Velvet Ropes

by Patricia Rosemoor

  Nodding at them instead, she got back to work, sorting through her caseload and picking the oldest cases that needed some kind of finding before she left.

  Even knowing she would be free to do what she needed in a few hours, she was champing at the bit to get started. Obviously, she couldn’t call Norelli or Walker for an update. From their expressions when they’d seen her with Dermot the afternoon before, she’d known they would view her involvement as a professional insult. At least come Monday, Logan would have the inside track at Area 4.

  That gave her tonight and all of tomorrow to work on her own.

  True to her word, she would keep a low profile if she could. She didn’t want to lose the job that had become everything to her. But if it became a choice between the job and Dermot O’Rourke’s life…

  Stella simply hoped it would never come to that, because in her mind and heart, Dermot would always come first.

  STELLA HADN’T STRAYED far from the old haunts, Dermot thought, only as far as Bridgeport, famous for being the south-side area of Chicago that had spawned more mayors than any other. The buildings were neat brick bungalows between rows of two and three flats. The streets were neat, too, as if daring any refuse to stray there. But autumn brought a new challenge of russet and gold raining down on them. Residents raked the leaves up as fast as they fell. An old guy was out there now, in the dark, doing his best to keep up with the dropping foliage.

  Bridgeport—blue-collar but still more affluent than Pilsen, the neighborhood his gang had preyed on when they’d been looking for a quick score. Dermot had actually believed he’d been done with his past life and this part of the city, and here he was being dragged back to it all.

  Maybe it was true, he thought, that you never outgrew your past.

  He pulled up to the curb in front of a red-brick two-flat, whose bay windows were inset with stained glass trim, but before he could cut the engine, Stella was on the porch, waving at him to stay in the car. He watched her bound down the steps, her long-sleeved orange midriff sweater glowing under the streetlights and giving him a glimpse of flesh that made his mouth go dry. Her hair was loose, waving around her shoulders tonight, and as she approached the car, he imagined tangling his fingers in the long, luscious strands….

  Then the car door opened, ending the fantasy.

  “A man who’s on time,” Stella said, sliding into the passenger seat. “I like that.”

  “I thought you wanted a powwow before going to the club.”

  “You can talk while you drive, right?”

  Her tone was light, but Dermot heard something in it that put him on notice. What? Was she afraid someone would see them together?

  That thought eating at him, he said, “Seat belt,” and pulled the car away from the curb.

  Buckling up, she asked, “Did you get a chance to go over your notes on your sessions with Tony?”

  Despite his slippery circumstances, Dermot found that he didn’t want to talk about Tony or about himself. He wanted to talk about her, to find out what her life was like away from the world of violence that she had embraced. He wanted to know if she was okay. If she was happy. If she’d ever been in love. Not that it was any of his business.

  Besides, that would be a dangerous path to follow. He could never be more to Stella than a friend unless she knew everything about him.

  So, instead of interrogating her, he said, “I’ve gone over maybe half of Tony’s session notes. So far, other than his jail mates and Johnny, the only person he talked about at length was Marta Ortiz.”

  “The alderman?”

  “Who happens to have been his cousin. Heartland is her baby. She believes in rehabilitation and second chances, and believes the way to do it is with structure and reeducation. She had influence in the parole process and she made sure Tony was assigned to the halfway house for six months as a condition of his release.”

  “I take it that didn’t make him happy.”

  Dermot turned south on Halsted Street, planning on taking it straight through Pilsen to the north side.

  “I wouldn’t say Tony was overjoyed. He figured Marta wanted to control him.”

  “As in?”

  “Making him see me, for one. Though, knowing Tony, he would have done so, anyway. He liked to get things off his chest.” Dermot’s mood darkened as he remembered the things Tony had confessed to all those years before. A confession that had changed Dermot’s life. “Even more, Tony liked the idea of talking to someone who couldn’t repeat what he heard.”

  The seal of the confessional….

  “What else did he say about the alderman?”

  “That she could be a raving lunatic when she was angry.”

  “So he was afraid of his own cousin?”

  “Let’s say he was committed to not making her angry.”

  “So, we have Johnny Rincon and Alderman Marta Ortiz—worlds apart. My bet’s on Johnny, though.”

  “Seems likely.”

  “And if it is, I’ll finally get to put him where he belongs.”

  Would that mean she would finally put her past to rest? Dermot could only hope so.

  “I’ll go through the rest of my notes later tonight or tomorrow,” he said, “and see if I can short-list anyone else. By the way, kudos to Lynn Cross. She contacted Avery Stark who called me this afternoon. We worked a deal, so I’m covered if Norelli and Walker get serious about cuffing me.”

  “Good, because as far as I know, you’re still the only suspect. You very well may need someone to run legal interference while I work on this case.”

  “We,” he corrected her. “While we work on the case.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  They quickly passed the edge of Chinatown, then Little Italy. It wasn’t until they hit Greektown and were stuck in the stop-and-go of Saturday-night traffic that Stella suddenly asked, “What made you decide to become a priest, anyway? You shocked a whole lot of people.”

  “Myself included,” he admitted. “If you really want to know, I was headed down a wrong road. My dad disappeared on us, and there was Mom trying to take care of my brothers and me while working two jobs. Left a lot of time for a kid to get into trouble.”

  “Or into a gang.”

  “Yeah, I was an Eagle. Mom ragged on me about it all the time, but the more she harped, the more I was determined to do what I wanted. She swore I was killing her.”

  “I’m sure you upset her, but isn’t that a little overdramatic?”

  “That was Mom, a real Irish drama queen. Irish as in from Ireland. When I was sixteen, I ended up in a juvenile home,” he admitted, knowing his records were sealed. Unless Stella had gotten information about his past from a personal contact, she wouldn’t know about this. “A kid was in a coma and the blame fell on me.”

  “Was it your fault?”

  She was trying not to sound shocked, he realized, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

  “I didn’t start the fight. You know gang wars can be vicious. And I swear when we left the area, the guy was all right—bleeding but conscious. But obviously he was hurt worse than anyone figured. All I know is I was arrested and told that if he died, life as I knew it was over. Thank God he came out of it within the week.”

  “So fear got you on the straight-and-narrow.”

  “Fear and Father Padilla. He battered at me until I fought my way out of the gang, taught me that education was my ticket to a better life. I didn’t even know how much I could learn until he started pushing me.”

  “You have a lot to thank him for, then.”

  “That I do. So I graduated, went to community college, got a scholarship to finish in Urbana. And then Mom got sick. A bad heart that got worse because of a major heart attack after a fight we had. The doctors predicted she could go anytime without a new heart, and she didn’t believe in anything as unnatural as having someone else’s heart put in her body…if she could have gotten one. Anyway, in Ireland, the youngest son was expected to go into the church.
She told me that she wanted to see me ordained before she died.”

  “You went into a vocation because she wanted it for you? That wasn’t fair.”

  “Her dying at fifty-one wasn’t fair, either. When I realized how sick she really was, the guilt got to me. She always said I’d be the death of her, and it looked like I would be. I talked to Father Padilla about the priest thing, and he encouraged me to consider whether or not I might have a vocation. I knew he wanted me to say yes.”

  “He pressured you.”

  “No, not exactly. He wasn’t like that. He talked about the advantages, though. Father Padilla was the one who turned my life around, and Mom was losing hers because of me.”

  Dermot now knew he’d acted out of love and grief for what was coming, and out of guilt that he’d been part of it. He’d never given himself the chance to think his decision through properly, to realize that not having a vocation made a travesty of being ordained.

  “I felt my studying at the seminary was the only thing that was keeping Mom alive—she barely saw me ordained before she died. Afterward I figured it was too late. I convinced myself I’d done the right thing.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  He shook his head. “Not for me. I chafed under church politics every single day…” The seal of the confessional. “…and I realized I wanted a family of my own. Then one day…I’d just had it.”

  He’d already been considering leaving before Stella’s attack. When he’d gone after Rick Lamey on his own—he’d wanted to kill the bastard and almost had—he’d known he crossed the line as a priest.

  Another thing he’d never told her.

  “You wanted a family,” she said. “So why didn’t you marry?”

  “Actually, I did.” Dermot turned the car up Milwaukee Avenue, wishing they were at the club already. “That didn’t turn out so well, either.”

  “Your wife didn’t die?” Stella asked, sounding horrified.

  Dermot laughed. “Hardly. Laurie left me for another man. Not that she had one at the time. She simply chose to be free to find one who could give her the lifestyle she so desperately felt she deserved. We met when she was a college senior and I was picking up some advanced social work and psychology classes. I was blinded by her beauty and she was blinded by visions of the money she thought I would be making as therapist to the rich and famous.”

  “Um, you haven’t done so badly for yourself.”

  “I’m comfortable,” he admitted. “Comfortable wasn’t good enough for her. She said that if I insisted on giving away my services—meaning the halfway house or wherever else I might have donated my time—we would never be able to afford the home or other things she expected.”

  “Ouch. She wasn’t good enough for you, Dermot.”

  Not wanting to open that vein any further, Dermot was relieved to see the glowing neon of the Club Undercover sign ahead.

  He’d done his best to make the marriage work, despite the fact that Laurie had been his second choice when Stella would have been his first.

  Not that it would ever have happened.

  In helping Stella through the aftermath of the rape, he’d developed romantic feelings for her. Falling in love with a woman had given him another jolt of reality, an additional reason to leave the priesthood. But fearing that Stella might always associate him with that horrible aspect of her past, knowing he could never be completely honest with her, he never told her how he’d felt.

  Instead, he’d simply left her to her own life, knowing the seal of the confessional would always stand between them.

  AS THEY ENTERED Club Undercover and headed for Gideon’s office, Stella couldn’t help but think about Dermot’s reason for taking on a career not of his own choosing. How could she wish he’d done otherwise? If not for his having been a priest, she wouldn’t be a cop.

  Hell, she might not be alive.

  Perhaps Dermot found contentment in his work…but as Stella well knew, work wasn’t everything. She only wished such a good and honest man could find the personal happiness that eluded him.

  With her, an idiot of a voice whispered in her head, when she knew that was never going to happen.

  Once in Gideon’s office, they quickly brought the team up to speed about her taking days off and Dermot’s getting a lawyer—though that word had already been passed along through Blade via Lynn—and about Tony’s adversarial relationships with Johnny Rincon and Marta Ortiz.

  “Johnny Rincon again,” Gideon said with a glower.

  And Blade muttered, “Seems like good ol’ Johnny’ll haunt us forever.”

  Remembering Blade had another run-in with their old nemesis while protecting Lynn, Stella said, “If Johnny is guilty of murder, I’ll do whatever is necessary to prove it and get him off the streets.”

  “You know better than to mess with him,” Blade warned her.

  “It’s my job.”

  “You’re not on the job—”

  Dermot interrupted, saying, “Stella’s with me now. I won’t let anything happen to her.”

  Stella caught her breath. With him? An odd thing to say. But his expression was so determined, his gaze on her so piercing, she was caught. She remembered Rick Lamey. And the kid Dermot had put in a coma. In that instant she felt his power.

  Then she realized the room had gone silent. The others stared at Dermot with interest and some surprise. Everyone but Cassandra, who wore an odd expression. Cass knew things…about Dermot?

  “So where do you plan on starting?” Gideon asked. “Ahem, Stella?”

  Realizing the attention had shifted to her, Stella snapped back and took a deep breath. “Pilsen, of course. My father’s cousin Frank still lives there. He owns a car repair shop and parts store and has the pulse of the neighborhood, so to speak. I’m going to see what the word on the street might be.”

  Wondering if Blade would insist on escorting her, she glanced his way. His features were set in neutral, though his arms were crossed in front of him as if he was holding himself back. Which he very well might be. But Dermot had made it clear that he would take care of her, and her old friend was respecting that commitment.

  After they broke up a few minutes later, and the others got to work for the night and she headed for the ladies’ lounge, Stella was still thinking about Dermot’s unexpected avowal. He’d sounded so protective, exactly as he had the night he’d saved her.

  Though a thrill shot through her at the realization, she wasn’t certain if he was simply backing her as a partner in this investigation…or if there was some more personal reason to it.

  The still-empty ladies’ lounge was luxurious, decorated in the jewel tones of the club. Sapphire carpeting…emerald upholstered chairs…topaz walls…even the blobs of colored glass framing the large makeup mirror were gem colored.

  After freshening up, Stella sat on a ruby-upholstered stool before that mirror and pulled comb and lipstick out of her pocket. She never carried a purse—too damn inconvenient—unless she was at some formal function, and there weren’t many of those in her life. She was smudging her lips with a golden orange gloss when Cass entered and threw herself down in the next stool. But rather than primping, Cass used the mirror to connect with Stella.

  “So how are you holding up?”

  “I’m doing fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You just put yourself in a difficult position with the police department. High stress.”

  Stella ran the comb through her loose hair. “My job is stress. I can take more.”

  “I’m sure you can. But if you ever need to talk…”

  “Sure. Thanks.” Wondering why Cass really had joined her, Stella eyed her via the mirror. “What is it with you and Dermot? You don’t like him. Why?”

  Cass squirmed a bit. “I don’t dislike him.”

  “But you change around him. Your smile disappears and you get too serious. You did last night and again just now. There’s got to be a reason.”

  “Nothing, really. Just…a fe
eling.”

  “What kind of feeling?”

  “Like Dermot goes to some dark place inside himself. Like he’s torturing himself about something.”

  Wondering if Cass had picked up on the vibes due to their conversation about the kid Dermot had put in a coma, she said, “All of us do that once in a while.”

  “You’re right,” Cass said. “I just caught him at a bad time.”

  Cass was avoiding telling her more, Stella thought. She’d interviewed enough offenders to know.

  “Exactly how psychic are you?” Stella asked.

  “I never said—”

  “You didn’t have to. Blade did.”

  Cass made a face. Rolled her eyes. Stella waited her out. She was good at waiting. It was how she got offenders to spill. Cass was far easier than the scum she dealt with. It only took a minute for her to cave.

  “Look, I don’t usually get pictures. No movie runs through my head. I just…sense emotions…sometimes know things. I can’t explain.”

  Can’t or won’t? Stella wondered.

  “But you don’t know anything about Dermot other than sensing some kind of darkness.”

  Cass hesitated, then said, “I see you there with him,” making Stella’s pulse jump. “But that’s all. I swear.”

  Her and Dermot together. In danger? She assumed the darkness meant danger.

  “Have you tried looking deeper?”

  “It’s not something to fool with.”

  “I don’t want to fool with it,” Stella said. “I want to nail a murderer.”

  “And you will.” Cass rose. “I need to get to work. The hordes are arriving.”

  With that, she nearly ran from the room.

  Leaving Stella wondering how dark was dark. Was Cass sensing the past?

  Or was it a warning for the future?

  Chapter Four

  Anxious to get her private investigation started for real, Stella stood on the sidewalk in front of St. Adalbert Church as Sunday mass let out. In the midst of a poverty-stricken, gang-infested neighborhood that only in recent years had seen the beginnings of gentrification, the century-old church remained an opulent icon, testimony to the strong faith and generosity of its mostly have-not parishioners.