The Heat of Angels

by Lisa Girolami

  Synopsis

  In the City of Angels, K9 police officer Chris Bergstrom keeps herself safe by following her instincts. Across town, Sarah Pullman also lives by her instincts since that horrible day when her life was almost snuffed out. When they meet, their attraction is stronger than anything they’ve ever experienced. But Chris’s black-and-white world view clashes with Sarah’s all gray world of identity confusion and distrust. They’ll need more than their gut feelings to navigate the fragile relationship they so intensely desire. Set against the turbulent backdrop of Los Angeles during fire season, Chris and Sarah struggle with the realities of their pasts and the necessity of defying their long-standing beliefs. In order to overcome their conflicts, they will have to step out of their self-imposed cocoons, take a real look at themselves, and find the strength to walk through the fire.

  The Heat of Angels

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  The Heat of Angels

  © 2014 By Lisa Girolami. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-088-1

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: March 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)

  By the Author

  Love on Location

  Run to Me

  The Pleasure Set

  Jane Doe

  Fugitives of Love

  Cut to the Chase

  The Heat of Angels

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest gratitude to Shelley for her never-wavering support.

  Many thanks to Kari for advising me on the K9 sections and keeping them real.

  And a big huzzah to my readers, who are the absolute best.

  For Abel, K9 officer and partner (2004–2009):

  For your service to, and protection of,

  Deputy Sheriff Kari Cranfill and all of Riverside County.

  You will never be forgotten.

  Prologue

  I’m not safe.

  Noises came from somewhere close by, but they were muffled. Four of her senses had seemed to die away, leaving only the one most suitable for her survival. She registered sounds as a deer would scrutinize the approaching footsteps of a predator.

  The smack of something against wood. Two people talking. Maybe three. Someone slamming a cabinet door.

  The strain of listening added to the fear that already robbed her airways, allowing only short staccato breaths to keep her conscious.

  Was that someone opening a door? It was hard to say because a television was turned up pretty loud. It had to be after seven in the evening because of the shows she could hear. First, the laughs from some comedy show shook the air, but she couldn’t tell which one it was. After that, she could make out the game show Family Feud, followed by Wheel of Fortune. Then the news came on and had been on for a while.

  She didn’t have enough light to ascertain her environment beyond unfamiliar furniture and windows facing maybe a forest. Her nose picked something up. What? Smells of fresh cigarettes mingled with the stench of old trash.

  She’d been sitting there for hours and had no idea what to do.

  “Please come get me.”

  Her eyes were puffy from crying, and a headache knifed the back of her right eye. She stretched, but her muscles felt like they were on fire.

  I don’t understand, she thought. What happened?

  She rubbed her eye, trying to push the pain farther back so it wasn’t right at the front of her skull.

  The television went silent.

  She leaned forward, listening and trying to picture the room outside her door.

  She was in a lot of trouble. She’d give anything for it to be about five hours ago, when she was back at school with her friends, hanging out in the hall and contemplating a smoke in the girls’ room.

  Subdued conversation came from just outside her door.

  Now I’m really fucked, she thought.

  I’m not safe.

  Chapter One

  The skies over Los Angeles had persisted to be a haze of angry amber for days. Like a brown bear, livid from an interrupted slumber, fire season had awoken swiftly. The first week of June had just passed, and every sign indicated that the residents of the City of Angels would see more blackened hills than usual. Significant fires were already raging in four “urban interface areas,” the coveted heights above the city where the homes of the affluent sat upon brush-covered canyons and hillsides. Never mind that these natural areas had historically burned long before homes were built; the views were just too tempting.

  Chris Bergstrom shifted in the seat of her squad car in an attempt to dry the dampness of her sweaty thighs. The thermometer on her dash registered ninety-one degrees, and though it was exactly one o’clock in the afternoon, the smoke-filled air shrouded the city streets in a murky veil of uneasy apprehension.

  Her job as a K9 police officer wasn’t to fight the fires, but keep the streets of L.A. as calm as possible. But the outbreaks kicking up in the hills around the city made everyone nervous. Sure, people went about their day, but the constant reminder that the hot, dry Santa Ana winds were showing no signs of simmering down kept everyone’s eyes on the smoke. And just as the citizens she protected worked that Friday afternoon, so did the criminals.

  A whine came from her backseat. Abel, her K9 partner, was more agitated than usual. The seventy-five-pound Belgian Malinois snorted and then barked.

  Chris told him to stop and he replied with another whine.

  “I know the smoke is bad, buddy,” she said as she punched a few buttons on her dash computer. “We’ve got three more hours, so settle down, okay?”

  But Chris knew those three hours would turn out like the last seven. Fires brought out all the crazies. These shifts were no different than the ones that fell on the full moon, any professional-championship game night, and all holidays except, for some reason, Kwanzaa. Flames attracted people just as flash floods did. Rapidly rising waters and swiftly approaching brush fires seemed to lure knuckleheads, piper-like, to flirt with their luck. And those particular nights were always busy with idiots who didn’t know when to stay away.

  Her screen blipped and she scanned the text. Turning north on the next street, she pulled her bulletproof vest away from her shirt to encourage the heat to escape.

  “We’re heading up to Runyon Canyon, Abel. An upstanding citizen is waiting for our assistance.”

  *

  Sarah Pullman finished washing down the concrete pathway in front of the cougar enclosures. They watched her with little more attention than they would an aimless metallic fig beetle buzzing around their habitat.

  She curled the hose back up at one of the many faucets smartly laid out about a hundred feet from each other and made her way to the next one to wash down the pathway near Samuel, the lion. When she turned the hose on, he sleepily raised his head and she called out to him.

  “Good afternoon, Samuel. How�
��s the king of the wild today?”

  He slowly rose and shook his tawny-colored fur and long tufted tail as if he’d just been hosed down.

  “I haven’t even gotten near you, big guy,” Sarah said.

  As if in dispute, he roared loudly and she started. The sound reverberated off the hills, and suddenly, other lions housed at the refuge joined in. The noise was a spectacular chorus that could only be described as a feral concert in stereo. She grinned excitedly, absolutely thrilled to witness such a powerful broadcast by so many huge cats.

  Samuel, the largest of all the lions, ended his declaration, and Sarah waited until the rest of the roaring died down before continuing to spray the path. In the four years she’d volunteered at the Angeles Crest Wildlife Refuge, the rare and extraordinary symphony of felines had performed only three times. It always made her appreciate the fact that, while Samuel was safely enclosed in their fenced-off and locked areas, he was still the boss. And if anyone questioned that fact, all they had to do was take a gander at the ten-foot-long, muscular powerhouse of a predator whose sharp, retractable claws and powerful jaws would quickly remind them of their inferiority.

  Maybe that’s why she liked working at the refuge. There, she knew her purpose. She was a caretaker of animals that normally could well take care of themselves, but each one, due to its human-contact experiences, now needed help. Man was responsible for their plight and she could assist. The more powerful the creature, the better she felt, being one who’d grown up thinking she wasn’t much, but now caring for these truly magnificent beasts.

  “Sarah?”

  It was Madeleine Dumont, the owner of the refuge. Since the fires had started around Los Angeles, Sarah hadn’t seen much of her. Madeleine was on high alert, keeping in touch with officials in the event one of the fires began to creep, or roar, toward them. Luckily, none were close enough for them to begin evacuation measures. Sarah turned off the hose nozzle. “Yes?”

  “Would you help me on fence patrol? I’ll pull the Jeep around.”

  “Of course,” she said as she turned toward Samuel, who was now sitting in a patch of sun, eyes closed and head raised to the warmth.

  “I’ll be back, Sam.” And she would. As often as they wanted her to.

  Chapter Two

  Chris drove up Fuller Street and parked at the end, behind two fire trucks blocking the entrance to Runyon Canyon Park. She’d been to the 160-acre site many times to run and hike. It was conveniently smack-dab in the heart of Hollywood, just north of the strip, and offered not only great trails up to the top of the Hollywood Hills, but breathtaking views of the city. This trip, however, was far from enjoyable. Firefighters were busy running hoses up the trails to catch an errant patch of flames whose originating embers must have been carried by the brown, scorching winds. Several trees were crackling in their death throes, looking like old men with arms flailing in desperation.

  “Stay here, Abel,” Chris said, and exited the squad car. Burnt and smoldering wood filled her nose, and she swiped at it to ease the sting.

  Amid the organized maneuvers of the fire crew, she spotted a few men waving her over.

  “Bergstrom,” one firefighter said as she approached, “glad it’s you.”

  “Hello, Halloran. Who’s your friend?”

  About twenty feet away, a tall man, dressed in dirty pants and an equally dirty long-sleeve shirt, crouched with his back against a tree. Strangely, he was sopping wet.

  “This guy showed up and started screaming at us.”

  “You’re killing the canyon!” The man flapped his arms wildly. “I’ll murder you all!”

  “And?” Chris ignored the man.

  “He tried to stop us from getting to the fire. He’s been grabbing at hoses and pushing my guys, so we called.”

  “Why’s he wet?”

  “Turned the hose on him. It was the only way I could keep him away from my guys.”

  “Good thinking.” Chris nodded and stepped closer to the man, who smacked the palms of his hands against his thighs and then stood. “Sir, I don’t know what’s going on, but we can talk about it.”

  The man cocked his head as if he’d just heard a dog whistle.

  She stepped closer to him, watching for any slight movements that would indicate he was either going to attack or run. “We’ll talk about the trees, okay?”

  She reached him in two more side steps and put her hand on his shoulder. She continued talking to him because the physical contact seemed to keep him docile.

  She ran her hand down his arm. “We all just want to be safe here,” she said as she stealthily turned him around and cuffed him.

  Patting him down and finding nothing that concerned her, she took him by one arm. “What’s your name, sir?”

  He mumbled something and began looking around as if he’d just noticed where he was.

  Chris nodded to Halloran. “My friend here and I are going to walk over to my car so we can talk.”

  The man didn’t say much that made sense and didn’t seem to understand her questions, so she finally propped him against her car. Abel barked ferociously from the backseat, and the man seemed content to stare at him.

  She could charge him with assault on an emergency worker or just call it a 5150 and have him sent to the Cuckoo Plaza Suites for a seventy-two-hour vacation. But he’d disrupted the firemen by getting in their way and making threats. The pungent aroma of beerspiration indicated he was probably drunk as well, so she called dispatch and asked for a transport. Slam dunk. You break the law, you go to jail.

  Chris loved the finality and conclusiveness of the law. While the words of the penal codes could be interpreted, following the letter of the law made all the behaviors in life toe a neat and respectable line. Living by this code was as black and white as the colors on her squad car.

  After one of her patrol buddies drove the confused man away in his squad car, Chris looked at Abel, who wagged his tail, looking hopeful, and she smiled. Since his built-in kennel took up the entire backseat, he was her guarantee that she’d never have to transport anyone. No puking, peeing, pounding, or just plain stupid talk from bad guys.

  Okay, she’d sometimes have to clean up Abel’s pee, but it somehow seemed more tolerable than that of the lawbreakers she encountered. And the added bonus? She loved her partner.

  *

  Sarah had forgotten to get something for dinner, so she turned into the market parking lot and, surprisingly, found a spot by the front door. Meals with the family were just a little more bearable than an appendectomy without anesthesia, but she had to go. Her sister was getting engaged, so the stage was set for another play in which dear old dad toasted the grand occasion and everyone smiled in feigned unison.

  Again, she’d watch the time and hope that no one would say anything that would send her into orbit. Her family was never going to change, and she expected their banter to not only reveal their ignorance about the way people really lived but to piss her the hell off. And every time, she’d coach herself to ignore the remarks, rise above all the ignorance, and just get through the evening. But damned if she wouldn’t always feel the sharp slits when her veneer began to crack. As much as she tried to stave off the inevitable, a cascade of frustration would erupt from her gut. And if she was lucky, she’d escape before her anger bubbled up to her mouth.

  It would be so easy to dilute her brain with alcohol and deaden the receptacles that took in their diatribe, but that was the easy and obtuse way out. She should know; she’d learned that trick from watching everyone else in her family.

  No, in order to pass the night she’d clench and release her fists, do deep breathing, or think of a warm, sunny beach far from everyone.

  Her food contribution that night was a salad. The required dish, according to her mother, would be the correct combination of oak-leaf lettuce, a little arugula, a small bit of peppery watercress, chips of pecans, perfectly ripened grape tomatoes, not cherry, in a perfect presentation of a light sprinkling of bals
amic vinegar, a splash of soy, salt, pepper, and a little olive oil.

  She walked down the aisle of canned goods feeling the tightness that always gripped her stomach. Somehow, God had jettisoned her into the wrong family. Why had she been brought up with them? She hated not liking them and dreaded the searing slices of guilt that constantly raked her heart, but she couldn’t make herself feel otherwise.

  From childhood, their words and actions, so unenlightened and callous, had seeped into her soul, and not only was she a product of the kind of despicable philosophy that they personified, but it was also one of the ingredients of the shitty stew of education that her parents had raised her to consume.

  She usually had two choices, to cave or to fight. She wandered down another aisle, loathing the evening to come because invariably she’d be pushed into one of those choices. Anticipation always made her stomach turn, but tonight, if only in a small way, she’d choose how she wanted to respond before her family forced her into an either / or situation.

  *

  One of the conveniences of having Abel was that Chris could take her squad car home every afternoon. After long ten-hour shifts, she didn’t have to waste time driving back to the station to change vehicles. Of course, citizens would occasionally flag her down, but one call to dispatch to turn the incident over to another patrol officer and she was on her way again.

  But today, she’d helped one of her partners wrestle with a suspect who’d sliced his arms, and by the time they had him under control, her pants and shirt were stained with blood. Luckily she had no cuts and had washed down with soap and water, as well as an alcohol-based hand sanitizer, in case the man had a contagious disease.