one of their own.
So not only couldn’t he return, but he’d need to go underground, at least until the weather chilled. A couple of months, he mused. Six at the most. That was no problem. He had plenty of contacts, plenty of liquid cash. He could spend a nice warm winter in Mexico, swilling margaritas. Once the cops finished chasing their tails, he would return.
The only hitch was Edmund J. Finley.
DiCarlo studied the merchandise he’d stacked against the wall beside his Christmas tree. They looked like sad, neglected presents, unwrapped and unwanted.
The bookends, the parrot, the eagle, Lady Liberty, the china dog. Counting the figurine he’d already delivered, that made six out of seven. Anyone but Finley would consider that a success.
It was only one lousy painting, he thought. Christ knew he’d given it his best shot. He had a black eye, a split lip and sore kidneys. His cashmere coat was ruined.
He’d done more than his share to correct a mistake that hadn’t been his in the first place. As soon as he had time, he was going to pay back Opal Johnson for that. In spades.
In the meantime, he just had to figure out the best way to approach Finley. After all, Finley was a businessman and knew one had to take losses along with profit. So he would approach Finley just that way. Businessman to businessman. It wouldn’t hurt to put Finley in a cheery mood by personally presenting him with the five newly recovered items first, then elicit sympathy and admiration by detailing the specifics.
He’d explain about the cop, too. Surely a man like Finley would understand the great personal risk taken by icing a badge.
Not enough, DiCarlo admitted, and picked up his ice pack to press it against his bruised cheekbone. He crossed to his foyer mirror to examine himself. It was just as well he was too busy to celebrate New Year’s Eve. He could hardly go out in a crowd of people, since his face looked as though it had gone through a meat grinder.
He was going to have to get back to the Conroy woman, and the man across the hall as well. It would take some time. DiCarlo prodded gently beside his swollen eye, winced. He could be patient. Six months, a year. They’d have forgotten about him by then. But he wouldn’t forget.
There would be no plans to kill her humanely this time. No indeed. This was one vendetta that would be executed slowly and with great pleasure.
The idea made him smile, then swear as the movement opened his split lip. DiCarlo staunched the blood with the back of his hand, turned away from the mirror. She would pay, there was no question. But his first order of business was Finley.
He knew he could run from the cops, but he wasn’t certain he could escape his employer. He would use reason, practicality and flattery. And . . . DiCarlo pressed the ice bag against his mouth and smiled with his eyes only. Good faith. He would offer to put another man on the job, at his own expense.
Surely that was an offer that would appeal to Finley’s business sense. And his greed.
Satisfied, DiCarlo went to the phone. The sooner he was finished in California, the sooner he could hit the beaches in Mexico.
“I want to book a flight, first class, New York to LA. First available. Not until six-fifteen?” He drummed his fingers on his desk, calculating. “Yes, yes, that will be fine. No, one way. I’ll want to book another flight from LA to Cancún, on the first of January.” He opened a desk drawer, took out his passport. “Yes, I’m sure the weather will be an improvement.”
“I think his face was a little longer.” Dora watched the computer-generated image change on the monitor to the quick rattle of the operator’s fingers on the keyboard. “Yeah, that’s it. And thinner, too.” Unsure, Dora shook her head and looked over at Jed. “Did he have more eyebrows? I think I’m making him look like Al Pacino.”
“You’re doing fine. Finish going through your impressions, then we’ll add mine.”
“Okay.” She closed her eyes and let the dark image come back, but the quiver of panic came with it, and she opened her eyes again. “I only got a quick look. He . . .” She reached for the ice water she’d requested. “I think he had more hair than that—and it might have had some curl to it.”
“Okay.” The operator tried on a different hairstyle. “How’s that?”
“It’s closer. Maybe his eyes were heavier—you know, more lid.”
“Like this?”
“Yes, I think . . .” She let out a sigh. “I don’t know.”
Jed moved behind her chair, laid his hands on her shoulders and automatically began to knead out the tension. “Thin out the lips and nose,” he ordered. “The eyes were deeper set. Yeah, that’s it. She was right about the eyebrows, a little heavier. More. Square off the chin some.”
“How do you do that?” Dora whispered.
“I got a better look at him than you, that’s all.”
No, that wasn’t all, she thought. Not nearly all. He’d seen what she’d seen, but he’d absorbed and filed and retained. Now she was watching the image of her attacker taking shape on the monitor.
“Now deepen the complexion,” Jed suggested, narrowing his eyes, focusing in. “Bingo.”
“That’s him.” Shaken, Dora reached up to lay a hand over Jed’s. “That is him. That’s incredible.”
Like a proud papa, Brent patted the monitor. “It’s a hell of a tool. Jed had to do some fast shuffling to get it in the budget.”
Dora smiled weakly and forced herself to stare into the computerized eyes. “Better than Nintendo.”
“Give us a printout,” Brent told the operator. “We’ll see if we can come up with a match.”
“I’d like a copy.” Relieved to have it behind her, Dora got to her feet. “I want to make sure Lea and Terri see it, in case they notice him hanging around near the shop.”
“We’ll get you one.” Brent nodded to the operator. “Why don’t you come back to my office for a few minutes?” He took her arm, guiding her out of the conference room and down the hall. She glanced at a door, read CAPTAIN J. T. SKIMMERHORN on the glass.
It looked as though the department was keeping a light in the window.
She looked up at Jed. “T for testosterone?”
“You’re a laugh a minute, Conroy.”
“Oh, I forgot to mention it last night.” Brent opened his office door and ushered Dora inside. “I got a call from your mother the other day.”
“My mother?” Dora lifted a brow and chose a chair.
“An invitation to their New Year’s Eve bash at the theater.”
“Oh.” Tomorrow, Dora remembered. She’d all but put it out of her mind. “I hope you can make it.”
“We’re looking forward to it. The Liberty Theater New Year’s Eve bash has quite a rep.” Brent reache
d in a drawer and took out an envelope. “Your pictures. We’re keeping copies, but there doesn’t seem to be anything unusual about them.”
She slipped them out and chuckled. The first shot was of Richie’s wide open mouth, taken at super-close range. Self-portrait, Dora imagined. She’d have recognized that crooked eyetooth anywhere. Obviously, the little brat had gotten hold of her camera.
“Disgusting, but not unusual.” She put the envelope inside her purse. “So, where do we go from here?”
“You don’t,” Jed snapped. “The police do.”
“Oh, are you back in command, Captain?” She only smiled at the killing look he aimed at her. “Who exactly is in charge?” she asked Brent.
He cleared his throat, pushed up his glasses. “Well, it’s my case.”
“Well then.” Dora folded her hands in her lap and waited.
“Until we run this guy down,” Brent began, watching from the corner of his eye as Jed paced, “we’ll put a couple of guards on your building.”
She thought of the cop, of the wife, of the children. “I don’t want anyone else put at risk.”
“Dora, there isn’t a man in this precinct who wouldn’t volunteer for the duty. Not after Trainor. This guy’s a cop killer.” He glanced over at Jed. “Which is why it was easy for me to put a rush on Ballistics. The bullet they took out of Trainor matched the ones we dug out of the wall in your building.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Jed muttered.
“I’ve got a case to build.” Brent took off his glasses to polish them on his wrinkled shirt. “If we bring this bastard in alive, I want stacks of evidence. I’m sending out the ballistic report to other precincts throughout the city and the state. Something might match.”
It was a good move. Jed only wished he didn’t feel so bitter at not being able to instigate it. “Where’s Goldman?”
“In Vail,” Brent said under his breath. “Skiing. He took a week’s vacation.”
If Jed hadn’t been so angry, he’d have been stupefied. “Son of a bitch. He’s got a dead cop at his feet—one of his own men. He’s got no business taking vacation during the holidays when his men are working double shifts.”
“He had the time coming.” Brent snatched up his shrilling phone. “Call back,” he barked into it, and slammed it down again. “Look, I hope he breaks his candy ass. Maybe then you’ll get off yours and come back where you belong. We got a dead cop, and the morale level around here’s about butt high on a dwarf because we’ve got a commanding officer who’s more worried about having his pretty teeth bonded than seeing to his men.” He stabbed a finger at Jed. “What the hell are you going to do about it?”
Jed drew slowly on his cigarette, exhaled, drew again. He didn’t speak, didn’t dare. Instead he turned on his heel and walked out.
“Screw it.” Brent looked at Dora, grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Actually, she’d found the entire incident illuminating. “Do you think it did any good?”
“No.” It embarrassed him to lose his temper in public. It always did. A dull flush was already working up his neck. “Once Jed’s made up his mind, you couldn’t change it with mortar fire.” He dropped down into his chair. “Made me feel better, though.”
“Well, that’s something. I’d better go after him.”
“I wouldn’t.”
She only smiled and picked up her coat. “See you tomorrow night.”
She caught up with him half a block away. Dora didn’t bother to shout his name and ask him to wait. She was quite sure it would have been a waste of breath. Instead she trotted up beside him, matched her stride to his.
“Nice day,” she said conversationally. “The temperature’s up a bit, I think.”
“You’d be smart to stay away from me right now.”
“Yeah, I know.” She tucked her hand through his arm. “I like walking in the cold. Gets the blood moving. If we turn this way, we’ll end up in Chinatown. Some great little shops.”
Jed deliberately turned the other way.
“Mmm, perverse,” Dora commented. “You’re not really mad at him, you know.”
“Don’t tell me what I am.” He tried to shake her off, but she hung on like a silk-covered burr. “Will you get lost, Conroy?”
“Impossible. I know my way around this neighborhood too well.” She studied his profile, but resisted the urge to stroke the tension out of his jaw. “You can yell at me if you think it’ll make you feel better. It usually works when I’m mad at myself.”
“Do I have to have you arrested for harassment?”
She batted her lashes. “Do you think it would work, a little thing like me molesting a big, tough guy like you?”
He shot her one brief, nasty look. “At least you could shut up.”
“I’d rather annoy you. You know, if you keep your jaw clenched like that, you’re going to break a tooth. Lea used to grind her teeth at night, and now she has to wear this plastic thing in her mouth whenever she goes to bed. It’s stress. Lea’s always been a worrier. Not me. When I sleep, I tune every thing out. I mean, that’s the point of sleep, isn’t it?”
Before they could round the next corner, Jed stopped, turned toward her. “You’re not going to quit, are you?”
“Nope. I can keep this up indefinitely.” Reaching down, she tugged up the zipper of his jacket, smoothed the collar. “He’s frustrated because he cares about you. It’s tough being cared about, because it loads all this responsibility on. You’ve had a potful of responsibility, I imagine. It must be a relief to toss it out for a while.”
It was tough to hold on to temper with someone who understood so perfectly. But if he let go of temper, despair might creep in. “I had reasons for resigning. They still hold.”
“Why don’t you tell me what they were?”
“They’re my reasons.”
“Okay. Want to hear my reasons for leaving the stage?”
“No.”
“Good, I’ll tell you.” She began to walk again, leading him back around the block to where he’d parked his car. “I liked acting. That’s hardly surprising with all those hammy genes swimming around in my blood. I was good, too. Once I graduated from the kid parts, I took on stuff like Our Town and The Glass Menagerie. The reviews were terrific. But . . .” She glanced up under her lashes. “Piqued your interest yet?”
“No.”
“But,” she continued, undaunted, “it wasn’t really what I wanted to do. Then, about five years ago, I got an inheritance, from my godmother. Anna Logan. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She made a big splash in B movies back in the thirties and forties, then went into agenting.”
“I never heard of her.”
“Well, she was loaded.” A car zoomed by, too fast, and sent up a breeze that fluttered Dora’s hair. It was still flying when she turned her head to smile up at Jed. “I was fond of her, too. But she was about a hundred years old and had had a hell of a life. Anyway, I took the money and a couple of courses in business management. Not that I needed them—the courses, I mean. Some things are innate.”
“Is there a point to this, Conroy?”
“I’m getting to it. When I told my family what I was going to do, they were upset. It really hurt them that I wasn’t going to use what they considered my gifts and carry on in the Conroy tradition. They loved me, but they wanted me to be something I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have been happy in the theater. I wanted my own shop, my own business. So even though it disappointed them, I went ahead and did what was right for me. It took a long time before I adjusted to the responsibility of being cared for, worried over and loved.”
For a moment he said nothing. It surprised him that he wasn’t angry any longer. Sometime during her monologue his temper had dissipated, broken up like a nasty storm and blown away on the wind of Dora’s persistence.
“So the moral of your incredibly long, convoluted story is that since I don’t want to be a cop, I shouldn’t get pissed because a friend wants to
guilt me back onto the force.”
With a sigh, Dora stepped in front of him, put her hands lightly on his shoulders. “No, Skimmerhorn, you missed it entirely.” Her eyes held his now, very sober and sympathetic. “I wasn’t cut out to be an actor, so I made a choice that my family didn’t agree with, but that I knew, inside, was right for me. You’re a cop right down to the bone. You just need to wait until you’re ready to admit you made the right choice in the first place.”
He snagged her arm before she could walk again. “Do you know why I left?” His eyes weren’t angry now, but dark and blank and, to Dora, frightening because of the emptiness of emotion. “I didn’t