Deadly Aim

by Patricia H. Rushford

  He rubbed his eyes, feeling the grit from too many hours on the street. Maybe he was getting too old for this business. His mother had always warned him about burning the candle at both ends. Maybe she’d been right, ’cause he was sure feeling the heat.

  Angel went quiet at the news about the kid’s gun. She sat stiffly in the chair, staring out the window, her eyes fixed on a cherry tree coming into bloom. Her dark hair hung in damp ringlets that dripped water down her back. She wished she could think of something to say. She hoped Joe would tell her it would work out okay, but they both knew the opposite was true.

  “What now?” She turned to him, knowing her eyes and voice betrayed her, making her sound vulnerable and afraid.

  “I’ll have to put you on administrative leave.”

  She nodded. He was going to have to find an officer to replace her. Unfortunately, there was no money in their already overextended budget.

  “I suppose you’ll want my key to the evidence lockers,” Angel said.

  He nodded, and she removed the key from her key chain and set it next to the urine sample.

  Joe pulled open the top side drawer of his desk and moved papers aside—probably thinking he’d have been better off not hiring Angel in the first place. She knew he’d hired her as a favor to her father. Frank Delaney had asked Joe to offer her a job after one of their guys had been killed in a domestic violence case a little over a year ago. The police chief had done it as a favor, but Angel had been more than qualified.

  And she’d proven herself, especially with her negotiation skills in domestic violence cases. She could take care of herself. She could and would get through this.

  Apparently finding what he’d been looking for, Joe pulled a card out of a banded pack. “I want you to see a psychologist. Dr. Campbell has worked with officers in the past.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “No is not an option,” Joe snapped. “Seeing a shrink in a case like this is standard protocol, and you know it.”

  She did, but she didn’t like it.

  “Call. The sooner the better.”

  Angel took the card.

  “You’ll make an appointment?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone,” Joe said. “Do you need someone to give you a ride home?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  She sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “How do you expect me to look? I just shot a—” The words caught in her throat, and she ducked her head.

  “Look, Angel, I don’t mean to seem hard-nosed about this, but I know what can happen in cases like this. One guy I worked with in Portland a few years back accidentally killed another officer. Took it so hard he committed suicide. I don’t want that happening to you. You need support. Family.”

  Her spine went rigid as he spoke. “I’m not going to kill myself.”

  “Good. Now go home.”

  “I’d like to finish my report first.” She started for the door.

  “You don’t need to write this up. Your statement will be in Detective Riley’s report.” Joe cleared his throat.

  She looked back at him. “Did you want something else?”

  “No, I’m just... I’m sorry this happened to you.” For a moment he looked sympathetic.

  “Thanks.” Angel raised her chin a notch.

  “Uh, if you need to talk about it...”

  Joe’s comment faded as she closed the door.

  She turned back, thinking she should go back and apologize, but through the window she saw him picking up the phone. She hurried past the receptionist’s desk and steeled herself against the tears that would come if she didn’t get away from the police station fast. She would not cry—not in front of Joe, not in front of anyone. She balled up the paperwork she’d started and threw it in the trash, then headed for the locker room, where she gathered personal items from her locker. A book she’d never opened. A brush, hair bands, an extra pair of tennis shoes. The small black notebook she kept in her uniform pocket.

  Brandy Owens came into the locker room. Her replacement? Brandy was the only other woman police officer in Sunset Cove.

  “Hey, Angel, what’s up?”

  Hadn’t she heard yet? Good. The last thing Angel needed was more sympathy.

  Brandy frowned as Angel grabbed her stash of candy bars off the top shelf and dumped them into her duffle bag. Brandy had large blue eyes and kept her tan even after a long winter; Angel suspected she spent some time each week either lathering on the sunless tanning lotion or lounging in a tanning bed. Her blonde hair was woven in a neat French braid that reached the middle of her back. “You cleaning out your locker?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Brandy glanced at her own and grimaced. “Not a bad idea. Except I’m afraid of what I might find in there.” She hesitated. “Are you sick or something? Joe called and asked me to come in today but didn’t say why.”

  Angel gulped and choked back the thick mass forming in the back of her throat. “Something like that.” She mustered up a smile. “I’m out of here.” She hurried away before Brandy could ask any more questions. She wasn’t ready to talk to her or anyone else. She needed time alone to think. No, not to think. Angel didn’t know what she needed; she only knew she had to get away.

  As she walked out of the building, she had the foreboding sense she was leaving for the last time. That’s crazy. You’ll be back. As soon as the details are cleared up and the crime scene investigators determine what happened. You were doing your job. You’ll be back to work in no time.

  Angel made her way through the parking lot to her rebuilt 1972 Corvette. Luke’s car, really. She’d just taken it over when he left. An old ache made its way into her heart again as thoughts of her brother overtook her own problems. He was the oldest of the five Delaney kids. Dad’s favorite. At least he had been until he disappeared. He’d graduated from Harvard Law School with honors then joined a prestigious law firm in Portland. Four years ago, he’d gone on a business trip and never came back. He’d sent a note telling the family not to worry. The note read like a will. In it he’d asked Angel to take care of his car.

  Tears rimmed her eyes. She brushed them away with the palm of her hand. This was not the time to be thinking about Luke. She slid behind the wheel, pushed the key into the ignition, and twisted it, bringing the engine to life. Lowering the windows, she reached for the door, but Nick grabbed hold of the frame before she could shut it.

  “What are you doing here?” Angel turned away, pretending to be looking for something in the glove box. When she finally looked back, he was still there, resting his arms on the door.

  “You gonna be okay?” His concerned gaze leveled on hers as if daring her to lie.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” She avoided looking him in the eye, hoping he wouldn’t press her. It wouldn’t take much for her to fall apart.

  He shrugged. “You were pretty shook up back there. I thought—”

  “I’m fine, Nick. I’m going home.”

  “Uh, did you hear about the kid’s weapon?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” She ran a hand through her damp curls.

  He nodded and straightened. “Want me to follow you?”

  “I’m perfectly capable of driving myself home.” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended.

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay.”

  “Nick... look, I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help, but I’m okay. Really.”

  “I understand. If you need me, I’ll—”

  “I know. You’ll be there.” Like he always was. Only she didn’t want his help or anyone else’s. She wanted to be left alone.

  Nick closed the car door and tapped the roof with the palm of his hand. “I’ll check on you later.”

  “Sure.” Angel started to back out when she remembered the replacement gun Nick had given her. “Um—Nick, do you
want your gun back?”

  “No. It can wait until you get yours back. I have three more at home.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  An hour later Angel stood under a hot shower in her apartment, scrubbing Billy’s blood from under her fingernails with a brush. Even though she’d washed every trace of blood away, she lathered her body with fruit-scented soap over and over until the water went cold. She slammed her palm against the faucet to shut it off, then stepped out of the shower and rubbed herself down.

  Shivering, she pulled on warm sweats and towel-dried her hair. Black as midnight, it curled in loose ringlets and reached two inches below her shoulders if she straightened it out. Tears had turned her mascara to smoky gray smudges, adding depth to the shadows forming under her eyes. She turned away from the mirror and the accusing gaze that stared back at her. Had she really killed a twelve-year-old boy? Had his weapon really been a toy? It didn’t seem possible. How could she have made a mistake like that?

  This can’t be happening. It’s a dream, right? Please, God, tell me it’s a dream.

  Angel didn’t get an answer, but then, she hadn’t expected to. God wasn’t paying much attention to her these days—if he ever had. His indifference had come through loud and clear with Luke’s disappearance, and even more so with Dani’s death. A little over a year ago, her best friend, Dani Ortega, had been shot and killed while they had been trying to save the children in a day care center.

  Angel blinked away the fresh onslaught of tears. God had been as silent then as he was now.

  Still chilled to the bone, she went to the kitchen and heated a cup of water in the microwave. She paced across the clammy linoleum floor while she waited, rubbing her arms to warm them. Her apartment was one of those cookie-cutter places, long and narrow with not nearly enough light. There was a closet on the left of the entryway, and her bedroom was off to the right. The hallway opened into the kitchen, left, which melted into the living room with a breakfast bar in between. In the far left corner of the living room was an angled wall with a shelf for her television set and stereo. Under it was a gas fireplace.

  She wandered into the living room to the sliding glass door and miniature patio. Pushing the heavy door open, she stepped outside. She had a view of the ocean, though sometimes she wondered why she’d bothered. The weather was often gray in Oregon, with the ocean and fog melding into an obscure mass. At times like that, she actually missed Florida. Today though, the sky was clear, the temperature in the high sixties. All up and down the beach, Angel could see people taking advantage of the pleasant spring day. Below her a couple walked along the shoreline, stopping to examine something they’d found in the sand.

  The microwave beeped, letting her know the water was hot. She stood on the deck a while longer, her hands gripping the rail. A cool breeze ruffled her hair, and she inhaled deeply of the moist salt air. She’d read somewhere that deep breathing relieved stress. It didn’t.

  Her teeth were chattering when she came back inside. Going to her fireplace, Angel switched on the gas and stared into the flames. The beeper sounded again.

  “Okay, okay. I’m coming.” Angel wandered back into the kitchen and dropped a chamomile tea bag into the steaming water, then swirled and dunked. Giving the spent bag a final squeeze, she set it on the little ceramic tea bag holder her mother had made in an art class several years ago.

  Angel took her drink to the sofa and curled up under a cream cable-knit afghan. Her mother, Anna, had made that too. Angel warmed her hands on the cup, almost wishing her mother was there now, cooking up her spicy chicken noodle soup. She’d dish up a steaming hot bowl and bring it to Angel on a tray. “Eat up, honey. It’s good for you. It’ll make you feel better.”

  A tear slid down her cheek, followed by another. And another. “Not even your soup will make this better, Ma.”

  Her mother would be getting home from church about now. She’d be bustling around in that huge Italian kitchen of hers, getting lunch and making preparations for dinner. Sunday dinners at home had been one of the things Angel missed most when she’d lived in Bay City. And home had been a haven for her when she’d come back from Florida. She’d stayed six months, licking her wounds, trying to get over Dani’s death. Trying not to blame herself. Not a day went by that she didn’t wonder what she could have done differently, wishing she had run into that day care ahead of Dani.

  Then you’d be dead.

  Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. I wouldn’t have been there today. I wouldn’t have fired at that boy.

  Billy. She wondered if her dad knew about him yet. He probably did. He’d been there. She’d forgotten that until now. She’d meant to check with dispatch and find out why he hadn’t been at the scene with the others. He must’ve been called away. She couldn’t imagine Frank Delaney staying on the sidelines or not showing up when something like an officer shooting involving his daughter was going down. Unless he’d been hurt.

  The phone rang. Angel glanced at it and turned back to her tea. She wasn’t ready to talk to anyone yet and wondered if she ever would be. After three rings the answering machine picked up.

  “Angel.” The rough voice belonged to her father.

  Angel blew out a sigh of relief. He was safe, which meant he’d gone to another call.

  “Just heard about your run-in with the gang. Joe said you brought one of ’em down and that you were taking it pretty hard.” Her dad hesitated, then added, “Don’t. You hear me? The streets are better off without punks like that.”

  “He had a toy gun, Dad,” she muttered into her drink. Chances are, since he’d talked to Joe, he already knew about the gun. Angel thought briefly about picking up the receiver, but she couldn’t trust herself to talk. Especially not to her father. Frank Delaney was a veteran police officer, crusty and tough. He would be okay with the shooting, he just wouldn’t understand why it was tearing her inside out. Angel had never told him about Dani and how her world had collapsed, how she almost hadn’t come out on the other side of the darkness, and how sometimes she felt like she was still there.

  Her father didn’t tolerate weakness in any of his kids. Well, that wasn’t exactly true; he expected some weakness in her, a girl, but she’d proven over and over that she could be as tough as any of his sons.

  “Call me.” He hesitated. “Oh, by the way, your mother wants you to come for dinner.”

  The machine clicked off. She was about to unplug the phone when it rang again. She got up to answer it. Her hand shook as she reached for the receiver, then stopped. It was probably her mother, the last person she wanted to talk to. “Sorry, Ma. I just can’t...”

  After the answering machine beep came a male voice. “Hi, honey,” Brandon Lafferty crooned.

  Had Brandon already heard? Probably not. The news programs wouldn’t start until 5:00, and Brandon’s plans for Sunday mornings usually included golf or tennis with his father and brother at the country club. “Just wanted to remind you about tonight. Pick you up at 6:00. I thought we’d have dinner at Maxwell’s.... Love you.”

  “Oh no,” Angel groaned. She’d forgotten all about their date. The last thing she felt like doing was going to a restaurant, especially one like Maxwell’s. The restaurant sat atop the three-story Smith building and gave diners a perfect view of the beach. Normally she enjoyed eating there, but not today. Please not today.

  Angel reached for the phone to call him back and even punched in the number. But then she hung up. She couldn’t say why; maybe she just needed to do something other than think about the shooting. And Brandon would provide a good diversion.

  She was just about to sit down on the couch when the phone rang again. This time she gave up and answered.

  “Angel, honey. It’s your mother.”

  “I know.” Angel rolled her eyes. For some strange reason, her mother always felt compelled to preface every phone conversation with her identity.

  “Your father told me what happened. I’m so sorry. It’s a terrible thing, honey, e
ven if you were just doing your job like he said. You shouldn’t be alone, sweetheart.”

  “I’m okay, Ma. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Since when is shooting someone not a big deal?”

  “You want me to feel worse than I already do?” Angel rubbed at the beginnings of a headache. “Ma, please. I don’t want to talk about it, all right? I feel bad. And I’m really sorry all this happened.”

  “Of course you are.” She paused. “Listen, sweetheart, I made a chocolate cake this morning before church. Your favorite. I’m bringing some over.” With the change in subjects came a change in tone. Angel had never been able to figure out how her mother could make the switch so abruptly. Nothing seemed to bother her, at least not for very long.

  “You don’t have to do that.” In fact, please don’t. But she couldn’t bring herself to say this. She loved her mother’s chocolate cake.

  “Of course, I don’t, but it’s what mothers do. I’m coming, no argument.” She hung up.

  Angel thought seriously about leaving. She didn’t want to deal with her mother on top of everything else. Ma was the kind of woman who’d love you to death if you let her. Which was one of the reasons Angel had moved into her own place. Now that her kids had grown up, Anna spent most of her time taking care of other people. But she had loved having Angel come back to what she called her empty nest. She still thought of Angel as her baby girl and probably always would.

  When Angel had decided it was time to move into her own place again, her mother objected.

  “Stay, Angel. We have plenty of room.”

  “It isn’t right, my living at home anymore,” Angel told her. But she hadn’t dared tell the real reason—she felt smothered. It wasn’t easy trying to fit back into the home she’d grown up in. There were too many memories, too much confusion; and instead of treating Angel like the adult she’d become, her parents acted as though she had never left home.

  Angel, too, found herself reverting back to adolescence, back to a time when life was simpler, where burglaries, assaults, child abuse, and murders were light-years away. For a while it felt good to be cared for, but after six months she couldn’t handle it anymore. “You and Dad have raised your kids,” she told them. “You deserve some time alone.”