A Cop's Second Chance

by Sharon Hartley

  The game started at noon.

  “Listen, Sarge, I need the day. Can I—”

  “Six a.m., O’Malley. Be there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sean said. But Sarge had already disconnected.

  Sean shoved the phone in his pocket. The game would be over by the time his shift ended. Who would coach his team? Aleta would have her hands full with her own players. Damn, she’d even planned an after-game party. He wished he hadn’t made fun of her cupcakes.

  He wanted to be there no matter who won or what the refreshments were.

  He could go over Sarge’s head and beg for the day, but that would cause friction with his supervisor going forward. Sarge was already pissed about this unusual assignment. And there was no guarantee his lieutenant would give him the time.

  He hated to let his players down. Most of them had worked hard. They’d improved their skills, but needed a coach during the game for strategy and to call the shots. And to act as head cheerleader. He’d gotten to know these kids. They’d been disappointed over and over by the adults in their lives.

  And now he was doing the same damn thing.

  * * *

  ALETA ARRIVED AT the Broward County State of Florida office building an hour before end of business. She’d left Myra three voice mails and a text. Her mentor could be out in the field and unavailable to take calls.

  She’d ignored the messages from Sean. What was the point in responding? He was a cop. He’d be leaving St. Theresa’s soon anyway.

  Aleta parked in a visitor’s space and hurried into a sleek modern building full of state agencies. The directory told her Child Protective Services was on the fourth floor. She was counting on Myra following her usual habit of returning to her office each afternoon to file her reports before going home.

  Aleta had calmed down during the drive north. She’d prayed and tried to think logically about how she could have gotten so far offtrack that the prospect of getting high had been appealing.

  She seldom had that destructive impulse anymore, but it was always there lurking. She needed to ensure she never acted on it. To do that, she needed to figure out what had caused the urge. Obviously, her parents were a trigger point. That, plus the prospect of Bubba out there trying to kill me.

  She closed her eyes. And maybe kill her parents, too.

  Or was it because she’d found a little bliss with Sean? Was that her error? As long as she never experienced joy, her life would flow along, boring and smooth.

  That couldn’t be right. No one should have to live like that. She needed to talk to Myra.

  The elevator doors opened, and Aleta hurried toward the reception desk, pleased to recognize the clerk.

  “Hi, Connie. I need to see Myra.”

  “I’m sorry, Aleta. Myra isn’t in the office. Did you have an appointment?”

  “No. Is she expected to return this afternoon? I know that she—”

  The receptionist shook her head. “Sorry, no. She’s in Tallahassee interviewing for a new position and isn’t expected back until tomorrow. Can someone else help you?”

  Aleta sucked in a breath. Interviewing for a job? Did that mean her safety blanket would be leaving South Florida? A moment of panic grabbed at Aleta. She breathed in and out evenly, a soothing technique taught to her in rehab.

  Get a grip, girl. You’re being ridiculous, acting like a big baby.

  “Thanks,” Aleta said, and trudged back to the elevator. This explained why Myra hadn’t returned her calls. She was in the middle of something important to her own career, and good for her. Ashamed of herself, Aleta offered a quick prayer that her friend got the job. A move to Tallahassee usually meant a promotion.

  Once in her car, Aleta sat there without turning the engine over. So what now? Where could she go? She’d hoped to stay the night with Myra. She hated to admit it, but Sean was right. She shouldn’t go back to her own apartment. Unlikely, but not impossible that Bubba had used the internet to track her down while in prison.

  First things first. She took a deep breath and picked up her phone. She didn’t need Myra to tell her what she needed to do. If she wanted to prove to herself that she wasn’t a loser, she had to face her fears.

  She had to contact her parents.

  And she couldn’t chicken out and leave a voice mail at the home number. She had to call her father at his office.

  * * *

  ALETA HADN’T RETURNED or responded to Sean’s messages.

  After seeing the players out and putting away the equipment, he entered the office and came to a halt. His key sat in the middle of his desk.

  She wouldn’t stay in the safety of his home. Even after he’d offered to stay in his room in the rectory.

  Her message was clear. She didn’t want his help.

  Or him.

  Well, fine. Just fine. Aleta was on her own. He’d offered assistance, but he knew when he wasn’t wanted. It was just as well he couldn’t attend the game tomorrow. He was better off not seeing her.

  Because seeing her would hurt big-time. What the hell had happened to him?

  He grabbed one of the plastic grocery bags from the stash Aleta kept for odds and ends and dropped what few possessions he had on his desk into it. Time to clear out.

  “What’s going on, Father Sean?”

  Hot Shot stood in the door to the office. Shit. Not what he needed right now.

  “Oh, hey, Hot Shot. I thought you’d left. What’s up?”

  “Why are you packing up your stuff?” he asked, his gaze glued to the plastic bag.

  Sean sighed. The kid would learn the truth sooner or later. Better that it came from him.

  “I’ve been reassigned.”

  “Reassigned?” Hot Shot nodded knowingly, as if dots had been connected and the picture had become clear. “You’re not really a priest, are you?”

  “No.”

  “A lot of us been talking about how you don’t act like a priest. I think you’re a cop.”

  “You’re right,” Sean said.

  “I thought it was strange how you had handcuffs. Why the hell are you here?”

  “I’ve been working undercover to find St. Theresa’s thief.”

  Hot Shot nodded again. “And now that you found him, you’re leaving.”

  “My boss wants me back on patrol.”

  “But you’ll be here for the game tomorrow?” he asked with a hopeful note.

  “Sorry,” Sean said. “Can’t do it, kid.”

  “So who’s gonna coach us?”

  “Aleta will be here.”

  A hard look came into Hot Shot’s eyes, and Sean understood how much he’d disappointed a young man who’d worked hard over the past few weeks.

  “I’d be here if I could,” Sean said. “I have to work.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You’ve got my cell number,” Sean said, feeling like a total jerk. And maybe he was one. “Call me if you need me.”

  “Yeah? I need you tomorrow.”

  The kid turned and left the office with long, fast strides.

  “Hot Shot,” Sean called. He stepped to the door and watched the kid jog out of the gymnasium.

  “Good job, Officer O’Malley,” Sean muttered.

  He shoved the key he’d given Aleta into his pocket, grabbed his gear and stomped to his room in the rectory. Throwing his belongings into his duffel bag took less than fifteen minutes. He should be relieved he didn’t have to spend another night here. He could return to his apartment and enjoy his huge TV, a comfy sofa and all the beer he wanted. He could get a good night’s sleep in his own bed. Six a.m. roll call came early.

  He should be grateful to Aleta. Because of her, he’d stocked the fridge with food.

  Flinging the duffel over his shoulder, he paused and took a last look at the room that now appeared as emp
ty as he felt.

  Would Aleta stay alert? What if he did ask LT about taking tomorrow off?

  He may or may not get permission to coach the game, but the request would indicate a lack of focus to his lieutenant and ruin any chance for assignment to GSU. He’d gone undercover to further his career. He couldn’t torpedo that upward trajectory now.

  But damn. He really wanted to be at that game. And he needed to keep an eye on Aleta Porter.

  * * *

  ALETA HIT SEND and held her breath.

  “Howell, Morgan, Levine and Porter,” a British-sounding woman answered.

  Wow. Her father was now a named partner. He’d hit the big time.

  “Alexander Porter, please. This is his daughter Aleta calling.”

  When the woman remained silent for a beat, Aleta added, “It’s urgent.”

  Of course she was surprised. Likely no one knew Mr. Porter even had a daughter.

  “Please hold,” came the crisp response.

  Aleta reached for water in the cup holder. Her hand shook as she grasped the plastic.

  How should she begin? “Run for your lives! Big bad Bubba is on the loose.”

  Or, “Hi, Dad. How have you been? What’s new?”

  As the seconds dragged on, she decided he would refuse to speak to her. Why should he? Her parents had made it clear that she’d ruined their perfect, carefully orchestrated lives. They thought—no, hoped they’d heard the last from their bad-seed loser daughter.

  She raised her chin. She was no loser. She was a survivor.

  “Aleta?”

  Her eyes flooded with tears at her father’s familiar voice. He sounded worried. But then he always sounded worried.

  She took a breath but couldn’t fill her lungs with enough air. “Yes, it’s me,” she squeaked.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I—I—” She took another deep breath. “I need to warn you and Mom about something.”

  “What’s happened?”

  She stiffened. She knew the translation of that query. “What have you done now?”

  “Bubba Burnett escaped from Raiford.”

  “I heard.”

  “He knows where you live. He might come there looking for me. You should take precautions, okay?”

  Her father’s response seemed to take forever.

  “Have you spoken to your mother?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, surprised by the question. “I called you.”

  “You should call her.”

  “Could you just tell her?”

  Another long pause. “I’m sorry. I wanted to call you and let you know.”

  “Let me know what?”

  “We’re separated.”

  Aleta stared out the windshield at the great seal of the State of Florida on the facade of Myra’s building as more silence lingered.

  “Aleta?” her father demanded. “Are you still there?”

  “You left her?”

  “We’ve separated,” he repeated. “We’re seeing a therapist, working on our problems.”

  “You have problems?”

  He sighed. “Everyone has problems. You should know that.”

  “Yeah, I do. Well, now you have one more. Tell Mom to turn on the alarm system.”

  Her father began to answer, but Aleta disconnected, threw her phone on the seat and buried her face in her hands. Her parents were getting a divorce. Bubba may or may not be alive and looking for her. She’d stupidly fallen for the wrong guy, a cop no less, who was leaving St. Theresa’s and couldn’t possibly love her anyway because of her past.

  What else could go wrong with her life?

  She lifted her head. Oh, right. She still needed to find a place to spend the night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “THANKS AGAIN FOR putting me up,” Aleta told Pom as they settled on her sofa. Pom sipped a glass of chilled pinot grigio. Aleta cupped a mug of hot tea.

  “I’m glad to have the company,” Pom said. “Friday night, and I’m dateless. As usual.”

  “There are worse things than to be alone,” Aleta murmured. Far worse things.

  “Maybe. Hey, we could get all fancied up and head to a club on South Beach,” Pom suggested hopefully.

  “Uh, no. I think I’d better stay in tonight. Remember why I’m here?”

  “Right. The big bad ex.” Pom sighed. “Are you sure you don’t want some wine?”

  Aleta hesitated. Liquor had never been a problem for her, but considering her earlier itch, she’d decided against indulging.

  “I’d better not,” Aleta said. “I need to stay sharp.”

  “Your ex will never find you here,” Pom said with a dismissive wave. “He doesn’t even know my name.”

  “True,” Aleta murmured, but didn’t elaborate. Let Pom think what she wanted.

  Pom eyed Aleta over the rim of her glass. “So you really dated that prisoner who escaped Raiford?”

  “Yeah, but that was a long, long time ago.”

  “The Miami Herald makes him sound like one scary dude.”

  “He is,” Aleta said.

  “Good for you for putting him away,” Pom said.

  “Thanks.”

  “If more women felt like they could safely testify against their abusers, this world would be a better place.”

  “It’s hard, though,” Aleta said.

  “Especially if they have kids,” Pom agreed.

  “And I can’t go home right now in case he’s tracked me down.”

  “I get that,” Pom said. “Many of my clients are so terrified of their abusers they are afraid to leave.”

  Pom told her about a client who had checked into St. Theresa’s shelter with a broken jaw and two children under the age of four. Life could be so painful, so sad. Aleta didn’t want to hear any more about the disasters of the world right now, but that was Pom’s life. And mine.

  What she wanted to do was turn on the television and disappear into a movie so she could forget all the problems that swirled around her.

  Her thoughts always kept circling back to Sean. Father O’Malley. A priest who was really a cop. A man who’d made her feel alive and beautiful and smart and special. At least for a while.

  She’d texted him to tell him she was okay, not to worry, that she’d warned her parents. She should try to reach him again. Funny thing. After ignoring his messages all day, she wanted to talk to him now, to hear his strong, confident voice.

  But she didn’t have the strength for another difficult conversation. She was better now, but she’d come too close to the edge. Who knew what might force her over that cliff. Rejection or criticism from Sean could be the push required.

  “Hey,” Pom said. “You want to order a pizza? I’m hungry.”

  “Sounds good,” Aleta said. “What about a movie? I could use a comedy right now.”

  “A rom-com would be awesome. Scroll through Netflix and pick something while I place the order. Mushroom and pepperoni okay?”

  “Perfect,” Aleta said, picking up the remote. Time for some comfort food and escape into someone’s happily-ever-after. She’d find Sean tomorrow before the game and apologize for running out on him. There was no chance of any future for them, but it was the polite thing to do.

  * * *

  JUST PAST MIDNIGHT, Bubba eyeballed the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the three-story house in Pinecrest where Delilah used to live. He scratched his balls. The fence hadn’t been there last time.

  And the place was lit up like a football stadium during a game. Like they expected company.

  Big problem. Why was there always a problem?

  Because this was Delilah’s old crib. Nothing about that bitch was ever easy.

  He parked in front of a neighbor’s house and jogged toward her parents’ home
. He’d sneak around back and find a place to climb over. Too bad the property took up more than an acre, which pissed him off. Who the hell needed that much land?

  On the rear side of the lot, he selected the least illuminated spot on the fence and glanced around. Seemed quiet. No lights on in any neighbors’ windows. No one watching.

  He jumped, grabbed the top bar of the fence and hoisted himself up. He grunted with the effort, but all those chin-ups in the joint had paid off. Once up, he balanced himself in a squat between spikes and evaluated his next move. The tricky part would be avoiding the tips of the spikes on the trip down.

  Bubba positioned himself carefully, but lost his balance. One of the points ripped his slacks and slashed into his skin during his jump.

  He muffled a curse as he hit the ground. He quickly rolled to his feet and almost collapsed as pain rocketed through his left ankle. He limped toward the house, hugging the shadows of the huge oak trees that dotted the backyard as he moved toward the swimming pool. On his last visit, he’d had no trouble getting in through an unlocked sliding glass door that opened out onto a concrete deck.

  His twisted ankle throbbed. Far worse was the new wound on his thigh. And the burn on his arm. And the headache.

  But once he got inside, he’d raid the wine cellar to numb the pain. Delilah had loved to brag about her parents’ legendary wine collection.

  By the time he reached his destination, Bubba’s head pounded in time with his ankle. He stared at the home in disbelief. Shit. A warning sign proclaimed that the bitch’s parents had installed an alarm system. He shuffled forward and peered through a window to locate the control box. A red light blinked on and off. If he tried to open that door, an alarm would shriek and wake up the world.

  He looked around for something strong enough to break down the sliders. Nothing was readily available, and by the time he smashed through and managed to shut down the alarm, the whole neighborhood would be on alert and the police would be on their way. Considering this new security, Delilah’s parents might even have purchased a gun.

  He didn’t yet have a gun. That had been an oversight. He should have asked the pansies on the corner where he’d made his buy about a weapon.