Been In Love Before: A Novel (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Angus, what did Mickey want on the phone?” asked his wife, Claret Campbell.

He mumbled something from the other room as he walked away.

She raised her voice. “Angus Macleod Campbell, don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you, and don’t you dare mumble to me. What did my son want on the phone? I heard you two shouting. What’s wrong?”

He never liked to argue with his wife.

She shouted again, “Angus!”

He returned to the room, his face still red with anger. He tried to bluster his way out of the conversation. “Ah, woman, if you really must know . . . he’s wantin’ to know if we’re comin’ to his wedding. Aye, there, now you know. Are you satisfied?”

She set aside her knitting and asked, “And why would he be asking that now? Of course were going to our son’s wedding.” There was no response from her husband of forty-four years.

Her shrewd eyes narrowed, focusing all her attention on him. “You mailed back that invitation RSVP that I gave you . . . now didn’t you?” she asked. Her lips tightened.

“Well . . . I had something important come up at the office at the same time as the wedding. A deal in Australia that’s very good for the company. Worth a lot of money. So . . .”

“Angus Campbell,” she shouted, now on her feet, wagging her finger at him, so close her face was nearly touching his, “you pick up that phone and you call your son and you tell him once and for all that we’re coming to the wedding. And you do it now.”

His chest puffed, his face crimson as he bellowed in return, “Nay, woman. I’ll not be attending no Macgregor’s wedding. And that’s the end of this talk.”

“Is that what this is all about? Some old Scottish feud that’s five hundred years old? Is that it?”

He looked down. “Aye.”

She picked up her knitting tools, tucked them under her arm, and, before she left, slowly turned to face him. “Angus, you have always been one headstrong, bullheaded Scotsman. But this . . . this is beyond that. This is mean, and I don’t understand it—you’re not a mean man. Not the Angus Campbell I married.” She whispered, “I’m ashamed of you, Angus Campbell, for the first time in my life. Ashamed to call myself a Campbell.”

She came closer to him, then touched his cheek. “Dear heart, marriage is tough enough for two people to live and work their way through life. It is something you must work at, each and every day, day after day. You’re only making it tougher for our son to find the happiness he deserves.” She sighed and, with a sense of resignation, said, “If you don’t want to go to your son’s wedding and risk not seeing your only grandchildren, then so be it. I can’t force you. But I’m going . . . either with you or without you. Good night.”

For the first time in their marriage, they went to bed angry at each other, with issues still unresolved. She wouldn’t let him see her tears, no, never. But she ached for a resolution. She loved each of them and wanted both to be happy.
Damn stubborn Scotsmen. Both of them.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Eian had called twice to make sure the grass on his Delray vacant lot had been cut and trimmed and the trash removed. The property manager had assured him that it was taken care of, but Eian had received a notice from the city that it would take legal action if the grass and trash situations were not addressed. What a pain. He decided to drive by on his way home, just to make sure everything was done. The lot was much more convenient to drive to from Ryan’s house than from where he had been living before.

He drove to Delray, turned onto Clinton, and saw for himself that the lot had indeed been cut, weeded, and cleaned up. He made a mental note to make sure the management company kept it that way. He sat in the car watching some neighborhood kids play baseball on the now-cleared lot and thought back to when he and his brothers had done the exact same thing so many years earlier at home. Those had been fun times. Great times. No, those had been the best times of his life. Hanging out with his brothers, playing baseball just for the fun of it. Before college, before the big leagues, before making the big money, just playing baseball for the sheer fun of playing, and throwing a baseball.

Eian decided to watch the boys awhile and got out of his car. He watched them throw, catch, hit the ball, and field the hits.

“Great catch!” he shouted without thinking, causing the group of boys to look in his direction. He clapped, and they smiled but kept on playing, stealing short glances in his direction. Finally, the tallest one in the group conferred with the catcher and set his bat down on an old piece of cardboard that served as home base to approach him.

“You’re Eian Macgregor, aren’t you, sir?”

“Yep, guilty as charged. Watching you guys play ball just now brought back memories of when my brothers and I were kids and we used to play in a small field down the street from our house. We had some great times.”

“Really?”

“You bet. You guys keep playing this way and you’ll make it to the big leagues when you get older and get out of college.”

“Hummph. College is for idiots,” said the tall one, now surrounded by the eight other boys.

“Oh, you think so?”

“Yes . . . sir.”

“Well, let me tell you, college is the best place to get not only a top-notch education but also some of the best baseball practice in the world.” They looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language.

“Come on, you guys know that the pro scouts come to all the big schools searching for talent, and if they like what they see, they’ll ask you to try out. Then one day that phone call comes, just when you least expect it. Somebody says on the other end of the line, ‘Hey, kid, we got a spot for you. Be here tomorrow.’ If you do well, they’ll put you into their AA league to get you ready for the big leagues. And you’re off. But it all starts right here, on that little patch of ground.” He pointed to the makeshift baseball field behind them as he walked toward the car. “Practice, practice, and more practice. Remember that,” he said as he opened the car door.

“That’s it? That’s all the advice you can give to us, is to practice?” said their leader, sounding disappointed.

He started to lecture the headstrong kid, but instead he took off his suit jacket and threw it inside the car and, pointing to him, said, “Grab the boxes from the trunk of the car and let’s pass ’em around to everybody. Then let’s play some baseball.”

They all yelled in delight.

He passed out the gloves, bats, and balls from the boxes in his office so that they all had a baseball glove and a ball. Some of it was too large for the smaller ones, but they did not seem to mind. They had a baseball glove—a major-league glove!

He stayed for two hours, working with them, showing them the right way to hold the bat and throw the ball. He showed them how to catch a fly ball or a line drive. He showed them where to position themselves on the field. He hit them some short pop-up balls and a couple of line drives, and had them make throws to the first baseman, then to the catcher at home plate.

They were not bad, he thought to himself, as their impromptu game was soon halted due to darkness.

“You guys are pretty good,” he said as they all gathered around him in a small circle.

“Mr. Macgregor, I’m Miguel Hernandez,” the tall one began, “and I want to apologize for spouting off to you earlier. I’m sorry. I was out of line. I think I’m speaking for all the guys: it was really super of you to do this for us today, and we all really appreciate everything you did. I’m just sorry it had to end.” He stuck out his hand to shake Eian’s.

“You’re welcome, Miguel. I’m sorry too. This was fun. Have a good night.” They slowly started putting the gloves and balls back into the boxes. Eian watched them. “Hey, guys, keep the gear. Use it and enjoy it.” He stopped and looked at them. “Tell you what: I’ll be here Saturday morning at eight a.m. for anyone who wants to come back and practice.”

Miguel smiled a huge grin, tucking his newfound glove into his jeans, and said, “Really? Anyone? We have some other friends who usually play with us, but they couldn’t come today. Is it okay if they join us Saturday?”

“Sure, why not?”

“There’s only one problem. We usually get chased off this field by the property manager. The owner of this property doesn’t like us playing here.”

“Really? Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

“But, Mr. Macgregor . . .”

“Miguel, I own the property,” he said with a knowing grin. “Go home so your mom won’t worry about you.”

Driving home that night to his brother’s house, he had a good feeling. He wanted to play some baseball with his brothers, just like the good old days. He felt good. Yes, he felt very good.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mary Kate called Robin again at the Delray Dunes hotel to see if Calley had checked in to the hotel or called. Nothing. The police had told her they had been to Calley’s house many times, but she had again refused to file charges against her husband. Mary Kate was determined to file her own charges against him for assaulting her in the stairway. He could not go around attacking people as he had, she said to herself, rubbing her still-sore ribs.

Finally, Mary Kate, against the direct wishes of not only her father but also Mickey and her boss, decided she would drive by the home address that Calley had given her. There was no answer from her cell phone. She just wanted to see where she lived, that’s all, she told herself.
See what?
What if she saw him? Or her?

The address was located in an older, working-class section of the city of West Palm Beach, in an area that had seen better days. Abandoned cars and old tires littered the landscape of the homes, which were set back from the street. Wayward weeds and tall grasses sprouted from the sidewalks and the fences. Most homes had what looked like old colored bedsheets hanging in front of the windows. Children’s toys littered the uncut front lawns.

She drove past an elderly woman sitting on her front stoop, with a beer bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Then she spied the blue-and-gray house with one shutter dangling from its screws. That was it, 6820 Maxilla Street. There were no cars or trucks in the driveway. She parked her car just past the house and turned around to observe the small home. No activity. She remembered Calley had said Phil worked irregular hours. She tried to call her one more time, again no answer. Was she home? Alone? She did not want to meet up with him again. Just thinking of that night and remembering the harsh odor of gasoline and diesel fuel, and his hands groping her, made her sick to her stomach.

Mary Kate pushed open the car door and searched her purse for her newly acquired can of pepper spray; however, the cold steel can provided little comfort.
It’s now or never, girl.
She pushed the rusty metal gate, and it swung wide open. She looked around the littered front yard.

Steady, girl,
she thought to herself, climbing the old wooden steps to the front porch. It creaked under her feet, and she stopped and listened. No sounds. She knocked softly on the front door. Then harder and louder, gaining courage. Still nothing. She knocked again, repeating to herself furiously,
I am an agent of the court. Any attempt to hinder me in my official duties can be cause for arrest. Back away! Cease and desist.
She felt the reassuring metal of the spray can at the bottom of her purse. She was ready but received no response.

Nobody home? No movement. No sounds. No answer at the door or on the phone. It didn’t feel right to her.
Where’s Calley?
No one home. She would call the cops again and have them do another welfare check on her, to make sure she was okay.

She saw a neighbor across the street sweeping her front sidewalk.
Could that be her friend? What was her name again? What the hell did she say her name was? Damn. Heather? Yes, that was it. Heather.
She began walking toward the gate when she heard a noise behind her and turned and saw the window drape open slightly. A face appeared inside. “Calley!” she screamed.

As she approached the front door, she could see her battered face, bruised eyes, and sad expression. “Oh my God, Calley,” she nearly wept when suddenly she saw something out of the corner of her eye racing toward her. Big. Brown. Fast. Pit bull!

It was upon her in a flash and then leaped high in the air at her. She moved at the last moment, and its jaws snapped emptily as it landed past her. She ran toward the gate, fast, faster. She could hear him panting just behind her. Gaining. At the last moment, she swung her briefcase at the charging pit bull, knocking him off his feet. It all happened so quickly she did not even have time to think about her can of pepper spray. She just wanted to be away, safe, as she quickly closed the gate behind her.

She could hardly breathe; she was panting hard just like the beast who had just chased her. His teeth, inches away, were gnawing at the fence as he tried to get to her and finish her. Globs of goo dribbled down his jaw as he snarled at her, mere feet from her face.

When she finally looked up at the window, she saw Calley standing there again, and he was standing beside her. He was laughing as he slowly closed the curtain. Then they were both gone.

Mary Kate was going to need help. Lots of help. And the police could not help because Calley would not press charges. The precinct where she filed her charges did not give her much hope. She had nowhere to turn. She went back to her car, and as much as she hated to admit it, she knew what she had to do. No, she had promised herself she would never talk to him again—never. But now she had no choice. She needed his help.
Why now? Why after all this time?
She would have to call Max for help.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Delray police detective Max Haines was not in a good mood. Somebody in the property division had lost key evidence in a case he was working on. Two kilograms of heroin were missing, and he wanted them back. His case would be thrown out of court, and the scum he had spent six months investigating and building a case against would walk out of jail a free man if he didn’t find it. He was not going to lose this one. Somebody was going to pay for this mistake, and it sure wasn’t going to be him. His team had caught the man with drugs in the car Max had been following for two days. The narcotics disappeared a week later from the property room.

“Just some paperwork snafu, that’s all,” is what Jerry Malin, the property-desk sergeant, kept telling him.

“I don’t give a damn,” he whispered forcefully to him. “Just find it, because if this guy walks,” he growled, leaning into the metal mesh separating him and the sergeant, “then I’m not going to be a very happy person. And you don’t want me unhappy, now do you, Sergeant? So call me when you find it.”

The desk cop had heard about Haines’s fiery temper, his short fuse, and about the last cop who had gotten on the wrong side of him.

“I’ll check it out personally, Lieutenant. There are a couple of other places we can check, that we may have overlooked when my guys searched earlier. But no promises.”

“Find it, you hear me? Now. I’m going back to my office. You call me when it surfaces. Got it?”

“Yes, sir, right away,” he said as he got off his chair inside the mesh cage of the property room.

“I’m going to kill somebody,” Max muttered and cursed under his breath as he stormed out of the basement and made his way to his office, slamming the door behind him. His office had a desk, a chair, assorted boxes, and piles of paperwork strewn about everywhere. There were piles on the floor and on the sofa, and more stacked by the door. A narrow pathway led through them from his door to his desk. His boss sent clerks to help clean it up and file everything, but he just chased them away. He didn’t have time for all that nonsense.

“Hell, I know where everything is. Just leave it be.” He was the most productive cop in the precinct, so his system clearly worked—in some perverse sort of way.

Ten minutes went by. Then twenty. The phone on his desk rang. He reached for it. “Haines here.”

“Lieutenant, this is Malin, down in the property room.”

“Yeah? What ya got?”

“Just wanted to let you know we found one of the property boxes tagged from that night. It’s half-empty. It only had his personal effects in it. But we see another evidence box on the top shelf, and the guys are pulling it down now. I’ll call you right back and let you know if your heroin is in it.”

“Okay, but be quick about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Two minutes later the phone rang again. “You better goddamn well have some good news for me, Malin.” Silence. “Malin?”

“Max?” she whispered in disbelief.

The sweetness of her voice took him back to times past; he would never forget her voice.

“Mary Kate?”

“Yeah. It’s been a long time.”

He fell back into his chair in disbelief at the sound of her voice, moving the phone from one hand to the other. “Eighteen months, but who’s counting? How are you?”

“I’m good. How you been?”

“The same. The life of a cop never changes. Remember?”

“Yeah.” There was an awkward silence between them. “I know you must be busy, but I need some help and advice. Can you meet me for a cup of coffee?”

“Sure. Where?”

“Dada . . . the Delray coffee shop . . . on Swinton—two o’clock?”

“Okay. See you there.”

“Thanks, Max.”

Max arrived early at the little offbeat bistro just off Atlantic Avenue, shrouded under the canopy of a huge banyan tree. A large flock of wild green parrots flew by, squawking as they flew their quick, erratic patterns overhead. He was sitting at an outside table sipping his second cup of Columbian coffee when he saw her round the corner, approaching the white picket fence that surrounded the popular funky café. He set the cup down and just watched her, taking in the visual feast unfolding before him. Maybe this was not such a good idea.
Don’t let her know, Max,
he told himself.
Damn.

The last time they had seen each other it had ended in a yelling match with her leaving. He had been assigned to a routine hit-and-run case involving her mother. He spent hours interviewing potential witnesses, canvasing body shops for repair damage that matched the bike, and walking the neighborhood where it had happened. He called her regularly to keep her updated. His persistence finally paid off, and when he told her what he had done, and that the guy responsible was in jail, she hugged and kissed him. She was in tears.

He didn’t want his regular phone calls to her to end; he wanted to see her again. Against his better judgment and departmental policy, he asked her to dinner. They had some wine, a nice Italian dinner at Luna Rosa, more wine, and some dessert while they talked for hours. He took her home, and they had coffee and after-dinner drinks and . . . later she said she was the happiest she had been in a very long time.

Two weeks later, when Max had to release the driver because his wife and best friend had provided a solid alibi, Mary Kate was furious and came storming back into the precinct. She yelled, she screamed, and finally she stomped out his office. Now here he was, almost two years later, sitting and watching her walk back into his life.

She waved a subtle hello as she walked into the outside courtyard. “Hi, Max,” she said, kissing him softly on the cheek before sitting down.

“Hey, Mary Kate. It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” she said and ordered a coffee from a nearby waiter.

“I can’t stay long,” he said. “I have to be in court to testify at a hearing.”

“Me neither.” There was an awkward moment of silence; then they both began to speak at the same time. “Max, I wanted to say I am so sorry . . .”

“Mary Kate, I wanted to tell you . . .”

They both laughed and Max said, “Sorry, you go ahead. You called this meeting.”

“Max, first I want to apologize for the way I acted when we last saw each other. You were just doing your job and following the law. And I was acting very emotional.”

“Mary Kate, you had just lost your mother, and then the guy who did it was caught and then released. You were angry at the world, and I was just the one who took the brunt of it. You were on some roller coaster at the time. I understand completely.”

“I’m sorry, Max, truly I am.”

“No problem,” he said as she looked up at him. “You said on the phone you needed my help and advice.”

“Yes. I’m now working as an attorney at Block & Sawyer and doing some pro bono work with a woman who came to my office.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with the firm. Great reputation in town.”

“Thanks. My client had been abused by her husband, and she wanted to leave him and then file for divorce. She was supposed to check in at a hotel I recommended. It’s a safe-harbor place we use sometimes to get women in her situation out of the home and somewhere safe. Well, she never showed up. I think she went home to gather up some things, and he was there waiting for her. Or they reconciled, or maybe he . . .” She paused to sip her coffee. The whole situation seemed surreal to her, sitting under the shade of the huge ancient banyan trees, with him, after all this time, and . . . she knew that if anyone could help, it would be Max.

“I went to her house and knocked on the door, and there was no answer.”

“What? You went there . . . alone? You should never do that. It’s too dangerous.”

“You’re right. As I look back at it, I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have let the cops handle it. A few days before that I was accosted by someone in the stairwell at work. He held a knife to my throat. He said her name, but I never saw his face. I think it was him, her husband.”

“Did you call the police? 911?”

“Yeah, I did. They took a report, questioned him, and held him for a day or so, but had to let him go due to insufficient evidence.”

“What? Who is this guy?” asked Max, now visibly agitated.

“Calm down, Max. He warned me to stay away from his wife.”

Max muttered something under his breath she did not hear. He looked at her. “Even more reason not to go there. You should’ve called me sooner,” he said, his anger rising.

“I thought I could help, I thought I could handle it. Looking back, I should have taken her to the motel myself, and then I know she would be safe. I suggested to the police and our building security to maybe check the surveillance cameras at the building where I work and maybe . . .”

“Unfortunately, beat cops don’t have the time to do that. Security should do it but . . . I can pull them and look to see if he was loitering about the parking lot or near your building, or see his car in the parking lot. Then I can bring him in for questioning. We can do a voice lineup . . .”

“Right. That’s at least enough to hold him on an assault charge so we can get Calley to someplace safe.”

“Mary Kate, don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault, and it happens all the time. Women think they can talk rationally to their abuser, but . . . ,” he said, leaning toward her, taking her hand in his to comfort her. “She first had to feel she was in danger, and most women don’t want to admit it. I can’t tell you how many women continue to return to an abusive situation repeatedly. Until something violent . . . or deadly happens. Then it’s too late.”

“You’re right. I should’ve known better.”

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“Phil Terrell. They live on Marilla Street in Delray. Be careful; I know he has a knife and . . . a pit bull, and God knows what else. So be careful. I just want her out of there, and in a safe place. She also told me he’s using drugs.”

“Okay. That’s all good information to have.”

“Also, the last time I saw her, she looked in pretty bad shape, and I called the local precinct to have them go and check on her. It hasn’t happened yet.”

“No promises, but let me take it from here. I need you to promise me that you’ll stay away from her house,” he said, still holding her hand.

“I promise. Thanks, Max. I really appreciate it. It was good seeing you again,” she said, slowly sliding her hand from his. She stood and hugged him with a smile, then turned to walk to her car and saw him standing there with a hurt look in his eyes. He had witnessed the entire scene. It was her Mickey. His eyes told the story of his pain. He turned and left, crossing the street to his car. She called to him, running to try to catch up with him, but it was too late as she saw him drive away. Gone.