A Cop's Second Chance

by Sharon Hartley

  “Great. I’ll speak to Father Mac.”

  She closed her eyes, and Sean knew he’d won. This assignment was looking better all the time.

  “Will the kids come to practice if we set up a tournament?” he asked. “That’s the only way to improve their skills.”

  “They like to play, so, yeah, I think so. Are there any other sports you could coach?”

  He grinned. “What did you have in mind?”

  She stared at him. “I’m talking about the kids.”

  “So am I. What did you think I meant?”

  Shaking her head, she said, “Baseball? Soccer?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “Good. The more activities we can offer, the more they’ll come here instead of hanging out with gang members.”

  “I’m also a black belt in karate, so I could start a beginner’s class.”

  Her lips tightened. “That sounds violent.”

  “Self-defense. Don’t these kids live in a violent world?”

  “Most of them, yes.” She sighed. “All of them.”

  “So knowing a few defensive moves might be beneficial for your kids.”

  “Maybe.” She tapped the pencil against the desk again. “How long do you intend to remain at St. Theresa’s?”

  “The time frame is up to my superiors.”

  “Bishop Murphy?”

  “And higher powers.” Sean cast his eyes heavenward.

  Aleta gave a short laugh. “So you take your marching orders directly from God?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Throwing up her arms, she sat back in her chair, making it squeak. “Why can’t you just answer a question?”

  He shifted in his seat. Playing with her was fun, but he needed to stay focused on his mission. Aleta provided a sweet distraction he had trouble resisting.

  “How long I’m here depends on my success in getting rid of the gangs. Father Mac is worried about missing money, and he believes gang members are responsible.”

  She leaned forward again. “I don’t think the thief has anything to do with my kids or gang recruitment.”

  “Not even as part of an initiation?”

  “No.”

  “I agree. But why do you say that?”

  “Mainly because of the timing. The money always goes missing on a Sunday after services. The kids aren’t around then.”

  Sean settled back into his chair to think about that. She’d provided a good clue. Father Mac believed gangs were behind the theft, but what Aleta said made sense.

  When he glanced at her, he found her watching him.

  “Do you have a suspect in mind?” he asked.

  “No, and I’ve given it a lot of thought. All I’ve come up with is the thief has to be someone who attends St. Theresa’s on a regular basis.”

  He nodded, knowing exactly what he had to do next: install those much-needed surveillance cameras. How many roadblocks would Father Mac put up?

  * * *

  BUBBA BURNETT KEPT his gaze on the gray concrete floor as he followed a guard down the narrow hallway toward the prison kitchen. He couldn’t let anyone see his eyes, or he’d give himself away.

  His heart pounded. He couldn’t control his breathing. His legs felt heavy, as if he were moving through waist-high mud.

  Everything had fallen into place exactly the way the dearly departed Roscoe described. It’d taken two weeks, but his turn for kitchen duty finally fell the same day the refrigerated truck made a delivery.

  All I need to do is keep calm and follow the plan.

  The heels on the guard’s shoes were worn down on one side. He needed to buy a new pair. Too bad he’d never make that purchase. So, hey, maybe he was doing the sucker a favor. He’d avoid the discomfort of having to break in a new pair of shoes.

  Just before he reached the kitchen door, Bubba glanced behind him. A fellow inmate named Scott was there, another dead man walking.

  Now or never.

  Bubba felt for the shiv hidden in his trousers and stepped out of line. Scott looked up, surprised by his action. Good. Bubba stuck out a foot and tripped Scott midstride. He went down hard to the concrete, grunting in pain as he hit the floor.

  The guard turned with an oath, and Bubba rammed the shiv into the uniform with all of his strength and twisted. The guard went down, too.

  Bubba snatched the guard’s nightstick from his belt and slammed it against Scott’s skull before he could rise. He collapsed without a sound.

  Breathing hard, the stick raised for another blow, Bubba stared at the men on the floor. Neither stirred. Two down.

  Now for the cook, who would be waiting for his assistants to arrive.

  Bubba took the keys from the guard, entered the kitchen and easily took care of the wide-eyed cook with a cast iron skillet.

  He dragged the guard and Scott into the kitchen and locked the door. For good measure, he shoved two heavy tables against the door to keep anyone else out. They’d get in eventually, but he’d be long gone.

  Roscoe had been right. This was too easy.

  The hard part would be the truck—damn truck sure as shit better not be late. The driver should be waiting for him to open the door. Roscoe said sometimes there were two drivers. Bubba frowned. Maybe he shouldn’t have killed Roscoe already. The job would have been easier with two.

  No, it was better never to trust anyone. Look what had happened when he’d trusted that bitch Aleta.

  But her time was coming. He hardened as he pictured her on the floor begging for mercy.

  And even if there were two drivers, he’d handle the situation. They didn’t call him Bubba the Beast for nothing. He rotated his neck, hearing it crack.

  Besides, what more could they do to him? He already had two life sentences. Even if some hard-assed judge slammed him with the death penalty, it would take longer than he had to live for the state of Florida to execute him.

  He went through the guard’s pockets but found nothing of use. Not even a wallet. Shit. He needed cash. And he’d been hoping for a cell phone, despite the warden’s decree that guards not bring them inside the house. He snatched the guard’s cheapo watch off his wrist and buckled it to his own.

  Six thirteen a.m. He was right on schedule. The driver expected the doors to open at 6:15.

  Bubba moved to the door and pressed the button. Early bird gets the worm.

  A truck sat in the loading zone. One man exited the driver’s side.

  Bubba glanced at the camera high over the door and resisted shooting a bird. Was anyone even watching? It wouldn’t be long until someone noticed something was wrong and came running to stop him.

  You’re too late, suckers. I’m outta here.

  * * *

  ALETA BLEW HER WHISTLE when Jose pushed Cyrus in a blatant foul. Off balance, the kid went down to all fours and rolled over with a pained yell.

  Hot Shot heard the commotion and moved from the other court to confront Jose.

  Aleta held up a hand to stop Cyrus’s self-appointed protector. “I’ll take care of it.”

  To Jose, she said, “You’re out of the game for ten minutes. I’ve warned you about the rules.”

  Jose whirled on her. “Wasn’t my fault.”

  “Out,” she yelled, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

  “You okay, Cy?” Hot Shot helped his little friend to his feet.

  “I’m good,” Cyrus said. But both knees were skinned raw.

  Jose stomped off the court, muttering. Some of her kids were stubborn as hell, but they’d learn fair play if it killed her.

  The buzzer sounded ending the half.

  “Take ten,” she told the team. When the kids moved to the sidelines, she glanced to the other court where O’Malley’s team still practiced. Wearing a white T-shirt with the bright yellow sunburst l
ogo of Sunshine Center, he ran up and down the court with the kids, officiating the game. He also wore navy blue shorts, and his muscled legs were in full view.

  Hardly clerical garb.

  But how could she fault him for wearing shorts when that was also her standard coaching uniform?

  “Make sure you hydrate,” she shouted at her team as she moved toward O’Malley. She wanted to watch his coaching style, see how he interacted with his players. From what she’d observed so far, he was too hard on them. She’d already mentioned it to him once.

  “And don’t forget to stretch,” she yelled.

  Father Sean O’Malley had been at St. Theresa’s for two weeks, and his presence had turned her previously calm life upside down. He’d cleared out broken equipment, stacks of paper and other debris from her office and had moved in a small desk from the storeroom for himself. She was glad to be rid of the garbage—her office was much neater now—but she was hyperaware of his presence. Her attention constantly drifted to him—to his unpriestly body if she were honest—so how could she concentrate?

  Thankfully, he didn’t sit at his desk often. He apparently hated paperwork, since he’d tried to persuade her to complete his.

  But he did find her every morning at breakfast in the cafeteria. She didn’t have to eat there. She could eat at home or grab a fast-food egg sandwich on the way to work, but couldn’t afford to give up that free perk. The cost would quickly add up and destroy her bare-bones budget.

  So instead O’Malley destroyed her serenity.

  “Come on, Mario,” Sean yelled on the court. “Hustle, man, hustle. You got a load in your pants?”

  Aleta groaned. Just as she feared. He was crude and harsh with his team. But she had to admit they responded to his instructions.

  Sean blew his whistle and stopped practice to coach Hot Shot on some trick with his wrist on free throws. Hot Shot listened intently and tried the motion, sinking a shot on the first try. The team whooped. Sean looked her way and winked.

  He made her feel like a fly to his spider. Not that she would mind being caught up in his sexy, silken web. She closed her eyes. You’ll never reach the Pearly Gates, girl. What if he is a priest?

  Her internet search hadn’t turned up any current information on this particular Sean O’Malley, which she found strange. No Facebook page, no Twitter account. She hadn’t done a deep dive, but there should have been at least something recent online.

  “Now each of you try it a couple of times,” Sean instructed, and moved off the court to stand beside her.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Checking up on me?” he asked.

  “You’re too strict with them.”

  He mopped his face with a terry-cloth towel. “These kids respond to structure and discipline. All kids do.”

  “Maybe,” she murmured.

  “No maybe about it.”

  “But if you’re too mean, you’ll drive them away.”

  “They haven’t left, have they?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “They’ll be ready for a game soon.”

  Before she could respond, Aleta spotted Father Mac entering the gym. What was he doing here? Because of his busy schedule, he seldom had time to visit. Likely he was checking up on O’Malley. She hid a smile.

  The two priests had had quite the argument over the installation of surveillance cameras on church property. Pom told her she’d overheard O’Malley threaten to leave if Father Mac didn’t agree.

  “Hello, my children,” Father Mac said when he approached.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Aleta said.

  “Father.” O’Malley nodded.

  “How is practice coming?” Father Mac asked, his gaze on Sean’s players behind the foul line trying out the new technique.

  “Father O’Malley and I were just discussing how the teams are almost ready for competition,” Aleta said.

  “Excellent. Healthy contests keep children motivated.” Father Mac turned his focus on Sean. “Don’t you agree, Father O’Malley?”

  Sean shrugged. “Unless they get too caught up in sides and who should win and start fighting outside of the game. Then it turns into a brawl.”

  Father Mac shook his head and said, “Your surveillance cameras have been installed.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “The ones we agreed on are in place.”

  O’Malley folded his arms. “If you want to catch your thief, St. Theresa’s needs better security.”

  “That’s why I brought you here, Father O’Malley.”

  “I can’t do it alone. This is the twenty-first century, Father. The church needs to update its methods.”

  “At what price?”

  “I guess that’s what you need to decide.”

  Father Mac closed his eyes. Aleta suspected he was offering a silent prayer for patience. She knew how he felt.

  After a deep sigh, Father Mac turned his gaze on Aleta.

  She straightened, not liking his worried expression. So this unexpected visit was about something other than intrusive surveillance cameras.

  “May I see you in my office, my child?”

  “Of course, Father,” she said.

  Father Mac tossed O’Malley a look. “I’m certain you can manage nicely here, Sean.”

  “Yes, Father,” Sean said with a slight bow.

  Aleta followed Father Mac out of the gym. He walked with his hands clasped in front, head down, shoulders stooped. She knew that posture meant he was deep in thought, and she didn’t interrupt his meditation on the short trip to his office.

  When they arrived, she whooped in delighted surprise at the sight of Myra Stevens, the woman she credited with saving her life. Myra jumped to her feet and enfolded Aleta in an embrace. As they hugged, Aleta squeezed her eyes shut against the familiar scent of Myra’s perfume, a soft fragrance that always reminded Aleta of her mother. The woman she blamed for destroying her life.

  Two hardworking women the same age and yet completely different people.

  Aleta swiped at unexpected tears when Myra released her.

  Myra cocked her head and examined Aleta with a smile. “You look fabulous. This work obviously agrees with you.”

  “It does,” Aleta said. “But why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Myra had believed in her when no one else on this earth did, when her own parents had disowned her. A social worker for the State of Florida, Myra now worked in Broward County, so they seldom had a chance to meet. “Can we have lunch and catch up?”

  Myra and Father Mac exchanged a look.

  “Something has happened, Aleta,” Myra said. “Something you need to know about.”

  “What’s going on?” Aleta asked. Unease skittered through her. She studied Father Mac’s face, but he gave away nothing.

  “I wish I could stay,” the priest said. “But I have a meeting with Bishop Murphy in Miami that I dare not miss.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Aleta said. “The bishop heard about St. Theresa’s new surveillance cameras?”

  “Yes, and he’s not happy.”

  Myra frowned. “Surveillance cameras?”

  “I’ll let Aleta explain,” Father Mac said. “I’m already late.”

  When the priest exited, Aleta turned to Myra. “What’s happened?”

  Myra took a huge breath and released it slowly. Normally fearless, her mentor appeared seriously rattled, so she had something difficult to relate. Aleta lifted her chin.

  Once upon a time, Myra’s confidence in her had convinced Aleta she could handle anything.

  “Sit down, Aleta.”

  She did, and Myra took a seat in the opposite chair.

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Bubba has escaped from Raiford,” Myra said.

  “What?”
The shrill word exploded into the room.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “How?”

  Myra’s mouth tightened. “By killing four more people.”

  “But how?” Aleta blinked. Nausea churned in her stomach. Bubba was loose? Dear God, please no.

  “I thought he was in maximum security.”

  Myra leaned forward and took both of Aleta’s hands in hers. “He’s usually in solitary confinement, but they can’t keep him there all the time.”

  Aleta swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “How long has he been out?”

  “Since this morning.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “The manhunt is all over the news, but I wanted to warn you in person. He escaped in a refrigerated truck, so I’m certain they’ll locate him any time now.”

  Aleta stared at Myra. “He’ll come for me.”

  “No. They’ll find him before he makes his way south. He has no access to cash.”

  “He’ll steal anything he needs.” Aleta jumped to her feet and crossed her arms across her middle. “You don’t know him like I do.”

  Myra nodded. “I know he’s a sociopath.”

  “A sociopath who blames me for putting him in prison.”

  “That was eight years ago.”

  “He swore he would kill me.”

  Turning away from Myra, Aleta stared at the wall, not seeing anything. She’d always known this time would come. Judgment day. With Myra’s help, she’d gotten clean, gone back to school, and even found the courage to testify against the devil she’d once considered her one true love. But she couldn’t remember much about that horrible year when she’d been out of control. She hadn’t killed anyone, but she’d helped Bubba steal more than one car.

  And she’d been with him the night Bubba the Beast had killed two young men.

  “He’ll find me.” She closed her eyes. “I’ll finally get what I deserve.”

  “Stop it,” Myra snapped. “You’ve made up for anything you did while under his influence.”

  “Maybe not enough.”

  “Look at me.”

  Aleta turned around and gazed with affection at the woman who’d done so much for her. Myra’s hair had been a deep chestnut brown when they’d met, and now it was tinged with gray. How many of those gray hairs are because of me?