Returning Fire

by Frans Harmon

  “They appreciate having officers present.” She said, returning to him, and flashing a smile. Then looking out the window, she furrowed her brow and pointed. “Those boats, they are going to hit.”

  “What?” Mace shifted over to the seat next to her, “Where?”

  She pointed out an approach between a plowing powerboat and a sailboat heeling over, its mainsail full. “You’re right; they’re going to be very close, it’s going to be cozy.”

  A table boy came over and swept the place settings across from them off the table. I like it cozy.

  “Oh, that’s captain Jacks’ cruiser,” she said, “hates to yield, but in the end, he’ll yield to tradition and power into reverse.”

  The two boats maintained their approach until collision seemed imminent, then Jack’s powerboat lurched to a stop dipping into its own wake, as the sailboat, its occupants waiving, passed across his bow.

  “You know a lot of moves,” Mace said, shifting away from Anstice and after a sip of water added, “about boats.”

  Turning toward him, her eyes blossomed, underscored by a barely contained grin.

  “Not afraid, are you… about boats?”

  Anstice, with a hand under her chin, studied Mace. He shook his head and dropped his napkin across his lap. She continued her analysis; he returned a nervous grin. They were playing a dangerous game, but she knew what she had.

  A freckled face, hazel eyes, and beguiling fire red hair. She was beckoning him to a sunny place, a siren’s pull, but it wasn’t just him in danger of the emotional shoals. He leaned over. She could feel the warmth of his face. A longing stirred, a kiss would feel good, but their waiter approached. She reached with one hand brushing his curls back from his forehead, with the other a gentle push away. The waiter offered their bill-of-fare and announced the specials for the evening. Declining another cocktail, they opened their menus.

  Scanning without reading, Mace asked, “so, you spend all your career here in Detroit.”

  She had pushed him off at the bar, left a bit of a mystery about her. She wanted to gauge his interest. He was, but now she had to deliver. Her face tightened, she brushed some locks of red behind her ear, delaying. She decided. “After high school, I needed a job. Living in Dearborn, I joined there. Made detective in seven, worked homicide, investigative ops.”

  “Very nice, but I’m not surprised.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You seem the type that, once your mind is set on something, pursues until they get it, no quarter taken, none given.”

  A server placed a basket of bread on the table. Anstice moved closer, reaching for a piece. Mace reached for the basket but pushed it further away. Their eyes met; her closeness had the desired effect.

  “Yes, when I decide what I want,” she said, pausing with a beguiling smile, “no quarter taken, none given. She placed her hand on top of his and pulled the breadbasket towards her, selecting a warm boulangerie sample. “How about you? What’s your story?”

  “Not much to tell. Went to U of M, heard a pitch from the FBI, then the academy at Quantico, and worked in the Behavioral Sciences Unit. Got into profiling.”

  “Where you met Helyn?”

  “Whoa, so you know all this. You Google me?”

  “Of sorts,” she said while buttering her slice of French bread. “Dealing with the MBI in my town, I had to know what I was up against.”

  “So, you knew about my marriage and divorce?”

  “Uh-huh, and your Vulcan case. Hmm, so good,” she said, pointing to the bread.

  “Vulcan is a dead issue. Divorce is temporary. We are trying to put it back together.”

  “We?” Anstice asked with raised eyebrows, “How is that working out?”

  Mace tilted his head a thin smile, a look of uncertainty on his face. “Well, what about you? Ever get married?”

  Not what she wanted to talk about, but felt it had to come out, and maybe should, to avoid shedding to much light on her time in Dearborn.

  “My mom died of complications after my birth. My dad and I were very close. He was my best friend, really. But before I finished high school, he was killed in a carjacking. I missed him, married the first boy that showed an interest. Later, I figured out I was trying to replace my loss with another relationship. Didn’t go well. Divorce process was longer than the marriage.”

  “How’d you end up in Detroit?”

  “Opportunity knocked, I answered,” she lied.

  Mace fingered his water glass, staring; he wasn’t buying it. “You’re avoiding a question,” he said.

  “Tell me about it, Mace.”

  “All three of your brothers survive raising you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “A close call, I’d say.”

  They both laughed. Their waiter came, and they ordered seafood. She added her favorite white wine, a Stags Leap Chardonnay.

  “The deal was,” Anstice said, turning and placing a hand on his arm, “Money problems, Dearborn downsized me out of homicide and out the door. Uncle O’Reilly was a Detroit alderman. He twisted some arms and arranged for me to get picked up.”

  “Your uncle is no longer alderman, how is that settling with DPD’s boys’ club.”

  “Oh no, not so fast, you come clean about Helyn.”

  “You’re interested?” Mace said.

  Anstice brushed her hair over her shoulders and glanced out the window at the river. She saw the billowing fireball over the gas station, his car engulfed in flames, the electric surge through her body, even before she knew it was him grabbing her. She studied their reflection in the darkening window and then faced him. “Yes, I am… in you.”

  * * * *

  He leaned towards Anstice, his eyes sweeping the table, then locking onto her face. His heart was torn, a steady beat for Helyn, a quickening pace for her. “Okay. The divorce was angry, messy, we both said things we wanted to take back. That was five years ago. The Motel Murders brought us together. She was the ME, and Dorian brought me in to develop a profile. It got messy, and I became more involved than just profiling. We were caught in a hostage situation, and became close.”

  “Stockholm effect?”

  Mace nodded. “Could have been.”

  “And now?”

  The truth, beyond what he knew, was at the threshold of his lips. “It’s you.” He laid his hand on top of hers, his breathing slow and deep. “That fire ignited a connection between us. I can feel it as sure as the growing chill with Helyn. I’ve been trying to make it up to her, it’s what I wanted and thought she did also. Old wounds seem to get in the way, and now with you, I’m not sure. It’s complicated.”

  Their dinners arrived. Mace backed away from Anstice, she stared into the window, dabbing her eyes with her napkin. Wine poured; they tapped their glasses in a silent toast. They each took a few bites to tame their hunger.

  Anstice picked up her wine and watched Mace as he ate. She took a lingering sip. “I’ve made it messy, I’m sorry. What happened at the station… I’ve never felt like that. I want to hold on to it at least for a little while.”

  “Don’t, sorry is not what I am feeling, don’t be sorry. Let’s give it time, all that it needs, savor what we shared.”

  They didn’t move, their eyes channeling thoughts. Her eyes glistening, Anstice smiled. Mace turned his hand over, she added hers, they leaned towards each other, their breathing shallow. Where he was, vanished from his consciousness. They were on an island in a sea of bustling movement, passing waiters and dining din faded into the background. They lingered, mouths close, hot breath falling on their lips. She came to him, lips brushed, and then kissed., lips pushing hard, parting slightly. They released, eyes searching eyes, his lips covered hers, parted, tongue probing. This wasn’t Helyn. This was new. How had he forgotten?

  Her hand touched his face, then drifted over his lips. “Finishing dinner or you going straight to dessert?”

  “I don’t know.” He kissed her again. “You?”
>
  “Yes.” His lips searched for hers. Her hand interjected. “Dinner?”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re holding my hand…”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “And keeping my mouth busy.”

  Mace let go. They laughed, and could hardly look at each other without giggling again.

  They finished dinner but ordered another bottle of wine out on the river terrace. They sat next to each other, drinking in the wine and the Canadian skyline on the opposite bank. Umbrella shaped heaters tempered the night chill, and the red neon on a few of Windsor’s buildings laid crimson shafts of light across the water.

  Mace pondered the view, his mind wandering. Anstice held his hand, sipped her wine. “Old wounds?”

  “What?”

  “Old wounds were getting in the way… between you and Helyn.”

  “Let’s not talk about that. In fact, let’s not talk at all.”

  Mace kissed her, she kissed back. The dam broke, his passion flooded the moment. She pulled his head to her, they couldn’t stop, tongues probed, his need growing.

  He broke away. “We need to get a room.”

  Anstice kissed him again, then twice, and another. She pushed back and jabbed into her purse. Came up with her keys and handed them to Mace. “Better drive and better be quick.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Eyes closed, her seat laying back, and dinner sobering her mind Anstice fought the rhythmic lullaby of her Mustang’s throaty engine. He would assume she was asleep, and she needed to consider the evening. She had managed to limit his life probing to the edges of her core. But then so had he. Mace never revealed anything she hadn’t uncovered from social media or his FBI file. Emmitt, her ex, was more than willing to share. The problem, she admitted to herself, she was attracted to him, a connection she couldn’t seem to shake. Emmitt’s willingness was rooted in his own particular interest in Mace, especially Jirair. The two had history, Mace a secret. Did she want to get into the testosterone mix? And then there was the hypothetical why the murders were not the Vulcan’s doing? Do I really want to know more?

  Forty-five minutes after leaving Muer’s Mace pulled in front of his Ypsilanti townhouse. She didn’t move. Anticipation was palpable, the pause before a curtain rising. She could feel Mace leaning over her, a strand of hair brushed from her face confirmed it.

  “We’re here, Bear. I think you should come in.”

  Anstice opened her eyes. Going in is what she wanted, but not, she thought, for the lubricious reasons Mace had galloping through his mind. “No, I have an early status meet with Lieutenant Robers.”

  “Even for a seasoned Irish girl like you, Bear, your drive home would be sketchy at best.”

  Anstice released her seat and brought it upright. She brushed her hair back and forced a squint at the street lighting shining in. “Okay, but no hanky-panky. I have to be at that meeting, and Trayn Robers is after my ass.”

  Mace popped open his door. “You can have the guest bedroom. It has a loud alarm.”

  Anstice had her head back on the seat tilted towards the door, and her eyes closed. Mace pulled open her door. Cold night air rushed inside. It had cooled as quickly as the city had faded. Anstice pivoted, pulling her suit jacket tightly about her, she hugged herself and stroked her arms as she walked to the door.

  Mace unlocked his door and pushed it open just as she arrived. He coiled an arm about her and drew her into the warmth of his house. What she felt at the car-fire, when he grabbed her, returned. He closed the door and flipped on the lights as he released her.

  “Don’t,” she said, and looked up at him, “hold me… I’m still cold.”

  He wrapped both arms around her. She buried her head in his chest. She could see two bedrooms to the right with a bath in between. They were in the living room, behind was a kitchen with a breakfast counter and a small dining area to the left.

  “Can I get you anything? Rum to warm you up?”

  Her face bunched in mock disappointment, an open hand swatted his chest. “Scotch, dirty.”

  Mace chuckled while he poured some Glenlivet over ice for her and himself. He handed her the scotch, set his on the fireplace mantle, and began to slip out of his coat.

  “Before you do that, could you retrieve my to-go bag out of the trunk. I have a change of clothes and toiletries.”

  Mace nodded and went out the door.

  Anstice set her drink on the mantle, glanced into the guest bedroom, and then walked into Mace’s. She went into his walk-in closet, scanning the shelves. In the back on top, she saw what she was looking for.

  She quickly returned to the living room, flipped on the gas fireplace, and threw her jacket and scarf over a chair. Stripping the sofa of its cushions, she dropped them in front of the fire. She grabbed her drink and plopped onto the cushions, undoing another blouse button as he came through the door.

  Shedding his jacket, he tossed it onto a coat rack at the door and removed his waistband holster from his back. Anstice pulled her hip holster and handed it to Mace. “I presume you are locking yours.”

  Mace nodded, placed her bag in the guest bedroom, and returned from his without guns, sportscoat, or tie. Anstice sat with her legs folded under her, he settled next to her, they sipped their scotch, his face inches away, their eyes locked. She could feel his body heat even before the fire. Her control was slipping away, and for the moment, she didn’t care.

  “How can you be chilled and hot at the same time?”

  Mace breathed a laugh. “Be a hot redhead like you, Bear, needing attention.”

  Tossing her head back, a laugh gurgled in her throat. “Sounds like a line from a Woody Allen movie. And where did Bear come from?”

  He laughed. “Something I thought of while you were sleeping. Behrenhardt almost sounds like ‘bear-in-hibernation.’ I think it works.”

  Anstice laughed. “Works,” she said, tapping her glass to his.

  Mace chuckled with her. “Hmm, getting late. You need to get up early, and I need to find some wheels. Should call it a day.”

  Anstice turned and stared into the fire. It was not what she wanted. She wanted to be held, to be taken, and melt into one. “I’m not ready. I had a nap. Rest your head here,” she said, patting her lap.

  Mace spun, lying back, dropping his head onto her. “Don’t I get the night off, boss?”

  Setting her glass down, she leaned over him. His eyes drinking in her cleavage; she could feel it. Her hand swept curls from his forehead and, she bent low, her lips hovering, sharing breath, then a kiss. She lifted up, their eyes holding each other, she descended onto his lips. He responded, pulling her head to him. Their kiss was long, probing, without caution, and needing only more. Mace’s hand reached hers, fingers entwining.

  They separated. She ran her fingers through his tightly curled black locks and exhaled and unbuttoned Mace’s shirt just enough to slip her hand underneath.

  “I promised, and you have an early meeting with Lieutenant Butthead.”

  “Train Robers.”

  “Train…oh no,” he laughed.

  ‘Yes,” she said, shaking her head and joining his laugh. She dropped her head, and her red hair cascaded over him. Under the tent of hair, she examined his face. “You are going to be careful.”

  His face drew tight. “Of course, why are you saying that.”

  “I may never replace Helyn, but I can’t lose you.

  Her passion hot, Anstice undid the buttons on his shirt and rolled up his undershirt. She kissed his nipples toying with them, and butterfly-like nibbled down his chest to his tight abs. “I like.”

  She could feel his head twisting, contact broken, he sat up. Wanting the next level, indeed expecting it, Anstice began unbuttoning her blouse. But his eyes weren’t looking at her, something was wrong. Her passion hot and wild had met an iceberg of trouble. He was staring into the fire, his face sinking into dark depths.

  Anstice touched his face. “It’s Helyn? You are so devote
d.”

  Mace smiled. “No, its …”

  He had slipped away. Anstice slouched back, dropping her hands into her lap. Studying his face. She pulled her blouse about her.

  He didn’t say anything. “This was a bad idea, I’m sorry. I should go.” She buttoned her blouse and stood. Her eyes searching everywhere except his face.

  Mace reached up, grabbing her hand. “No, you shouldn’t… I don’t want you to.”

  “You’re not showing it.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry… It’s not you. And it’s not Helyn. It’s the fires, Sharlene’s case.”

  She sat back down on her haunches. “The FBI’s Vulcan theory.”

  His lips pursed, he nodded.

  “What difference does it make,” she said, tossing a hand, “as long as you get the perp.”

  “If it is the Vulcan, I have made a terrible mistake.”

  “That’s why you still have the files.”

  He gave her a wide-eyed look of surprise, and then a dipping nod.

  She nodded also. Now she could learn the truth about Jirair. What would she do with it? She wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Seated on his sofa, they faced a gray evidence box.

  Anstice had stirred Mace’s passion and convinced him of her feelings. But he had to understand what happened that night, on the rooftop of the Eddystone, before he got more involved. Mace didn’t want to hurt Anstice nor tempt her to compromise who she was. His mind held but one certainty about that night, that he was there on the Eddystone’s rooftop and Jirair fell to his death. But was Jirair the Vulcan? He could live with the answer, regardless of what he did, only if he were right.

  Mace hesitated, his stomach churning, his mind jumping from one remembered bit to another. What have I forgotten? The box sat there, on his oak coffee table cradled in its own black lid, daring him to unlock its secrets. He tried many times before. Why can’t I remember? Have I become one of the monsters I’ve been chasing?

  His hands hovered alongside the box. Eyes were watching, Anstice’s detective’s eyes. “Okay,” she said with a sigh and rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands, “you can do this.”