Brooding Angel

by Marie Ferrarella

  The criminal element was out in force today, as if the summer heat had driven it from its hiding place. The winter had seeded the area and they were reaping a full crop of crimes. Everything from domestic violence behind ivy-covered walls to an attempted murder had gone down today. In the normally peaceful city of Beverly Hills, where voices and not handguns were normally raised, there didn’t seem to be enough policemen to go around today.

  “Here,” Benson said, waving an aristocratically thin hand at an empty space on the wall separating a spacious dining room and a stiff, untouched living room. “My Jackson Pollock hung right here, so it could catch the afternoon light.”

  Benson looked peevishly at the two policemen his wife’s frantic 911 call had summoned. Neither of the two, he thought angrily, understood what it meant to lose such a treasure. The most expensive thing they probably owned between them was a pair of bowling shoes.

  “Now there’s nothing.” Benson stared at the space, as if concentrating could make the painting reappear. “I could have hung the Wyeth there, but the burglar took that, too.”

  John Benson had returned from a particularly lucrative lunch meeting with his broker in a rare, jovial mood. The mood was shattered when he’d discovered that his seven-bedroom home had been broken into. The security system had been neatly bypassed and his faithful dog had been tranquilized with some sort of a drug administered via a large cut of prime-rib steak.

  It was the latter detail that really bothered Mitch.

  “I just don’t understand it.” Benson rubbed a shaky hand along the back of his neck. “My wife’s diamond necklace was out in plain sight on the bureau and he left it.” He looked from one policeman to the other. The oversight seemed highly irrational. “Maybe he thought it was paste?”

  Mitch nodded. “Maybe.” But in his soul, he doubted it. Another piece of the puzzle that fit.

  Money had been taken out of the safe in the master bedroom. Again, the security system had been bypassed as easily as if it hadn’t existed. The thief was a professional who knew exactly what he wanted—money and the two originals that hung in the house. And he had known just when to get it. A patient thief.

  Mitch didn’t like the way the puzzle was shaping up.

  “Looks like we’ve got an art lover on our hands,” McAffee commented as he studied the photographs of the stolen paintings. Benson had provided them instantly, the way a man might provide favorite photographs of his children.

  “Looks like,” Mitch agreed quietly. He spared the photos a long glance. They brought back memories. His childhood had been filled with paintings. Transient paintings.

  McAffee glanced at Mitch. Something was up. His partner was far from gregarious, but his monosyllabic responses pointed to a preoccupation. Since Mitch had no personal life that anyone knew of, McAffee speculated that there was something about the burglary that was bothering him.

  McAffee looked at Benson. He held up the photographs. “Mind if we hang on to these for a while?”

  “No, go ahead. As long as I get them back. The paintings, I mean. I don’t care about the cash.” This was an entirely new experience for Benson and he didn’t care for it. “I mean, of course I care about the money.” He stopped and did a quick reckoning. “He must have gotten away with about three thousand dollars, but the paintings are what I care about.” He looked from one man to the other. “Passionately,” he added, as if that were necessary to drive the point home.

  McAffee slipped the two photographs into his breast pocket. “We’ll do our best,” he promised.

  Benson looked far from convinced as he moved toward the bedroom to comfort his shaken wife.

  McAffee glanced toward the bureau. The diamond necklace lay where it had been carelessly tossed, trapping a sunbeam in its stones. They shone like polished fire.

  It didn’t make sense. “Wonder why he didn’t take it,” he murmured to Mitch.

  Mitch had more than a sneaking suspicion he knew the reason. “Too mercurial a market.”

  McAffee stopped making notes to himself in his small pad, a habit that at times irritated Mitch. McAffee often jotted everything down, as if his mind was too full to accommodate facts without visual aids. He looked at Mitch now, confused. “What?”

  Mitch shook his head. “Nothing.”

  He’d unconsciously murmured aloud an edict his father had often voiced during his childhood. Cash was cash and artwork had a steady stable of buyers, buyers who were willing to put out large quantities of money to possess a work of art they craved. But Sam Mitchell had always considered jewelry an outward sign of vanity, far too mercurial in worth for him to risk trading in.

  McAffee studied his partner. It wasn’t often Mitch displayed signs of being human. The man looked beat. And slightly perturbed. McAffee wondered if there was something about the burglary he was missing. If there was and Mitch had picked up on it, he was just going to have to wait. Mitch wouldn’t share whatever it was until he had worked it through in his mind. That was his method. He was not now, nor had he ever been, a team player.

  It had bothered McAffee at times, especially in the beginning, when he had been filled with a great deal of idealism. But it was a trait he was learning to live with.

  “Whatever you say, Mitch.” McAffee slipped his tiny notebook into his pocket, then looked toward Benson. The man was sitting on his king-size bed, one arm placed protectively around his sobbing wife’s shoulders. Though the paintings hadn’t meant very much to her, the feeling of being violated, of being unsafe in her own home, had caused her to break down in tears.

  McAffee looked at the woman, compassion filling his face. “We’ll do our best,” he repeated, this time to Mrs. Benson.

  “I don’t feel safe anymore,” she whispered into her lace handkerchief.

  “I’d have your security system reevaluated if I were you,” Mitch suggested emotionlessly.

  “I intend to do just that,” Benson assured them, irritation flooding each word.

  “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Benson,” McAffee promised. He waved dismissively when Benson rose. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  McAffee waited until he and Mitch were outside again. The only help that the Bensons employed had had the afternoon off. Mrs. Benson had been at a charity committee meeting that coincided with Benson’s meeting with his broker. It had been the perfect time to strike the residence.

  “It was as if the guy knew exactly when to hit,” McAffee commented as he got into the passenger seat.

  “Professionals usually do.” The good ones always had patience. One in particular.

  Damn, after all this time.

  Mitch hoped he was wrong, but there was a sinking feeling in his gut that told him he wasn’t. Worst-case scenarios usually happened.

  He tried not to take the thought any further.

  “Yeah,” McAffee agreed with a deep sigh. The squad car’s air-conditioning unit still hadn’t been repaired. The seat was sticky and uncomfortable, but he was relieved to be sitting down again. He felt beat. The heat combined with the pace had made him bone weary.

  He closed his eyes as Mitch started up the car, then opened them again and glanced at his watch. Their shift was almost through.

  “Boy, am I glad this day is about over.”

  Mitch glanced at a red sports car moving in cross traffic, its sleek lines all but hugging the road. He gauged the car to be going about five miles over the speed limit. With a mental shrug, he let it pass. Some other time, he mused. People did five over the limit in their sleep, especially people driving sports cars.

  He had more important things on his mind than ticketing a sports car on a Friday afternoon.

  “It’s not over yet,” Mitch countered grimly.

  The back of his neck was prickling the way it did when he had an uneasy feeling about something. He thought of the drug-laced steak and attempted to convince himself that it was merely a coincidence.

  As he stopped at a light, Mitch saw McAffee looking at him strangel
y. “The report,” he reminded his partner. “We have to file it.”

  McAffee groaned, covering his face. He sank down deeper onto the cracked vinyl. His life was turning into one vast pile of paperwork. “My kid’s a turnip tonight in a class play. If I miss it, my wife’ll kill me.”

  A turnip. Mitch almost smiled at the thought. McAffee had shown him a picture of his wife and kid, practically shoving it under his nose when he had expressed no interest in seeing the man’s family. He could envision the little girl as a turnip. It was somehow gratifying that somewhere the ugliness of life left off and kids still played vegetables in school plays that no one remembered once they were over.

  Mitch lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “As long as she doesn’t kill you on my beat.”

  McAffee shifted in his seat, sitting up. Slouching in the squad car was hard on his back. The vehicle wasn’t built for comfort. “You’re all heart, Mitch.”

  His mouth twitched ever so slightly. “I had it surgically removed.”

  That was something Clancy had accused him of, he remembered, the phrase suddenly returning to him after all this time. She’d said it just after their breakup, had shouted it at his back as he’d walked away.

  The comment made McAffee slant a look at his partner. Mitch seemed uncommonly tired, but then, they’d both had a hell of a day. He debated asking, then weighed the consequences. Mitch didn’t shout. Alicia did. Alicia won.

  “I wouldn’t ask—”

  “Good.” The single word chopped off the end of McAffee’s sentence as cleanly as an executor’s ax.

  McAffee frowned. “C’mon, Mitch. Jackie’s only six. She wants her dad there.”

  Mitch remained silent for a moment. Without realizing it, McAffee had said something that struck a chord. Mitch could remember a time when he had wanted his father there, too. A father who knew the meaning of the title. Someone to turn to.

  Mitch let out a breath, taking a left. The precinct was still two blocks away. But traffic had mercifully thinned out. “I’ll take care of it.”

  McAffee was stunned speechless for a moment. Mitch wasn’t usually understanding. Like a child who was certain there would be no gifts beneath the tree suddenly being given a shiny, wrapped package, McAffee broke out in a big smile. “Mitch, you’re a prince!”

  Now there was something no one had ever accused him of. “Yeah.” Mitch spat out the word as if it had a bitter taste. “Don’t let it get around.”

  McAffee knew it was more than just a knee-jerk response. Mitch meant it. “Why do you always want everyone to think you’re such a bad guy?”

  “Because I am.” There was absolutely no smile on his lips. McAffee was left on his own to figure out whether or not his partner was kidding.

  McAffee knew what kind of guy Mitch was. Mitch had saved his life twice. And covered for him that time he had accidentally fouled up. That had been the first month they’d been together and McAffee had been inches away from putting in for another partner. Mitch had taken the heat that should have been his, knowing it would have gone harder on a rookie’s record.

  “Not in my book, Mitch,” McAffee said.

  “Shut up before I make you type the report in triplicate.”

  Given the condition of the equipment in the precinct and the fact that McAffee was a two-fingered typist, the threat had teeth.

  McAffee was already opening his door, eager to get to the locker room and then head home. He nodded. “Not another word.”

  Mitch took his own time walking to the steel front doors. Maybe the tedium of filing all the paperwork would make him forget the other nagging thoughts flitting through his mind.

  He didn’t want to think. Not about anything.

  * * *

  It didn’t work.

  Mitch managed, with some effort, to push his disquieting thoughts regarding the last burglary into the recesses of his mind. His suspicions might simply be a matter of overreaction on his part. Or the execution might have been pure coincidence. Burglars often had a common M.O. It seemed reasonable enough to assume that this was just a case of similar patterns.

  Clancy was another story.

  Clancy, with that look of despair in her eyes, haunted him like a melody, the words of which were just out of reach.

  A melody that refused to go away no matter how much he blocked his ears.

  Leaving the report on the sergeant’s desk, Mitch changed and walked out of the precinct. Getting into his car, he had every intention of pointing his Jeep Cherokee east and driving the ten blocks to his small, one-bedroom, ground-floor apartment. He wanted to go home not because it was a haven, but because it was somewhere he could get a few hours’ sleep.

  Instead, he pointed the car in the opposite direction.

  Toward Queen of Angels Hospital.

  Toward Clancy.

  It had taken a long time to work her out of his system when he’d left her two years ago. More time than he had anticipated, especially since he had convinced himself he had done the right thing.

  Just when he had believed that all traces of Clancy had been eradicated from his mind, this had to happen. He knew there was no walking away from her, not while she was hurting. Not after the man she had intended to marry had deserted her.

  Especially since Mitch felt responsible for the accident. If he hadn’t been chasing the sedan, it wouldn’t have sideswiped Clancy’s car. And she wouldn’t be in the hospital now.

  Maybe things would be better when he saw her tonight, he thought. If they were, then he could put this all behind him and go on with his life.

  Mitch swallowed a curse as he remembered that he hadn’t called to ask the name of her attending physician. He’d meant to, but time and crime had made that impossible.

  Maybe he could ask at the desk after he saw her.

  Damn, what was he doing? It was tantamount to not being able to swim and still diving off a pier or taking the falls in a barrel. No matter how he looked at it, he was going to drown.

  * * *

  There was no plausible reason for him to be walking down the long corridor from the elevator on the third floor to Room 324. No reason except for a perverseness that sometimes possessed him.

  It was like hitting his hand against a wall just to see how much pain he could withstand. He recalled doing that when he was around twelve. In his mind it had been a test of his manhood. A test of his endurance.

  He set his mouth grimly as he approached Clancy’s closed door. This wasn’t a test, it was merely living up to the code he’d set for himself. A private code of honor.

  He owed her.

  The accident was not technically his fault. No one could point a finger in his direction. Internal Affairs had said he wasn’t to blame.

  But Mitch didn’t see things in the same light as a police or civilian board of inquiry might. The facts in his mind were simple. Clancy had been hurt by the car of a man attempting to escape from him. That made the accident and the consequences his responsibility.

  That made Clancy his responsibility.

  And a man’s worth was judged by the way he faced up to his responsibilities. If Mitch believed in nothing else, he believed in that. It had been instilled in him at an early age, written across his heart in indelible ink.

  Steeling off any shred of emotion, he entered the room quietly, ready to slip out again if he found her sleeping.

  Quickly, he absorbed the surroundings. Nothing had changed since yesterday, except that there was a tray on the table that bracketed the foot of her bed. The food was untouched.

  As he drew closer to the bed, Clancy turned her head toward him. There was no greeting on her lips, though surprise flickered in her eyes.

  He dispensed with a greeting. It seemed superfluous. “You didn’t eat your dinner.”

  Mirthless humor curved her dry lips. “With deductive powers like that, I’m surprised you haven’t made captain yet.”

  She was looking for an argument, he thought. Aching for one. He’d seen it
often enough on the streets where he’d grown up. Arguments looking to happen, harbored by guys with chips on their shoulders that could have rivaled boulders. He wasn’t rising to it.

  Mitch noted the wafer-thin roast-beef slices nestled next to mashed potatoes that were beginning to droop. “You need to build up your strength.”

  She thought of the therapist who had come today. The therapist who couldn’t make her legs feel anything no matter how hard she’d tried. Who couldn’t get her legs to move. Bitterness rose like bile in her mouth and she swallowed it.

  “For what? Pressing the button for the nurse?” Clancy held up the gray tethered call button. She wiggled her thumb over it. “I can manage that just fine now.”

  He regarded her in grim silence. Reaching over the bed, he took the buzzer from her hand and placed it on the side of the bed where it had been. “I’ve never seen you feel sorry for yourself before.”

  The bitter smile widened. “Then maybe you’re in for a treat.” She didn’t want to talk. The tiny kernel of hope she had nurtured had dried up completely when the therapist had failed to make her feel even the slightest sensation, had failed to get the slightest movement from her no matter how much both of them tried. She waved an impatient hand at him to dismiss him. “Look, don’t you have a crime to solve or a ticket to write?”

  The more she pushed, the more he decided to settle in. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m off duty.”

  Clancy pressed her lips together, holding back oaths. “Then go home.”

  That was all he had wanted to do when he had driven away from the precinct. But he couldn’t. Not when she was like this. He remembered the laughter that had always shimmered in her eyes. It was completely gone. She couldn’t fight this if she wasn’t herself. “You’re not making this easy.”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes, I am. I’m making it very easy. Go away.” She pointed toward the closed door. “Nothing difficult about that.”