Holding a Hero

by Layne, Lyssa

  Much to Christine’s dismay Angela piped up, “Maybe you can convince her to call the police. Someone broke in and ransacked the place and she’s blowing it off like it’s no big deal.”

  Jared’s face said she was in for it now.

  He grabbed her by the upper arm escorting her into her office. “Angela, I’m leaving the clean-up to you. Christine and I have a few things to discuss.”

  “About time,” Angela shouted over her shoulder.

  “Traitor!” Christine tossed back. “I’m writing you up for insubordination.” As expected, her comment finally succeeded, Angela let out a humorous laugh.

  Once her office door was closed she turned to confront Jared and to prevent his lecture before it could start. Only Jared was seated in her chair behind her desk, feet up, legs crossed, hands clasped behind his head, grinning.

  “What are you up to?”

  Jared lowered her legs, sat straight and folded his hands on her desk. “You aren’t the only one in the publishing world now. Remember that article I wrote up on prosthetics for returning vets and officers injured in the line of duty. It was accepted in the next AMA Journal.”

  “Oh that is so wonderful.” She rushed to him and wrapped her arms around him.

  “That’s not all. I’ve been invited to speak at the John’s Hopkins University in Maryland day after tomorrow.”

  “How exciting.” She burst out then remembered he was supposed to be her escort for her opening. She was happy for him, but scared all the same.

  “And knock off that false excitement, I’ll be back in plenty of time.” He slung his arm around her shoulders. “Do you really think I’d miss your big night?”

  “You know how bad I am in crowds.” Her stomach was nauseous thinking about it. Was it really only three days away?

  “I know. Don’t worry. Everything will turn out wonderful for both of us.” He kissed her cheek.

  She needed the positive spirit he always managed to whip out at just the right time. That’s what best friends were for.

  “So tell me about it? What topic are you supposed to speak about at the university?”

  “Well, that’s sort of your fault. I used our relationship when writing up that paper. Showing how a physical therapist has to be more than just an occupation when it comes to healing the whole body. It’s got to be about mind, spirit, soul, and understanding the victim.” Even as he said it he grinned at her.

  She cringed at the use of the word because that’s exactly what she was when they met three years ago. A victim of circumstances. A victim of her own stupidity. A victim of that ass hole Ray Caldwell.

  It took every trick, every tool, and every ounce of trust Jared placed in her to get through to her and make her see that only by taking back the power over her life could she get beyond the anger, hurt, and frustration to heal and go on.

  She owed Jared her life.

  Jared put his hands up defensively. “I know, I know. You don’t like being reminded of that time in your life, but it’s all thanks to you that I’m where I am right now. You were my toughest patient to crack.”

  “Well then we’re even, because if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be in a panic about my show.”

  “I wish you’d stop worrying so much. You did an awesome job on the pictures. They’re brilliant. This is just the beginning kid. After this I’ll be lucky if you remember us little people.”

  “You wish. I’m dragging your ass every step of the way on this wild ride. That’s so if anything goes wrong I can blame you. After all, what are best friends for?” She sneered then laughed, knowing full well Jared would always be there for her.

  “Thanks pal, now if I could just get you to find a man I might have a life of my own.”

  “Gee thanks. I didn’t realize I was suffocating you,” she said snidely, not really hurt, but feeling guilty for monopolizing so much of his time.

  “Come on, you know I’m joking.” He tilted her chin and made her look him in the eye.

  “Sometimes I wonder. Do you realize in three years I’ve known you, you’ve never gone out on a date?” She asked.

  “Same goes for you,” he countered.

  “I guess since we were both coming off bad relationships and it was better to avoid them than to keep searching. So tell me, what are you looking for in that someone special?”

  “Someone as wonderful as me, of course?” he joked.

  “God, you are so bad—I’m not sure any woman could handle you.”

  “And who says I’m looking for a woman?” He loved teasing her, never fully committing to being straight or gay, so she responded as she always did, teasing him mercilessly. “Oh that’s right, I forgot you prefer your own company—less complicated that way.”

  “—and less emotional, besides I’m my favorite company, well, besides you.”

  That damned arrogant kitten grin of his. She never knew when he was joking or being serious. And frankly she didn’t care. He was the best friend a person could ask for.

  “What about you princess? What are you looking for?”

  She stood looking out her window, hugging herself and feeling a bit down, “If I could ever find a man with your unconditional love, your generosity, your faith and hope, someone strong, loyal, trustworthy,—”

  “Get a dog.”

  She ignored his snide comment and continued, “Someone who really loved me for me, but who isn’t a commitment-a-phobic like you. Sure, I’d take a chance again. Only the odds of that happening are about as much as me winning a gold medal in the Olympics in ice skating—and we both know that will never happen.”

  “You do know you actually have to put on skates to get there, if you weren’t so paranoid about making a fool of yourself you’d probably find that tenacity of yours would win you more than the Olympics.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, you have two very healthy, strong legs that don’t have a tendency to give out on you.”

  “And if you’d stop letting your fear of embarrassment rule your life you’d find you could enter some marathons and do pretty damned good. Let me know when you’re ready to seriously try building up those leg muscles and see what potential you really have.”

  There was a tightness in her chest thanks to the memories. “We’ve been through this time and time again. My legs are what they are. I’ve accepted what I am. Now it’s time for you to stop pushing me and let it go. I’m happy with my life.”

  “I don’t believe you for a minute. You forget we have a history. What about your dreams? I know how much not getting into the police department bothered you. I watched you sit in that damned wheelchair day after day, ignoring me, arguing what’s the use, you were a cripple and what a waste of time it was to try to do anything more.”

  “And I appreciate how you pushed me—then. Thanks to you that wheelchair is history, so are the crutches and canes. I know my limitations and I’m fine with that. Please, just let it go. I have enough on my mind without us quarreling over an old dead subject.”

  “Fine, I’ll drop it for now, but next week you and I are going to have heart to heart about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness.”

  “Fine, but you’re going to get the same talk so be prepared.”

  Long after Jared left and her morning work completed, Christine contemplated her life in general. She really was happy with her life. So much so that she seldom felt herself go to the dark place she was in before she met Jared. Well, most aspects of it.

  She loved her job. Loved working with people. Sure it would be nice to have a man in her life. Considering her history, she reminded herself she hadn’t made the greatest choices in the past. If only she had another chance. What kind of man would she choose?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brad stared down the muzzle of his gun.

  Once his ally, his weapon was now his enemy, and quite possibly his downfall. Much as a man would his mistress, he stroked his index finger along the top ridge of the blued metal, responding to the
weapon’s beauty and sensual strength. But this lover no longer gave him the satisfaction handling her once did. How could she when he was on Administrative Leave from the police department?

  The phone rang. Brad's gaze snapped to it.

  One ring.

  Too bad he hated modern technology so much. Heck he still had an old flip phone.

  Two rings.

  The muted television ran the credits to his favorite John Wayne movie. Maybe it was time to get an answering machine.

  Three rings.

  He concentrated on the TV screen, hell bent on ignoring the phone.

  Four rings.

  He shot it a scowl. Talking on the phone was just another source of heartburn. He dried beads of sweat from his upper lip using his shirt sleeve, took a deep breath, and snatched the phone on the fifth ring.

  "Yeah." His voice sounded gruff, which made sense since he hadn't spoken to anyone in two days following Marty’s funeral.

  "Detective Maxwell, can you set the record straight about why you killed your ex-partner?"

  The accusing voice was Mike Cochran, the reporter who hounded him daily since the shooting.

  Foregoing his desire to shout into the phone, he lowered his voice to a decibel just above a menacing whisper. "Can you set the record straight on how you have the balls to call a man a murderer and not report the facts correctly?” The dumb-fuck reporter had to know PD rules. “No comment.”

  Damn, he was getting sick of repeating those words. At what point would the department get around to defending him publicly?

  He’d never been fond of the media, and this experience had definitely taught him the futility of wishing for a single honest reporter to print the truth. Unless they were willing to set aside their penchant for sensationalism, he was in no mood to accommodate them. Not on any level.

  Nothing but damn piranhas.

  Marty was gone. Rosie and her entire family blamed him for her husband's death. He was on indefinite leave while Internal Affairs conducted an investigation.

  Brad smiled in spite of his predicament. He did have one ally. One eight-year-old boy who believed in him. Danny.

  His heart jumped as the shrill ring of the phone stretched his already taut nerves to a new breaking point.

  "Jesus, what now!" he growled into the mouthpiece.

  "Detective Maxwell?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  "This is Rob Anderson from the mayor's office. Mayor Cameron is requesting your help for the next two weeks."

  Brad scratched his head. "Why would Mayor Cameron want my help on anything?" He leaned back on the leather couch, satisfied he'd injected enough sarcasm in his tone to make Rob Anderson hesitate.

  "Actually, it's Mrs. Cameron who's making the request."

  "Lynette?"

  "Mrs. Cameron wants you to act as a bodyguard for one of the artists she sponsors."

  "Yeah, and Miss America is in my bedroom ready to give me a blow job."

  “Really? Wow, give her my best.”

  Brad had to give the guy credit for a quick comeback. Smart ass.

  "Actually,” he continued, “—Mrs. Cameron believes that if you participate with this event, it might go a long way to help you gain your—uh—reputation back. The Mayor is in complete agreement."

  "I don't believe this," Brad muttered.

  "Think about it. This could help begin the healing process of what Mrs. Cameron believes to be a grave injustice, not just for you, but for all police affiliations in general. She hopes you can meet with the artist today and attend the gala tomorrow evening at the Newport Gallery."

  Anderson's sniff of disapproval was not lost on Brad. He ignored it.

  "Who is this artist? Can't be Picasso. He's dead."

  "Ms. Christine Jansen."

  "Who?" The guy said her name matter-of-factly—as though all detectives had nothing better to do than sit around with their thumbs up their asses reading The Artist's Journal.

  "You've never heard of Christine Jansen? Her photography is exemplary."

  Did he detect a tight-ass little sniff again? He was already stressed, it wouldn't take much for this little shit to tie his nuts in a bigger knot. Even so, Brad listened as he paced the room like a caged lion.

  "As you may or may not know, Mrs. Cameron heads the local AIDS fund-raiser for the city of Newport Beach. Ms. Jansen has generously agreed to a showing with all the proceeds going to the Newport Beach AIDS Hospice."

  Brad liked Lynette Cameron. Remembered how grateful she’d been when he saved her life a little over two months ago when she’d been taken hostage during a bank robbery. For her, he'd set aside his personal emotions.

  "Don't these women know I'll be poison to their cause?" Brad scratched his week-old beard worried that his name in connection with anything might cause more trouble than they bargained for.

  "I don’t think I need to remind you, Detective, Mrs. Cameron owes her life to you. She’s anxious to help you clear your name.”

  He’d swallow what little pride he had left if his good name could somehow be restored.

  "What's the deal with Ms. Jansen? Why does some slick photographer need a bodyguard?" Brad stood and paced around the messy living room. He stumbled over a stack of unread newspapers and scowled.

  "I'm an aide, Mr. Maxwell. People ask me to make calls, run errands, type letters. I don't ask for details. I’m not sure why she likes you, but Mrs. Cameron said I shouldn’t get off the phone with you until you agree to help. But, if you want me to tell Mrs. Cameron you can't be bothered—"

  "You called me, remember?” Brad took a breath and squelched the apology he'd been about to voice then started again. “Look,” he softened his tone. “I'm a little confused as to why I've been asked to do this, that's all." Brad rested his forehead against the large picture window of his apartment, the cool glass calming him.

  "I suppose the mayor's wife can find someone else for the job. I'll let her know you've declined. She'll be disappointed, of course. She was looking forward to repaying you for saving her life."

  "Jesus, shut the hell up for a minute. I'm thinking." He dragged a hand through his hair. It wouldn't hurt to have something constructive to do while the Internal Affairs Division was doing their thing.

  Maybe it wouldn't be so bad escorting some old lady while she showed her precious pictures of cute kittens and puppy dogs to oohing and aahing strangers. At least it would keep his mind busy and get him the hell out of this depressing apartment.

  "Tell Lynette I’ll do it."

  "I'm sure she'll be pleased, Detective Maxwell. Oh and by the way, I've been advised to tell you that your participation has already been cleared by your boss at the Newport Beach Police Department."

  Brad shook his head. “Shit! You could have saved us both a lot of grief with that little tidbit. It would have been nice to know this at the beginning of the conversation. “He took down the information then disconnected the phone base. He'd had more than enough calls for one day.

  After a quick lunch of cold pizza and a colder beer, he pulled his t-shirt over his head, sniffed it and wrinkled his nose at the offending smell. He threw it in the hamper as he walked into the bathroom.

  He'd clean himself up, then go meet little ole Ms. Hoity-toity this afternoon. But first, he'd call Sadie from Clean-It and have her put his place back in order. He’d catch hell and she’d tell him he'd turned into a lazy pig. And he had. Funny, how misery could do that to a person.

  Not working went against his grain in a big way. He knew squat about art or photography, but he didn't need to. Maybe this brief stint as bodyguard would give his confidence an attitude adjustment.

  At the last minute Brad decided “screw it” and nixed shaving. After his shower he ran a quick comb through his tangled hair. He was way overdue for a haircut. Longer hair and a beard gave him a more sinister look. More like a vice cop instead of a detective. Good. A person would think twice before messing with him.

  He pulled on a pair of bla
ck briefs, then sat on the bed and slipped on his socks quickly followed by a pair of black jeans from the closet. Thinking he'd make one concession to propriety, he snagged a white pressed shirt from the hanger and punched his way into it then tucked in his shirt and buttoned his pants. After their behavior a few days ago, he didn’t trust IAD to do their job? They’d obviously made up their mind about him.

  But what about Vince? What was his boss doing to clear his name?

  No one had bothered to update Brad. He was giving them one more day—that was it. He was tired of sitting on his ass while they filed formal charges against him for the death of his ex-partner.

  He walked over to the picture of him and Marty hanging on the wall. The one from their graduation from the academy.

  “As if I could ever do anything to hurt you Buddy.”

  He’d spent the two days after the funeral trying to push his way back into the office, only to get escorted out. No one would talk to him. Vince reminded him he was on leave and to stay away from the precinct. How do you prove your innocence when you’re not allowed to investigate?

  Either way, his career was in the shitter and about to be flushed. Everything he'd busted his ass to build was about to be leveled to the ground. He stuffed his feet into a pair of black Justin’s. He couldn't let that happen. There was no way in hell he’d end up in jail like his worthless piece of shit father.

  Brad checked his watch. An hour until he had to leave to go meet the artist lady. He snagged another beer, then put it back and grabbed a coke instead. Slouching on the sofa in front of the muted television, his mind replayed that night for the millionth time. Who, exactly, had fired the shot that killed Marty? An awful niggling sense ate at his gut.

  He’d gone back to the scene after midnight last night, yellow tape still in place, looking for anything to trigger a memory only to be promptly escorted from the premises and told in no uncertain terms to stay away.

  He took a swig of his soda. Nothing was clear except he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he'd played this one by the book. Would the CSI team ever find the bullets? Only then would he be able to plot the trajectory? He sure hoped so, but with no updates he was beginning to doubt his own take on that night.