The Thieves of Heaven (8 page)

The detective area on the second floor is one step above uninhabitable, fifteen desks crammed into a five-desk room. Paul Busch, in a rumpled sport coat and jeans, was filling out paperwork at his desk. It was organized mayhem, files upon files upon files all ready to tip into confusion. His first soda of the day was halfway gone. Busch prided himself on his lack of addiction to coffee and donuts. Of course, his daily Coke-and-Oreo breakfast didn’t make him a candidate for any National Institutes of Health awards. Fifteen years he’s been here, five as detective. He used to hate the job but now he has settled into going through the motions, biding his time until March 18, five years from now, pension time. He came in like all the guys, young and eager, ready to clean up the town, bring justice to the people of this fair city. But the crimes wear you down. No matter how much you do, there will always be another skank waiting in the wings to victimize someone else. What really made Busch sick, though, was the number of convictions. As a young idealist, he always believed an arrest would lead to a conviction and remove the scum from the world, but half of them walked and all too soon would be practicing their trade all over again. And while his attitude changed along with his outlook on life, his code never did. He always thought of himself as an unwavering enforcer of the law, a tool of the justice system. His job was to gather the evidence and catch the criminal: what happened afterward was someone else’s job. He never once was compromised, his values and his approach to the law could not be purchased, could not be deterred.

One time his wife was racing their son, Robbie, to the hospital, the boy’s arm fractured while skateboarding, and she was pulled over. The officer was a cocky son of a bitch out to make his monthly quota and he wasn’t giving an inch, even after seeing the child’s pain. The ticket was for doing sixty in a thirty zone, the two-pointer, five-hundred-dollar kind. All the begging in the world wouldn’t change that cop’s mind; he didn’t even offer to help them to the hospital. Jeannie requested, then recommended, then demanded that Paul take care of it; bury the ticket, work some magic with his police brethren. But Busch would have nothing to do with it; even though the ticket would double their insurance rates, he flat out refused. “The law is the law,” he kept saying. Jeannie didn’t forgive him for two weeks, refused to have sex with him for a month. She told him, “You got laws? So do I.”

Next to Busch’s desk sat Johnny Prefi. An unlit Marlboro hung from his mouth. His black spiky hair stood straight up—not from hair gel but from a four-week lack of soap and water. His sleeveless T-shirt read,
Fuck you. Keep staring and I’ll kill you. Have a nice day.

It was easy to understand why he was wearing handcuffs.

“Johnny, seeing as how you’re an arsonist on parole, anything more than a barbecue is a parole violation,” Busch said.

Johnny just stared back at Busch as if he didn’t comprehend the English language.

“And torching a warehouse for someone is a little more than a seaside cookout.”

“Hey, nobody got hurt,” Johnny said with a sincere snarl.

“Hey, you’re missing the point. Fire—”

“Scared of the flame, huh?” Johnny taunted him; he’d hit a nerve.

“If I liked fire”—Busch was beyond pissed—“I would have been a fireman.” He went back to his paperwork.

Johnny was thinking; a wicked little smile creased his face as he tilted up the unlit cigarette pinched between his lips. “Got a light?”

Busch stared in disbelief.

Captain Robert Delia, Busch’s by-the-book boss, interrupted before the big cop could explode. “Paulie, say hello to Dennis Thal. Thal’s gonna be tagging you.”

Busch rose to greet a mildly handsome man of thirty. Light brown hair receding just a bit. Nice suit, firm handshake. Thal’s body language screamed arrogant enthusiasm—shoulders back, left hand in his pocket, head tilted just a bit to the side.

“Glad to meet you.”

“Glad to be here.” Thal’s voice was smooth, subtle, just above a hushed tone.

“No offense,” Busch said to Thal as he turned to Delia. “But I don’t have time to play nursemaid, Captain.”

Delia may have been half a foot shorter than Busch, but in his mind, the captain could crush this man under his boot and had no problem reestablishing the chain of command. “Listen to me, Paulie,
Detective
Thal’s got nine years under his belt. He’s on loan from
State
to help us cover our staff problems. They wanted him to work the rounds with our best but they are all on vacation so he’s stuck with you.
Capisce?
”

Busch knew when to fight and when to stand down. He nodded.

“In addition to his detective responsibilities, Paul here handles our parole program on behalf of the courts,” the captain continued.

Busch looked at Thal, decided babysitting him was a discussion for another day, and took on a serious, Walter Cronkite air. “I’m sure the captain told you about our wonderful working environment. Some call it Oz—I call it Eden and all the parolees we deal with are one hundred percent reformed.”

Delia grunted, turned to Thal, and led him away. “Let me show you your desk before he poisons you on the whole law enforcement profession.”

“See you around,” Busch called out, not particularly liking his boss today.

Thal turned and with a finger point and a wink said, “You will.”

Busch turned away, and said quietly to no one in particular: “Dweeb.”

Mary was the teacher you always wanted. In a blue train-engineer’s cap, she led a conga line of five-year-olds around the classroom, all rapping military style at the top of their little lungs.

“When you ride our choo choo, one plus one is always two. Our engine makes a mighty roar, two plus two is always four. To the station we are never late, four plus four is always eight.”

Her classroom was a superbly organized child’s dream, with lots of toys and learning stations. Since being hired two months ago to fill the position of a teacher who’d never returned from maternity leave, Mary had won not only the respect of her fellow teachers but the love and admiration of the children. They adored her.

She was offered the kindergarten class, her favorite grade, young minds like unformed clay, young hearts still pure. Greenwich Country Day paid slightly better than Wilby but it was the allure of these five-year-olds that captured her. She had been teaching fifth grade, children on the verge of junior high; she loved them but felt she could contribute more if given the opportunity to provide a foundation early on. She couldn’t deny herself; their innocence was closer to her optimistic view of life.

Quietly, the principal, Liz Harvey, her gray hair swept up in a bun, stepped into the room smiling at the shouting children. Instantly, the classroom fell silent. Liz handed a piece of paper to Mary. Mary glanced at it, her face hard to read.

“Everything all right?” Liz put her hand on Mary’s shoulder.

“Fine.” Mary smiled back, still looking at the message from her doctor.

“Good news, I hope. This classroom has a way of enhancing one’s fertility.” Liz was already thinking about where she would find another replacement. This would make the fifth kindergarten teacher in three years to go out on maternity leave and find the joys of motherhood too compelling to return to work. “If your husband isn’t around I’d be happy to drive you.”

“Don’t be silly. You sure you don’t mind covering for me?”

“Not at all.”

Michael stood behind the counter of Safe & Sound, smiling as he stared at a small handwritten note. It simply read:
Hi, sexy
. Mary had stuck it in the pocket of the blue sport jacket she wore the other night, the same jacket he was wearing now. She continually played this game with him, leaving notes and little presents in the pockets for Michael to find when he finally got the clothing back. It was a silly thing but he loved her all the more for it.

“Did you hear what I said?” A gruff elderly man by the name of Rosenfield was chastising him as the man’s beautiful trophy bride stood several subservient steps behind him. “I just want it fixed.” Rosenfield’s slow-play security VCR sat on the counter for the second time in two weeks.

“I’ll fix it.”

The wife, unbeknownst to her husband, was seductively looking at Michael. Michael tried hard as hell not to notice but was sucked in. She was too gorgeous and her smile too bright. He subtly scratched his nose with his wedding-ring finger, in the hope she would get the message. But she simply smiled and raised her two-carat diamond in response.

“My home’s security is crucial. The installation work was fine but this equipment…your choice of suppliers leaves something to be desired—” Rosenfield saw where Michael’s attention was focused. “You’re not even listening to me.”

“Sorry, Mr. Rosenfield.” Michael snapped back to attention. “I said I’d make it right and I will.”

“I want action, not words.” Rosenfield paused and finally softened. “I like you, Michael. But maybe you should consider another field.”

“Nah, I like this one. I’m good at it.”

Rosenfield didn’t seem to believe it. “Do you have any other skills?”

“Nothing legal.” Michael grinned.

“Nothing legal?” Rosenfield headed for the door, laughing. “I like that. I expect the VCR back by the weekend.” He hooked arms with his wife and continued out the door, chuckling. “Nothing legal.”

His beautiful wife looked over her shoulder at Michael with a smile. Michael couldn’t help smiling back; it was any man’s reaction to flirtation.

Mary, still wearing the train-engineer’s cap, walked in the shop, brushing by the exiting Rosenfields.

“Loyal customer?” she teased.

“Huh? No, no. Disgruntled, maybe a little horny.”

Mary wrapped her arms around him. “What if I said I was a disgruntled, horny customer?”

“Then I’d have to check out your entire system,” Michael was choosing his words slowly, carefully, “strip it down, examine everything, use only the finest tools. But most important, make sure you’re completely satisfied when you leave so you become a repeat customer.”

“Can I keep my hat on?”

“We’ll see.” Michael kissed his wife deeply, completely seduced. Jealousy was obviously not a factor in their relationship. As the kiss dissolved, something occurred to him. He glanced at his watch. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

Michael sped through the center of the city, white-knuckling the wheel. His mind was racing as fast as the car. Mary sat next to him, her hands folded calmly in her lap.

“How could you hide this from me?”

“I wasn’t hiding anything from you, Michael. I just didn’t want you to worry.”

“What did they say?”

“They want to see me about my tests.”

“And that’s
nothing
? What kind of tests?”

Mary could hear the fear in Michael’s voice as she stared out the window.

“Mary, what kind?”

She took a breath. “Ovarian.”

Michael gripped the wheel even tighter as he struggled to breathe. He couldn’t turn his head toward her, afraid that doing so would somehow make this nightmare come true.