The Thieves of Heaven (6 page)

Tomorrow, as he had done for the last twenty-four months, Busch will file the forms Michael has just signed: one copy for the courts, one copy for his commanding officer, and one copy for his files. They were official, the state emblem along the top. In big bold letters the heading read:
PAROLE BOARD STATE OF NEW YORK
.

Chapter 2

M
ichael dug through a desk in the repair area
of his anally organized security-and-alarm shop. Safe and Sound was fastidiously arranged. Electronic components lined the Peg-Board wall; security monitors, switches, and control panels filled the shelves. Several empty desks lined the back wall—provisions for future success. For now, Michael was pretty much on his own. Out front was a state-of-the-art showroom, gadgets for every imaginable security need: miniature cameras, bulletproof vests, bugging devices, special watches, lie detectors, hidden safes. Most went unsold; it was really the security installation systems that drove his business, and that was where his talent lay. Michael felt at home here. It wasn’t much, but he had built it from the ground up; while they still counted on Mary’s weekly paycheck, he was determined that someday he would make enough money that she could stop working to raise a family.

Unbeknownst to Michael, a man stepped through the doorway. The newcomer was handsome, in his mid-sixties. His long white hair was pulled back in a ponytail; dark eyebrows framed his earthen-brown eyes. Wearing a long dark raincoat over a fine European suit, he smelled
rich.

As Michael straightened, he caught sight of the man and nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus Christ!”

The man let out a soft laugh. “No.” His voice had a hint of a German accent. “Hardly. But thank you for the comparison. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The stranger’s warm smile exuded confidence and charm. He was definitely the charisma king.

“We’re closed.” There was an uncomfortable pause.

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you—”

Michael, searching the top drawer, pulled out a set of blueprints. “I’m in kind of a rush.”

“I’ll be brief.” The stranger handed Michael a business card. “I think we could help each other.” He walked about the office, looking, assessing. “I could help you solve your problems and you could help me solve mine.”

“Problems? I’m sorry, Mr.”—Michael glanced at the card—“Finster.” He stuffed the card in his pocket. From a cabinet he grabbed an envelope marked
Proposal
and tossed it, along with the blueprints, in a briefcase. Clipping his keys on his belt, he looked directly at the man. “I don’t have any problems,” he said tersely and led the way out of his shop.

Michael set the alarm, pulled down the security cage, locked up tight, and started walking through the minimall parking lot. Finster fell in step beside him.

They were silent for about ten paces until, “I could compensate you very—”

Michael put up his hands and stopped. He knew exactly where this conversation was going. “What, did you read it in the paper? You some kind of groupie?” He shook his head. “I’m on to a different career now.”

“Circumstances change,” Finster suggested.

“Not mine.” Michael couldn’t be clearer on this point as he walked away.

“Call me if they do. That’s all I ask.” Finster watched Michael stride toward his car. Seeing Mary sitting in the front seat and watching their exchange, he smiled at her. “Please don’t lose that card,” he called cheerfully.

“Don’t wait for my call,” Michael shot back, not bothering to turn his head.

Mary looked at Michael and then curiously at Finster. She smiled and nodded at the white-haired stranger.

Finster returned the gesture as the St. Pierres drove off.

The door opened to a nice, modest apartment. Nothing fancy in this two-bedroom, but Mary had made it cozy and warm. The third floor of a middle-class apartment building suited them just fine. As Michael and Mary entered, a huge drooling Bernese Mountain Dog came galumphing into Michael’s arms. “Hey, Hawk! Keep them bad guys out?” Michael collapsed to the floor, rolling around with the black, brown, and white dog, two kids at play, neither sure of who the master really was, neither really caring.

“I gotta walk him,” Michael told his wife.

“Coming to bed?” she said hopefully.

“Little while. I just have some things to take care of.” Michael didn’t even look at his wife as he grabbed the leash off the foyer table.

“Not too late, OK?” But she knew her words were falling on deaf ears.

Michael was back in fifteen, the walk doing them both good.

“Michael?” Mary called from the bedroom.

“Yeah?”

No response.

“Mare?”

Michael stepped into the darkened room; he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He looked around. It was too quiet. “Mary?” He tried the light switch—no good, the light must have blown. “Come on, Mare, quit screwing around.”

He checked the bathroom, nothing. Tried the light switch one more time, still no good. “All right, this isn’t funny.”

The bedroom door slammed shut.

Michael reflexively crouched: if he wasn’t on guard before, he was now. Instinct took over. It had been over five years, but the muscle memory was still there, his hyper-keen senses intact. He moved back one step and was immediately jumped. His heart leapt and he moved to strike but he instinctively pulled the punch. The figure spun him around, threw him on the bed, dove on top of him…And ripped open his shirt, the buttons flying everywhere.

Michael’s shock was wearing off as Mary whispered, “You forgot to kiss me.”

Mary, lying in a sea of pillows, the sheets in disarray, stroked her cat, CJ, as Michael pulled on a pair of shorts. It was the moment after, and you could see it in their eyes: despite the earlier tension, these two were still in love—as much as they had been six and a half years ago when they’d met.

She’d been twenty-four, just finishing her master’s degree in education. She had been offered a teaching position at the upscale Wilby School in Greenwich, Connecticut, one of the finest elementary schools in the country. Although Michael was eight years her senior, from the moment they set eyes on each other, there were undeniable sparks.

It was a fluke meeting. Mary had backed her car into Michael’s, and the fireworks instantly flew. It was passionate. However, it certainly was not romantic. They’d argued for twenty minutes about whose fault it was, trading verbal jabs and punches, both refusing to back down, neither willing to admit defeat. There really wasn’t any damage to either car, but that wasn’t the point. It was the principle. The funny thing was neither could remember fighting like that with anyone in twenty years. They were both known pacifists, the settlers of others’ arguments. But not this day. This was war. Even the policeman who stopped by gave up after threatening them both with arrest. The cop was actually the first one to know it: these two people were made for each other. The fight was at a full-tilt pitch when out of exasperation Michael declared he would only give in under one condition. Of course, that sparked another argument, but after five minutes Mary surrendered. Dinner. Michael couldn’t for the life of him imagine why he had asked, it was just one of those spur-of-the-moment impulses. And to this day, Mary couldn’t imagine why she had said yes. No one had ever gotten her Irish up like this man.

After a two-month courtship, they eloped to the U.S. Virgin Islands where, barefoot in the sand with the sunset at their backs, they were married by a local priest. There was no need for flowers, friends, or the “Bridal March.” As far as either of them was concerned it was the perfect ceremony, for they each had found their perfect match. The witnesses who stood in as matron of honor and best man were an eighty-year-old couple they had met on the flight down. Neither bridegroom nor bride had family they wanted to include in the celebration and the only one to express annoyance at the happy news was Jeannie Busch—Mary hadn’t even introduced Michael to her until they returned with rings on their fingers. But after Jeannie popped off, flipped Mary the bird, and stormed out of the house, she returned with an armful of wedding gifts, a smile, and a big hug for Michael, welcoming him to their world.

They settled into Michael’s summer house in Bedford, which Mary promptly transformed into a home. Accustomed to eating out for most of his life, Michael was initially uncomfortable without a dinner reservation, but that soon changed. Mary loved to cook. Michael was quickly spoiled by her culinary talent and soon had to add an additional mile to his daily runs to ward off the extra calories. And Mary discovered Michael’s talent with his hands, immediately enlisting him in her never-ending remodeling schemes. He had a way of looking at problems—physical, mechanical, even emotional—and making them disappear. They looked at the world a bit differently than everyone else and because of that, they had an even greater appreciation for each other. While most people spent their dating years falling in love and then, once married, watched their love slowly decay, Michael and Mary turned the premise on its head: every day they discovered something new about each other. They not only fell deeper in love but they became even closer friends.