The Grace Painter (The Grace Series Book 1)

by Mark Romang

  For an agonizing moment she hesitated. But then she sobbed happily, “Yes, I’d love to be your wife again.”

  “But what if I take the job in San Diego?”

  Julie nodded vigorously. “I’m going wherever you go. It doesn’t matter where you take me.” She leaned down and pulled him closer. Their lips found one another and they kissed long and tenderly. The diners around them applauded their open display of affection. When their lips finally parted, Julie asked him, “When do you want to make this legal?”

  “Is tomorrow too soon? I don’t want you to change your mind.”

  Julie laughed and kissed him again. “You don’t need to worry about that. You’re stuck with me for good this time.”

  Chapter 51

  Queens, New York

  The taxi rolled to a squeaky stop in front of a nondescript row house. Annie handed the cabby her fare. “I’ll give you a hundred more if you wait for me. I shouldn’t be more than a half-hour.”

  “No problem, lady. Take your time,” the cabby grunted as he removed a pencil from behind his ear and began working a NY Times crossword puzzle.

  Annie climbed out of the taxi and into the frosty December air. She stamped her feet and studied the house for a moment, double-checking the house number with an address she had scribbled on scratch paper. This was her first time in New York City, and she didn’t have a clue where she was. She felt like a wide-eyed alien visiting Earth for the first time.

  Satisfied she did indeed have the correct residence, she walked up the sidewalk. Her feet crunched the snow-packed surface. A small dog yapped inside the house. She hesitated when she reached the front stoop. She was a private person herself, a guarded woman who until recently harbored her own secrets. Yet here she stood, attempting to delve into a near stranger’s private world.

  She so admired Rafter, had even placed him on a pedestal of sorts. Yet if she continued her investigation she might learn her hero had flaws like everyone else, and she didn’t know if she could handle the disappointment. Why am I putting myself through this? She wondered. Just let it go. That’s what he wants.

  Catcalls and whistles from the street jolted her from her introspection. Annie turned her head to look. Tough-looking youths were taking a break from their stickball game to check her out.

  Annie rang the doorbell. Several seconds elapsed before she heard locks unsnapping. A tall, broad-shouldered man in his late-fifties opened the door. “Hello, Mr. Schofield. I’m Annie Crawford. We talked on the phone recently and agreed to meet today.”

  “Yes, of course. I remember. Come in out of the cold, Annie.”

  She stepped inside the small home. Gabriel Schofield took her leather coat and hung it up on a coat rack by the door. “Please, have a seat, Annie. Make yourself comfortable.”

  She did as instructed and sat down on a plaid sofa that looked older than her. She looked around the tidy home. Her eyes roved the many framed photographs hanging from the paneled walls. Uniformed policemen and policewomen dominated the subject matter in nearly all the photographs. But there were also a few photographs of men and women enjoying themselves at a local pub. She assumed they were off-duty officers and detectives. People in law-enforcement have a distinct look about them.

  Annie’s heart fluttered when she spotted Matthew London in one of the photos--the man she knew only as Jon Rafter. In the picture, Mayor Bloomberg presented London with an award of some kind.

  “Can I offer you some coffee, Annie? I just brewed a fresh pot.”

  “Yes, that would be nice. I could use a cup to warm me up.”

  “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Black,” Annie murmured as she gazed at London’s photograph. He looked so young and innocent. What could have happened to make him want to change his identity, move to Louisiana and live like a recluse? She had so many questions, and couldn’t wait to start asking them.

  “Black is the only way to drink it in my opinion. I’ll be right back,” the former police captain and Navy SEAL said as he disappeared into the kitchen. A minute or two later he came back carrying a small tray with two cups on it.

  She smiled and took one of the cups. “Thank-you, Mr. Schofield.”

  “I would prefer you call me Gabe,” he said easing his tall frame into a well-worn recliner. “For some odd reason my wife always called me Mr. Schofield. I hated that.”

  Annie warmed her hands on the steaming mug. “A show of respect, maybe?”

  Schofield laughed. “No, it definitely wasn’t that. I think she did it just to irritate me.”

  “From your choice of words, I take it you’re no longer together.”

  Schofield nodded. “But not by choice. Laura died last year from cancer.”

  Annie kicked herself for making such a snap assumption. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to lose a spouse,” she said hurriedly. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have a spouse, for that matter, she thought.

  Schofield looked at her thoughtfully. “This may sound cold, but I felt relief when my wife died. Laura suffered so much at the end. The disease took everything from her, including her dignity. I had to retire from the force to take care of her.”

  “I admire your devotion, Gabe,” Annie said right before sipping her coffee. “Wow, this is strong coffee.”

  Schofield’s Mediterranean-blue eyes twinkled merrily. “It’s definitely not for the weak-kneed. I learned to drink it like that in the Navy. My SEAL commander brewed the meanest java this side of Columbia.”

  “Being an ex-SEAL, you must have some colorful tales to tell,”

  “That I do, Annie. But I’m a firm believer in the lost art of chivalry, and I won’t repeat them in the presence of a lady,” Schofield said nobly.

  Annie grinned. “I can see why your wife fell in love with you, Gabe.” The yorkie she heard on her approach to the door entered the room and jumped onto the sofa beside her. Annie reached out a hand for the dog to sniff.

  “He likes your perfume. If he bothers you, let me know.”

  “He’s fine. This little guy can’t hurt me.”

  Schofield’s easy smile diminished to a hard gash on his rugged jaw. “Now, Annie, I know you didn’t travel all this way to flirt with an old sailor. You wanted to talk about Matthew London. Correct?”

  “Yes, I thought we already predetermined that.”

  “So what do you want to know?”

  “I guess I’d like some insight into his character. What kind of person is he? Was he a good cop? Little stuff like that. Matthew London is pretty much a mystery to me. I know him only as Jon Rafter.”

  Schofield’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not planning to write a book about him, are you? If you are, this conversation is over.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “I respect his privacy too much to do something like that. I just want some insight. Maybe you can tell me something that will help me locate him. It’s really important I find him.”

  “Why do you need to find him so badly?”

  “I want to express my gratitude. I wouldn’t be sitting here if not for him.”

  Schofield stoically mulled over her statement for a long minute. A clock on the wall ticked unreasonably loud. Schofield finally left his recliner and walked over to the shrine of police photographs. He removed the one she’d been looking at and returned with it. He handed it to her. “This photo will tell you what kind of cop Matt was.”

  Annie felt a lump grow in her throat as she looked at the photo. Seeing Rafter again, even if only in a photograph, stirred her emotions. “What award is he receiving?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  “The Medal of Valor.”

  “What did he do to get it?” She already knew the answer, but wanted to hear Schofield tell the story.

  A proud smile appeared on Gabriel Schofield’s face. “Matt had a knack for walking in on crimes. One day he was off-duty and walked into an assault and battery in progress at C.O. Bigelow Pharmacy in Greenwich Village.
Matt shot and killed the deranged assailant with one shot.”

  “Was the force warranted?”

  Schofield nodded his head. “You bet. The perp nearly dismembered the register clerk with a machete. Internal Affairs investigated, but found Matt did nothing wrong. It helped his case that the clerk almost died from blood loss.”

  “So in your opinion, Matthew London was a good cop.”

  “The best and an even better person. Most cops invest all their energy in finding and arresting lawbreakers. But Matt put in an equal effort at helping the crime victims. He took things personal, and went above and beyond to assist the victim in any way he could.”

  Annie nodded agreeably. She had no reason to doubt Schofield’s testimonial. But she had to dangle the right bait if she wanted to learn anything consequential. “Even though London sometimes operated above the law, you would still characterize him as having been a topnotch policeman?”

  “Absolutely,” Schofield retorted hotly. “And Matt always played by the rules, Miss Crawford.”

  “Even in hostage negotiations?”

  “Always. By the book, to the letter.”

  Annie opened her large purse and extracted a small manila envelope. She unclasped the envelope and withdrew a photograph. She handed the snapshot to Schofield. He looked at the photo, and then handed it back to her.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I found it in the plantation house that London lived at. To be precise, in his bedroom dresser drawer.” Annie thought she detected sweat gathering on Schofield’s brow. The photo had clearly shaken him, and she decided to start a full court press. “The man standing next to London in the photo--his name is Brian Delani. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Brian Delani’s file is classified. I don’t think you’re on a need to know basis, Miss Crawford,” Schofield said bluntly.

  “Fair enough, Gabe. How about I tell you what I already know about Delani?”

  Schofield shrugged his brawny shoulders. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not.”

  Annie flashed him her best smile. “I’ll be as pithy as I can, Gabe. Remember, I’m on your side.”

  Schofield interlocked his hands behind his head. “I’m listening.”

  Annie stood up and began pacing the floor. “Brian Delani was London’s partner up until London became a negotiator. And they were more than just partners, they were best friends.” She paused from her exposition long enough to sip her coffee. She didn’t much care for the strong brew, but the caffeine infused her with energy.

  “Besides the photograph I showed you, I found something else in London’s Louisiana home…”

  Schofield interrupted her. “Maybe it’s looked at differently in the Deep South, but here in New York breaking and entering is considered a criminal act.”

  “Stop interrupting, Gabe. You had your chance to speak and you declined. Now, hear me out.”

  Schofield blinked. “I’m sorry, Annie. Forgive my lack of manners.”

  “I forgive you, Gabe. Just don’t let it happen again,” she kidded. “But as far as breaking and entering goes, I found the door unlocked. And I even knocked before I entered.” She realized immediately how ludicrous her admission must sound to an ex-police captain. But there are times when rules just get in the way. Likewise, there are times when the only way to break a case open is to acquire evidence through shadowy means.

  Schofield rolled his deep-set eyes. “What did you find?” he sighed heavily.

  “An art book on Italian Renaissance painters. Delani gave the book to London as a gift.”

  “And I suppose there are clues in the book that lead to a Vatican conspiracy theory, a la The Davinci Code.”

  Annie glared at Schofield. “No conspiracy theories. But something about the book bothered me. Delani wrote a short dedication to London on the inside flap. The tone of the dedication troubled me. So I wrote it down.” She stopped pacing and sat back down on the sofa. She rummaged in her purse and retrieved a piece of paper. She unfolded it and began to read.

  “Happy Birthday, Matt. I hope you enjoy this book. It cost me a fortune. But that’s okay. You deserve it, buddy. You’ve had my back for the last three years, and I’m grateful. I couldn’t ask for a better partner and friend. I know I’ve been acting strange lately. And I wish I could tell you what’s happening with me. But I can’t. Just know that I would never hurt you intentionally. Your friend, Brian Delani.”

  Schofield gestured with his hand that he wanted to take a look at the piece of paper. Annie handed it to him and watched Schofield read it silently to himself.

  “I may be reaching a little far, but it seems apparent Brian tried to forewarn London without actually coming out and saying it. To me, Delani sounds contrite, almost apologetic for what he intended to do to his family.”

  Schofield handed the piece of paper back to her. “You’re not off-base, Annie. Delani was obviously conflicted.”

  Annie learned very quickly in her FBI career that getting people to talk requires a delicate recipe of patience and persistence, topped off with a liberal sprinkling of redundancy. It’s hard work listening and people talk when they grow tired. Schofield, however, seemed impervious to conversation fatigue. “Did Brian Delani and his wife have any previous domestic disturbances?”

  Schofield shook his head. “None.”

  “So they were as happy as honeymooners?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Schofield countered after draining his coffee mug. “Like every couple, the Delanis experienced moments of discord. But overall, they seemed happy together.”

  “No extramarital affairs or financial problems?”

  “None that I know of.” Schofield pointed at her cup. “Do you need a refill?”

  “No thanks. I’d like my heart to continue beating.”

  “Ah, it’s not that strong. Just take some aspirin. You’ll be fine.”

  Annie cleared her throat, signaling a desire to resume questioning. Her half-hour with the cabby approached fast, and she couldn’t allow Schofield to sidetrack her with idle chit-chat. “To your knowledge, Gabe, did Brian Delani take antidepressants or antipsychotic drugs before the shootings?”

  “Brian Delani was as sane as you and me. Now, I think you need to move on, Annie. I told you this is a classified case,” Schofield said testily.

  Annie sighed. “Since you won’t cooperate, Gabe, I’ll tell you what the New York Times reported back when the Delani shootings were front page news.”

  Schofield snorted. “What the Times reported isn’t worth the paper it was printed on.”

  “Humor me, Gabe. I’m almost done.”

  Schofield scowled at her, but then reluctantly nodded his buzzed head.

  “Basically, in a nutshell, they insinuated London worked outside the lines. They went so far as to say he took too many risks as a hostage negotiator. They also speculated that his lack of discipline for following police protocol may have led to Brian Delani’s suicide.”

  Schofield jumped to his feet. “Those are nothing more than boldfaced lies! The New York Times couldn’t report the truth if it landed on their presses!” He shook his head bitterly. “The Times has vilified the NYPD for years. Why, you would think we were the Gestapo after reading their one-sided slander.”

  Annie smiled inwardly. It wouldn’t be long now before Schofield sang like a canary. She’d found his pet peeve, his breaking point.

  Schofield glared at her. “Tell me you don’t believe any of that,” he snarled. His cobalt eyes glowed like campfire embers.

  Afraid of her master’s outburst, the Yorkie jumped onto Annie’s lap. Annie cradled the trembling dog. “I don’t know who or what to believe, Gabe. Since you won’t tell me anything, I can only formulate my opinions based on what the Times reported.” Annie watched Schofield digest her reply. If he wouldn’t talk now he never would.

  All at once Schofield’s wide shoulders slumped. He sighed deeply and walked o
ver to a bookcase and retrieved a Bible. He then walked back to the sofa and sat down beside her. “Put your hand on the Bible, Annie.”

  “Gabe, I really don’t think this is necessary.”

  “If you want to hear the truth, do as I say,” Schofield commanded gently.

  Unsure where things were heading, but not wanting to draw Schofield’s wrath, Annie complied and placed a shaky hand on the leather-bound Bible.

  “Swear to God and swear to me that you won’t arrest or expose Matthew to the public.”

  Annie looked at him quizzically. “What is he wanted for?” she asked, suddenly afraid Rafter was a monstrous criminal, a perverse man with dark secrets.

  “At the most, identity theft, and possibly tax evasion.”

  Relieved to learn Rafter wasn’t a serial rapist or killer, Annie said, “I swear to God and promise you, Gabe, I will not expose London to the media, and I certainly won’t arrest him. All I want to do is thank him and help him transition back to society.”

  Schofield looked deeply into her eyes, and like a proofreader expertly checking a document for typos, searched for deceitfulness. His intense gaze caused sweat to break out on her skin. Somehow she managed to muster the courage needed to match his implacable gaze.

  “Okay, I believe you,” Schofield said at last. “Now what I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room. A family’s safety hangs in the balance. Their anonymity cannot be compromised.”

  Annie patted Schofield’s knee reassuringly. “If you want, I’ll swear on the Bible again.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Annie. Now, I’m going to throw a name out at you. Nico Savareesi. Have you heard of him?”

  Annie nodded. “I’m familiar with him. A colleague once mentioned Savareesi in a conversation we were having. From what I understand, the Savareesi family enjoyed a monopoly of New York’s organized crime activity. Yet Nico Savareesi’s operations weren’t limited to just New York. They extended along the entire eastern seaboard and into the Gulf States, including Louisiana, where his organization skimmed from casinos. Besides gambling and money laundering, the Savareesi family raked in a bundle from internet porn and 1-800 numbers fraud.”