The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  Busch hung up the phone and turned. Thal was still reading. Busch looked about the surface of the cluttered desk. Michael was working on something, of this Busch was sure.

  “Looks like he’s had company.” Thal pointed to two glasses and the empty bottle of whiskey. “I think your friend has an obsession going.” He tossed a copy of International Business to Busch; Finster was on its cover, his charismatic smile shining under friendly dark eyes.

  Busch found it hard to disagree with Thal’s obsession reference. Everything upon the desk was about this Finster guy: newspaper articles, magazines, pictures.

  “You”—an accusatory finger was in Busch’s face—“let him go.”

  Busch grabbed Thal’s digit and nearly snapped it in two. He’d had enough of this crap. “Point that at me again and I’ll do more than break your finger.”

  Thal’s body twisted toward the floor in pain, yelping. The irony struck Busch square in the mouth: Thal couldn’t handle pain. The man thrived on tormenting, on giving it out. But he couldn’t handle it. But then a wash of emotion flowed over Thal’s face and as he looked up at Busch, he smiled. And Busch realized his conclusion about Thal was completely wrong. Thal enjoyed pain, he enjoyed it whether he was giving it…or receiving it.

  Simon watched the redheaded flight attendant pull the 747’s door closed. He had resigned himself to the fact that he was going it alone. He threw his carry-on in the upper compartment and took his window seat. The transatlantic redeye was one of the few pleasures he could grasp right now. He’d enjoy not only the sunset but the sunrise from high upon the clouds. He liked this particular flight, it shortened his night. The darkness still scared him though he hid it well. Nighttime was when the distractions of his life vanished, leaving him alone with his thoughts and fears; with the knowledge of what he knew was out there. And that terrible knowledge was impossible to fight, like a cough that rises up each time you lay down to sleep. No matter how hard you try to avoid it, it still creeps up and grabs you.

  And so he cherished these moments when the night was abbreviated. Each sunrise was always like a baptism for him, washing away the evils of darkness. It was no legend that the wicked only come out at night: it was a fact. There was more to the meaning and relationship of light and day and dark and night than most people realized.

  Now that he was looking out at the soon-to-be-setting sun, he realized he had literally missed the world, passed her by like some ship in the night. Never once had he stopped and tasted her splendor. His life had always been based on devotion, devotion to his work. Never had it allowed him a wife, children, family. Since that horrible afternoon in his childhood, he had been set on this path, a path he had always freely and willingly accepted. A path that had led him to this moment when he questioned it all. Was his merely a life of vengeance? He did not know love or friendship, never had the benefit of a lover or a close friend, someone to talk it through with. His was a monastic, military life. One to be lived alone. One where he would die alone.

  He had never sought help before, why now? He’d shared valuable information with a man he couldn’t trust, priceless information about the true meaning of the keys. Michael St. Pierre had stolen from him; Michael had been the catalyst for this entire mess, a mess that could have the ultimate consequence for all. And yet he’d been willing to seek the thief’s help. It had been a grave mistake he was glad never came to fruition. It was a stroke of luck that the man had decided not to show. Simon considered himself lucky, this once.

  “Hi.”

  Simon looked up.

  Michael stood in the aisle, bag in hand.

  Earlier that afternoon, after Michael left Mary’s side at the hospital, he took a quick detour by his shop. It was a risk, he knew, but one he had to take. He didn’t know how he would get out of the bracelet but whatever the solution he arrived at, he would need his tools. He grabbed the pliers set, a mini drill and saw, a few rolls of wire, and the electronic kit he used to tune security systems.

  The security bracelet was a simple design. The GPS worked while out of the house, but it did not provide accuracy when someone was indoors, the signal having difficulty penetrating masonry walls. As a result, a secondary system sent out a signal to a transponder, in this case, one that had been placed in Michael’s closet. The strength of the bracelet’s signal determined his location in his apartment: that information was relayed to the police station monitor. The power source for the bracelet itself was a small internal battery whose wiring ran the circumference of the security device. The power was activated upon closure about the ankle. To remove it, one would have to cut the bracelet, irreparably severing the internal wiring.

  Michael was not only a security specialist, he was a thief—though he considered himself retired despite recent events. He had beaten many alarms, many a security system, when he was active. There had always been a way to do so. Now he set out drilling the bracelet on opposite sides, two pin-sized holes, careful not to slip and drill his ankle. As Hawk watched, he inserted two rigged electrical pins, each attached to a ten-millimeter wire, creating a secondary circuit route, a bypass line. The current now had two routes to follow; when one became inoperable there was a backup. With the ankle bracelet defeated, he snipped it easily off his ankle. Then he called Hawk over and attached it to the dog’s collar.

  Once safely on the plane, he didn’t bother explaining what he had done to Simon, who sat in stiff silence beside him. They had taken off an hour ago and Simon seemed more preoccupied with the setting sun than with the fact that Michael had broken out of his house arrest.

  Captain Delia was pacing; it was a cliché, but he had no other way of expending his nervous energy and he didn’t know how to yell from his chair. “You let him go!” he raged.

  Busch was used to it. The captain was a screamer and it didn’t bother Busch much except that this time the man was right. This time, Michael had gotten the better of him.

  “Thal said the guy left the country. Is this true? Do you mind telling me how one of your parolees leaves the country?”

  “He hasn’t left the country. His wife is dying.” Busch wasn’t a very good liar but he was trying.

  “Thal swears he’s split town. Either he did or he didn’t.”

  “Thal’s not his case officer. I am.”

  “You get too close to your parolees, Paul—you can’t be their friend. You’re clouded on this issue. I’m thinking of giving this to Thal—”

  “Thal?! He’s a fucking psycho. I’m warning you, I’m going to break his neck if he doesn’t keep his nose out of this—”

  Delia slammed his office door and turned to Busch, glaring and red-faced. “That wouldn’t be real good for your career right now.” The captain sat down, gathering himself, weighing whether or not to share information. After a moment he decided. “Thal’s Internal Affairs. And he’s on your ass in a big way, my friend.”

  A thirty-pound sledge hit Busch square in the gut. No way. Couldn’t be. Busch had been betrayed again, this time by someone on the inside, another cop. And by his boss, too. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He could barely get the question out.

  “What is it you always say, ‘the law’s the law’? Well, this is the cop police. Cop law. If they tell me to shut up, I shut up.” Delia’s anger boiled in his eyes.

  “Why you telling me now?”

  “I thought the IA probe was bullshit. You’ve always been lily white, I didn’t think twice about it. I figured they’d find you clean. Now look what you’ve done to me, the position you put me in—”

  “Ah, spare me, you know I did nothing wrong. I’m innocent.” Busch never thought he’d be making that statement. “And I’m telling you, St. Pierre may be gone but there’s more to it than we’re seeing.”

  “We don’t make that call. You don’t make that call. That’s up to the courts.”

  Busch hated when his own words were thrown back at him. “His wife is knocking on death’s door. He’s not going to fuck up and land hims
elf back in jail on her dying days.”

  “You’re not thinking straight. Who do you think you’re talking to? You’re supposed to watch these guys, ease them back into society. And ride ’em if they don’t toe the mark. If they fuck up, you report it and bring ’em in. But no: you become their friend, coddle them, invite them over for tea. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, couldn’t you find a buddy who wasn’t a felon?”

  “You know that’s a load—”

  “Spare me the excuses.” Delia cut him off in frustration. “Thal said you let him go.”

  “Sir, that’s shit. St. Pierre left of his own free will, without my help.”

  “You put him on a house monitor and he cut through it like—”

  “Sir, I know this man. He is reformed—”

  “Reformed men don’t break parole, don’t cut their security anklets, don’t go on the run. What scares me is why? What is he running from, Paul? Or…running to? Do you know? This guy’s breaking the law and I’ll bet in a big way. And when he does we’re all fucked.”

  “No, sir! He won’t break the law. I’ll find him. He’s my responsibility.”

  “You’ve already blown your responsibility. Tell me why I shouldn’t take your badge right now?”

  “’Cause I’m the only one that can find him.”

  Captain Delia had known Paul Busch for too many years to count. As bad as things looked, he knew deep down that Paul wasn’t the type of guy to lie, to risk his career in this fashion. Delia had asked Thal who put the complaint in on Busch, but the powers-that-be were silent. The captain’s job was to cooperate and cooperate he would, but only to a point. He never liked cops investigating other cops. And he didn’t like Thal to begin with.

  “He goes down; you go down,” Delia told Busch, bluntly.

  Busch said nothing, he just nodded. That was the biggest vote of confidence he could expect out of his captain, all things considered. He stormed out of Delia’s office. “Where’s Thal?” he yelled to the whole world.

  Everyone looked up, shaking their heads. Busch headed straight to Thal’s desk. His empty desk: no personal effects, not even a scrap of paper. He turned to Judy Langer at the next desk over. They never shared a great love for one another and she was knee-deep in paperwork.

  “You see Thal?” he demanded.

  “He left.” Judy didn’t even bother to look up.

  “For?”

  “I’m not Thal’s keeper, Paulie,” she mumbled.

  Busch studied the desk. This wasn’t the desk of someone who had just cleaned up, this was the desk of someone who’d left and wasn’t planning on coming back. His head was spinning. Internal Affairs. What the hell? He had lived his life by the law—now he was under investigation like the criminals he had spent his life picking up. And to make matters worse, he was under Thal’s microscope. There was something going on here, something that didn’t fit, something that went much deeper—Who had fingered him to Internal Affairs? If Busch had any chance of figuring it out, of saving his career, he had to find Thal. But first, he had given his word to Delia: he’d find Michael.

  “I overheard something about a family emergency,” Judy added, hoping to God Busch would leave if he got what he needed.

  “Do you know where?”

  “I think I heard him say something about Germany. Berlin, I think.”

  Mary’s medication left her feeling frail and sick. After Michael left, she was hoping to deal with the after-effects by curling up on her bed and sleeping, but she arrived back in her room to find him there.

  He never said what he really wanted; she thought that more than a little odd. He claimed he was Paul’s new partner, Dennis….She couldn’t remember his last name. He just dropped by to see how she was feeling and ask a few questions about her husband’s relationship with Busch. He said it was for a citation for Busch’s parole work, said he’d stop back after Busch got his most-deserved honorarium. She never mentioned the visit to anyone.

  But there was something about him. She felt it as if it was an invasion of her soul. Dennis scared her more than the cancer.

  The fact that Busch was under internal investigation had floored him. There was absolutely no way. At no time in his life that he could recall did he become compromised with any of his charges, most particularly Michael. Busch was more than aware every step of the way of how he was conducting their relationship. Thal had shown up before Mary was sick, before Michael had reopened “that” chapter of his life. Why? And why did Thal head to Berlin? Was it to capture Michael and further indict Busch? Or was there something more?

  Busch sat in a private computer room, one light, one chair, one desk, and one computer. No windows, carpets, pictures, or decorations. The Byram Hills Police Department’s database was enormous. Not only were there criminal records, but the department had access to a vast array of computer libraries: FBI, Interpol, periodicals, news organizations.

  Finster wasn’t hard to find. While the billionaire possessed no criminal record, he did leave quite a trail in both the business and celebrity world. In fact, August Finster was a regular Gates-Turner-Perlman-Trump of the former Eastern bloc. Busch found a video montage of Finster in the archives of Bloomberg News. The video showed an impeccably dressed Finster running a board meeting, surveying his vast real estate holdings, arriving at social galas. What really caught Busch’s eye was the footage where the industrialist was dancing the night away with some of the most beautiful women Busch had ever seen. Stunning, jaw-dropping ladies right off the runway.

  A voice-over announced, “A virtual unknown until the reunification of Germany, August Finster has since become the wealthiest of the former East Germans. Successful in every business sector, he has yet to know failure. His background is a mystery. Single, utterly ruthless in business, Finster’s only weakness appears to be women.” The flickering images showed the billionaire surrounded by a bevy of beauties. If it wasn’t for the women, Busch would be beyond bored.

  “Notorious for his nightly exploits, entertaining two to three ladies an evening, Finster has yet to be photographed with the same woman twice. He’s always found taking in all the latest social scenes which, combined with his ruling of the business world and last name…”

  Busch pointed the mouse, about to click-cancel this flashy piece of cinema when…

  “…has given him the whispered moniker: the Prince of Darkness.”

  Chapter 18

  August Finster was holding court in his library. His thick leather-wrapped gentleman’s den of solitude was quite handy for impressing the easily impressionable. The three ladies sat on opposing couches around the fireplace, their recently freshened drinks in hand. Each was dressed in the finest evening wear from the finest shops in Berlin.

  Finster came by his women in different ways. His vast money and charm were always an irresistible aphrodisiac, attracting the attractive to him like bees to honey. Elle, her red hair ablaze, had met him that morning on her way from a photo shoot. Portfolio in hand, the international fashion model spotted him as he looked her way and had been instantly smitten. Lovely June had arrived for an interview at Finster Industries and left with an invitation. And Heidi—well, Heidi had simply arrived this evening uninvited but encouraged by friends who had sampled his charms. But beyond his money, his charm, there was something else. They all felt it, but no one could pinpoint it. It was like they all wanted to reach out for that special something in him that sucked you in but always stayed just out of reach, like the last dream you have before waking, the one that remains just beyond the edge of recollection. It was a kind of magic. And despite the fact that he was known as the king of the one-night stand, the women still flocked to him, it was a bragging right akin to a rock-star liaison. Finster was a regular Elvis with the pelvis to your heart.

  When the phone rang, Finster paid it no mind, allowing it to ring three times before it finally stopped. He didn’t like to be interrupted unless it was of the utmost urgency.

  “We will dine at El Gr
ocia,” he announced. He always went to the newest restaurants, rarely frequented the same place twice. “Reservations have been arranged for eight fifteen.”

  The three arm charms smiled. Mostly it was a smile of acknowledgment, a just-thrilled-to-be-with-you kind of smile. Except for Elle’s; Elle knew El Grocia had an eight-week waiting list and instantly appreciated the power that Finster wielded. In her eyes, the other two girls were nothing more than horny, dimwitted eye candy here for a quick fling. She was different.

  “I would be honored if you ladies would select our destination for dancing.” Finster’s voice was intoxicating to Elle.

  Charles appeared silently in the doorway, in his right hand an envelope. He discreetly passed it to his master while leaning toward the billionaire’s ear. Elle wasn’t a busybody by nature, but she did take an interest in other people’s lives. Though Charles spoke softly, she could make out most of his words. Finster shot a glance Elle’s way as if he heard her thoughts. His fleeting smile may have seemed warm but his eyes remained cold, icing her heart. She was suddenly filled with shame. And fear.

  It wasn’t like she heard anything of interest. It was just something to the effect that “they were coming and how dare they and don’t worry they’re safe and he would set up an appropriate greeting….”

  Outside, Finster’s chauffeur gave a staccato beep of the Bentley’s horn. Charles glided out of the room. Finster directed the ladies outside and toward the car. Heidi and June were all giggles as the chauffeur held the limousine’s doors open. In the doorway, Finster stopped and turned to Elle. He put his arm around her.

  Maybe things would be OK. She really should shake her habit of eavesdropping; it had almost gotten her in a world of trouble again. At least the warmth had returned to his eyes. Thank God, she thought. She hadn’t been scared like that since she got caught stealing lip gloss back in Paris.