ONE LAST CHANCE

by Justine Davis

  "I know." Chance was truly puzzled now.

  "It's almost November now. We may have to push hard all the way through the holidays to catch up."

  Chance's expression changed from quizzical to shuttered.

  "I'm sorry, Chance," Jim Morgan said softly, "but I can't guarantee you the time off."

  "I understand."

  "I know how hard it is for you to—"

  "No. I'm sorry, sir, but you don't."

  Morgan sighed. "You're right. I don't." He paused. "I wish I could promise you we'll be able to spare you by then."

  "You can't. I understand." He got up. "Is that all?"

  Morgan hesitated as if he were about to say more, then stopped. He only nodded before adding, "Get some rest. You're looking a little ragged."

  Chance gave a short, sharp nod, then turned on his heel and strode out of the office. Jim Morgan shook his head slowly as he watched him go. His expression was sadly compassionate, his mouth compressed into a tight line as he lifted the top folder from the stack on his desk and began to read.

  * * *

  Chance lay sprawled on his bed, trying to blame his sleeplessness on the bright silver glow that filled the room. He was exhausted, he could feel it in the aching of his head and the grittiness of his eyes, but still sleep eluded him.

  He rolled over and swung out of bed in one smooth, controlled motion, and walked over to the sliding glass door that led to the small deck. He'd intended to close the drapes to darken the room and then try again, but instead found himself tugging open the heavy door and letting the chilly night air wash over his naked body.

  He stared out at the hillside before him, not really seeing it. He'd chosen this place for its seclusion and remoteness. It was a spacious set of rooms over the garage of a large, expensive house whose owner was more than happy to have a police officer in residence while he spent most of the year traveling around the world for his lucrative business.

  The garage wasn't even visible from the street. It backed up to a steep hill, and unless you knew they were there, you might never guess the rooms above it existed. Chance liked it that way, and had gotten to the point where he didn't even think of why every time he came home or left. The gang that had blown his life apart had been put away. But the knowledge that a man in his job made new enemies every day never left him.

  He slammed the sliding door shut with a mutter of disgust. He admitted at last, with tired certainty, that sleep was beyond him tonight. He'd lain there for hours, trying not to think about the one thing his mind refused to let go of. When he looked at the clock that glowed atop the old ammunition crate Quisto had jokingly given him to use for a nightstand, it was only to calculate what was happening at the club.

  She'd be starting the first show now, he'd thought at nine. Then at ten-thirty, the second. And at eleven-fifteen the last. What then?

  And then, he'd told himself sourly as he rolled over and pounded his innocent pillow with merciless force, she'd go home and climb into bed with the boss. An image of them intimately entwined shot through his mind and banished any hope of sleep that night.

  Still muttering, he yanked open a drawer and got out some clothes. He picked up the worn pair of jeans he'd tossed across the foot of the bed and pulled them on, then tugged a thick cotton sweater, boldly patterned in shades of blue, over his head as he walked into the living room. He slipped on the leather dock shoes he'd kicked off inside the front door, and grabbed his battered faded-denim jacket from the hook on the hall tree. He locked up with instinctive care and headed down the narrow staircase.

  He noted almost absently that the third and twelfth steps from the top still creaked with a satisfying loudness. More than once Mr. Hagan, the house's owner, had offered to have someone come in for repairs. Chance had quietly declined without explaining why.

  He skirted the edge of the large pool, the water shimmering from the lights below and the moonlight above, giving the lagoon-like pond an eerie glow. The man-made rocks that surrounded the glistening water looked real and solid yet strangely ethereal in the silver glow. Once he would have appreciated the effect, would have let his imagination run with the slightly unreal setting, let it become the almost fantasy place it appeared.

  But the capacity for such whimsical thought seemed burned out of him now, and all he could do was think vaguely that he would have to remember to switch on the waterfall for a while tomorrow, to keep the pump clear of debris. It was one of the little things he did regularly around the place, and while Mr. Hagan had never asked him to do those tasks, he felt it was small enough payment for the low rent and privacy he was getting.

  Not to mention, he thought with a wry grin, access to Hagan's small fleet of cars. The wealthy man had a passion for the more exotic forms of transportation, and the contents of the five-car garage were the proof. After Chance had lived there for about six months, Peter Hagan had apparently decided he was reliable, and had entrusted him with the keys to his babies while he was gone for weeks at a time.

  "Take 'em out now and then," he'd said casually. "It's not good for them to just sit"

  There was, he'd thought ruefully then, enough kid left in him to make it difficult to stifle the little kick of excitement that went through him while driving the finely tuned, powerful vehicles.

  He hit the combination on the keypad outside the garage door that disarmed the elaborate alarm system. The big door lifted, and he stepped inside. Like furniture in a house closed up for the winter, the cars were low bulky shapes beneath enveloping covers. Chance's open Jeep sat at one end, quietly unimpressed with its august company. He grinned wryly at himself, at how he'd found himself missing the high, stiff ride of the totally utilitarian vehicle after a few days of that smooth, purring power.

  It was a good thing real police work didn't imitate movies and television, he'd thought more than once when behind the wheel of one of the low-slung sleek cars. He could just see himself explaining to Pete how he'd racked up his Lamborghini chasing some crook. No, real life was full of long hours of drudgery and paperwork, with those moments of pulse-pounding, adrenaline-induced frenzy few and far between.

  He started automatically for the Jeep, then realized that the odd angle of the vehicle meant it had a flat tire. He looked down the row of covered cars.

  Gee, Buckner, that's too bad, he told himself flippantly. Guess you'll have to drive one of these.

  He uncovered the one that had been sitting the longest, the blatantly red Ferrari Mon Dial. The tan top was up and he took a moment to drop it, thinking he would need the blast of cold air. It started with its characteristic throaty roar, and within moments he was pulling onto the street, the heavy iron gates swinging automatically shut behind him.

  After a run up the coast that did nothing to ease the restlessness that plagued him, Chance at last pulled to a halt near the waterfront, in a spot overlooking the marina that housed boats whose extravagance matched the car he carefully parked. He didn't think about it anymore, the fact that he couldn't afford even the upkeep on the toys that belonged to the people he was sworn to protect. Possessions had come to mean very little to him in the past few years.

  He wandered along the waterfront for a while, watching the moonlight play on the water. He tried to keep his mind empty, knowing all too well that moods like the one that had descended on him tonight too often resulted in a flood of memories he didn't want. He wasn't up to dealing with it, not tonight. He walked on.

  He wasn't really aware that he had changed direction until a car racing by made him look up. With a little shock, he recognized his surroundings. Had it been an accident, or had some subconscious urge turned his steps in this direction?

  He hesitated at the corner, staring up the street. He could see, just beyond the halo of a streetlight two blocks up, the shadowy shape of the surveillance van. There was no movement on the street, only the sound of distant cars passing. A horn honked, somewhere a heavy door slammed, and then silence reigned again. It had to be later tha
n he realized, he thought. No drunks out, no last stragglers leaving the club. He glanced at his watch, shaking his head ruefully when he saw it was nearly three-thirty.

  He could go relieve the guys in the van. He wasn't going to sleep anyway. Then maybe he could go home and get some rest before he was due back tomorrow. Tonight, he corrected himself glumly. He and Quisto were set to go back to the club tonight, and then to take over the stakeout on the house afterward.

  Approaching footsteps snapped him out of his reverie. Instinctively he drew back into the shadows, watching, waiting. A woman, he thought, listening to the quick, light stride. And then, suddenly, without knowing how, he knew. He fixed his eyes on the circle of light cast by the corner streetlight, knowing she must pass through it.

  When she did, it was as if the light had merely been waiting for her presence to come to life. It seemed to dance around her, gleaming on the sleek fall of her hair, glinting in the huge gray eyes.

  She was wrapped in a thick red sweater that came almost to her knees, over a white turtleneck sweater, slacks and boots. Her hair was brushed to a smooth sheen, unlike the dramatic, tossed mane she wore onstage. She was carrying what looked like some kind of a notebook in the crook of her arm, and she looked lost in contemplation. Like a butterfly adrift on a puff of air, he could hear her humming a soft, airy melody. It seemed incredible that the power of that voice could be harnessed to anything so fragile, so delicate.

  Not a butterfly, he thought suddenly. An eagle maybe. The essence of restrained power. Able to glide effortlessly on the breeze with the most delicate adjustment of feathers, yet in the blink of an eye able to soar and plummet with dynamic grace.

  She walked on, into the shadows, and the streetlight's glow once more became merely a circle of light on an empty street. She crossed the street, mere yards away. Chance stepped out of the shadows. She jumped back, every muscle in her slender body tensed to flee.

  "At least I didn't knock you sideways this time," he said quietly.

  Her gaze flew to his face, and he saw the tension drain away as she recognized him. Still, she looked at him warily, as if too aware of the late hour and the empty street.

  "I'm sorry," he said quickly, "I didn't mean to scare you."

  "You just startled me." She looked at him for a moment. "I didn't see you tonight."

  She'd noticed. He couldn't help the silly feeling of pleasure that gave him. He tried to smother it. "I … couldn't make it." His mouth quirked. "Where are the bookends?"

  She looked puzzled, then a grin curved her mouth and put a sparkle in the gray eyes. "Shh," she whispered conspiratorially, "I gave them the slip."

  He grinned back. She looked at him rather oddly, then shrugged. "I needed to get away. I told them I was taking a cab home."

  His brow furrowed. "Why didn't you? You shouldn't be out here alone at this hour."

  "I know, but I wanted to walk. And better now than an hour ago, when they were pouring all the drunks out the door." She wrinkled her nose expressively.

  Something twisted inside him. She didn't like drunks, but she was de Cortez's girlfriend? A man who dealt in substances that made alcohol look like Kool-Aid?

  "Does the boss know you're out?"

  She drew back at the sudden acid in his tone. "I did my shows," she said carefully.

  Except for the one that comes later. In de Cortez's bed. His stomach knotted at the image that again flashed through his mind. His voice was as sour as the taste in his mouth.

  "I'm surprised he let you out of his sight."

  "Look," she said in exasperation, "if all you stopped me for was to have somebody to snipe at, forget it. I've got better things to do."

  "I'll bet. I'm sure de Cortez sees to that."

  Suddenly the exasperation became anger. "What is your problem? You don't even know him!"

  "I know him, lady. Better than you could ever guess. "I know his type."

  "I don't care what you think you know. He's been good to me, and I don't care to continue this conversation!"

  She walked stiffly past him. His gaze followed her automatically, noting her angry stride. He's been good to me. God, the words alone made him sick. He could imagine just how he'd been good to her.

  Snap out of it, Buckner, he ordered himself. She's part of this job, and you'd damn well better do it, and now—you'll never have a better chance! Just keep thinking about what she is, about her and de Cortez together. That ugly thought gave him a steadying jolt, and he made himself go after her.

  "Wait," he said as he caught up with her. "I didn't mean to make you mad. I'm sorry."

  She eyed him skeptically, anger still flickering in her eyes. "But you're not sorry about what you said."

  She wasn't going to let it slide. He took a deep breath. "I… Sometimes I form an opinion before I know all the facts." Like I did with you, he added grimly, after that day on the street. And sometimes I'm wrong." Very wrong.

  So wrong it hurt. He waited.

  She read it as he'd intended, thinking he'd meant de Cortez. After a moment she nodded. "All right."

  He breathed a sigh of relief. "There's a café a couple of blocks down that's open all night. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

  She hesitated.

  "Please?" He held up his hands. "No sniping, I promise."

  A reluctant smile curved her soft mouth, and he felt the knot in his gut unclench, it didn't make any sense, she was what she was, but that smile still turned his frozen insides to glowing warmth.

  "How's your thumb?" she asked, and he knew she'd accepted.

  He held up the wounded thumb with a grin. "Okay. Somebody sent me a Band-Aid."

  Her smile widened into a grin, and the warmth became a rippling heat.

  They walked down the deserted street toward the beckoning light of the café's window. Chance changed position and walked on the inside when he spotted someone pacing in front of the doors, keeping himself between her and the seemingly agitated young man.

  "Hey, man, got any change?"

  The words were quick, sharp, and punctuated by a swift swipe of one hand to what appeared to be a runny nose. The eyes that looked up at them were wide and dark, and even in the dim light the sheen of sweat on his forehead was visible.

  "Sorry," Chance said shortly, guiding her past him and into the café.

  She looked back over her shoulder as the door swung shut after them.

  "Maybe he's hungry—"

  "Save your money. He'd just use it to buy another pop."

  "What?"

  "Meth, I'd guess."

  "Meth?" Her brows furrowed, then cleared. She stared at the man still pacing anxiously outside. "You mean drugs?"

  "That's what methamphetamines are, yes," he said more sharply than he'd intended. Damn, if he didn't know, he'd swear she was shocked. She played the innocent perfectly, looking as if she had no idea what he was talking about.

  "What a waste."

  He stared at her as they sat down in a booth in the small chrome-and-glass diner-style café. This didn't make sense, either. Those soft words had been heated, almost angry. He glanced out the window again.

  "Him?"

  "Anyone. All the people who waste their lives, and destroy the lives of everyone around them."

  He sat back in the upholstered booth, his mind racing. Was she testing him somehow? On de Cortez's orders, perhaps? Or was that harsh, vehement tone for real? But how could it be, when she was involved with a man whose livelihood came from the source she was denouncing?

  "That sounded rather personal." He probed carefully.

  "It is. Very personal."

  She volunteered no more, and her expression told him clearly that he would get nothing by pushing right now. He let it drop, knowing that he had to go slowly, that he didn't dare risk alienating what could be their most valuable source of information. And he reminded himself once more that that was how he had to look at her.

  The cups of steaming coffee were in front of them before he spok
e again.

  "You are out pretty late," he said, careful to keep his tone merely solicitous.

  "We were working late. Going over some new songs."

  She gestured at the notebook she'd set down on the table. Only now did he notice that the paper sticking out from between the pasteboard covers was lined for music and covered with bold black notes.

  "Was that what you were humming?"

  "Was I?" She looked surprised. "Yes, I suppose I was. I get sort of … engrossed sometimes."

  "It was beautiful. Kind of fragile."

  Her eyes widened as she looked at him across the small table. Her voice was full of a surprised happiness that he had chosen the perfect word.

  "Yes," she said softly. "That's how it was meant to sound. Just like that."

  "Who writes your songs?"

  She shrugged. "I do."

  He stared at her. "All of them?"

  She nodded. "The boys just play, mostly, although Eric helps with the music sometimes."

  "But the words…?" For some reason he was afraid of the answer he knew was coming. It came.

  "All mine. Such as they are."

  It couldn't be. How could someone who could do that who could reach into his very soul with her lyrics, possibly be involved with the likes of de Cortez?

  "They're … I … they…" He shook his head sharply, his mouth twisting into a wry grimace. "Apparently they leave me speechless."

  She laughed lightly. "Since my ego is fairly secure, I'll take that as a compliment."

  "Do," he said, recovering himself. "They're wonderful. And you're amazing."

  "Thank you." She accepted it simply.

  "Why aren't you doing it professionally?"

  One dark, silky brow rose. "Last time I checked, I was. I do get paid, you know."

  He couldn't help grinning. "You know what I mean. Records, concerts, that stuff."

  "Not for me."

  "Why?"

  She made a rueful face. "You may find this hard to believe, but I really don't like performing live. I'm not at all how people seem to perceive me. I'm really just a song writer, not a performer, and a little shy, and it's very hard for me to do it. The idea of doing it for a living…" She shook her head.