Cut to the Chase (2 page)

L
ast night, my mommy told my daddy to not let the door hit him where the good Lord split him. What does that mean?”

Mia Ryan looked at her five-year-old student and searched her brain for the appropriate response. Mia had come to realize early on in her short career as a kindergarten teacher that nothing within the home was sacred. Embarrassing family secrets seemed to make their way into her classroom and were often shared at show and tell.

“I think your mommy wanted your daddy to be careful not to walk into the door as he left your house,” Mia said, staring into Jessica's big, round eyes.

The little girl seemed to buy Mia's quick response and smiled. Jessica then turned and joined her friends at the Lego table. Mia took a mental note to keep an eye on the child. Just in case.

Mia shook her head, realizing that she would never shed her suspicious nature. Though she had left the police force over a year ago, she found herself always on alert and never accepting anything at face value. Ninety-nine percent of the time, comments and questions like Jessica's were harmless and never materialized into anything of concern. But she needed to be ready and vigilant if that one percent ever walked into her classroom.

Mia thought that her insatiable need to keep people safe would have been quelled when she left her position at the NYPD and started the career she had always dreamed of, even as a little girl, as a kindergarten teacher. But she had miscalculated the facts. Her unfinished business had followed her from one lifetime and into the next. She was on edge all the time, always looking over her shoulder for the one who got away. She had failed and those around her had paid dearly for her incompetence.

Andrew hadn't seen his niece in over a month and was definitely feeling the guilt mount as he ascended the steps of the bungalow she had acquired when his brother, Tim, had passed. Even now, Andrew still couldn't believe Tim was gone. He should have seen it coming.

Tim and his wife, Joyce, were that picture-perfect couple that others strived to be. It was difficult to determine by just looking at them if they had been married for three weeks or thirty years. They had always seemed like two lovesick teenagers, never able to keep their hands off each other.

When Joyce was killed, his brother withdrew from the world and as much as Andrew had tried to convince Tim that life was still worth living, the more Andrew pled life's case, the more Tim would retreat into his dark place.

The tragedy of it all was that Tim didn't live long enough to discover the identity of his wife's killer. Mia had worked day and night on her mother's case, rarely sleeping, barely eating. The day Mia had solved the case, she rushed home to tell her pop that the killer had been identified and was in custody. Mia had walked into his bedroom and found him slumped over in bed. At first she had thought that he was just sleeping. But she quickly discovered an empty and unmarked container of pills on the floor beside him and knew that she would never feel the warmth of his eyes upon her or hear him say, as he so often did, how proud he was that she, his only child, had followed in his footsteps as a police officer.

Andrew gave his typical rhythmic tap on the door and uttered his niece's name. He heard the sound of nails scratching wood and a deep, husky bark. The door swung open, revealing a woman who had seen too much in her young life, but who was still strong enough to stand there with her hands on her hips and display a smile he had adored since she was a little girl. The screen door kept the furry newcomer from leaping into Andrew's arms. The bark had deceived him. He had expected a German shepherd, a Rottie perhaps. But as he stared into the chocolate-brown eyes of a yellow Lab that was in that in-between stage of puppy and adult, Andrew concluded that Mia's new sidekick was just a big old baby.

“Uncle Drew, meet Henry,” she said.

Andrew loved that Mia always picked up from where they left off. A week, a month, six months could go by and it was as if they had just seen each other. Mia had always been special to him. He remembered his weekly visits. Sunday-night dinner with his brother's family had been a ritual he never grew tired of. The night had been spent talking about their past week and the days ahead. Tim would discuss his latest case and Andrew would share as much about his own experiences as he could without breaking confidence and scaring his young niece.

But it had surprised and intrigued him to learn that Mia was not only fascinated with the stories her dad and uncle told, but she seemed to crave the details surrounding particular cases, especially the ones that appeared to have gone cold. She would ask question after question, all the while jotting the answers they gave into a black-marbled composition book. When she had finished with her interrogation, she would give her opinion, her take on the kind of criminal they were dealing with. As a youngster, she had been quick and insightful; as a teenager and young adult she had been alarmingly accurate, to the point Andrew knew she had a gift at profiling.

Although Andrew kept his observations and admiration of her skill to himself, Tim made it obvious how proud he was of his talented daughter. His constant comments and coaxing about joining the force had started to wear on her, forcing her to make a decision between a career she had always wanted and one she saw as a hobby, although she loved participating with her dad and uncle on the weekends. In the end, her aspirations to be a teacher had prevailed and she left New York to attend Lehigh University in Pennsylvania. Andrew had made certain that they stayed in contact during her four years at college, even visited her on occasion when he found a break in his unrelenting schedule. She had grown into a beautiful young woman, with every opportunity within her grasp.

And then the unthinkable occurred and every nightmare was realized. Her mother's body was discovered under a large oak tree in Central Park. Joyce had been raped and strangled, as the hand marks around her neck indicated.

Andrew had been the one to make the phone call. His brother had been too distraught, blaming himself for what had happened to his wife, for not being there to protect her. The night of the murder had been uneventful. Tim had been at work, patrolling. Joyce had just finished her twelve-hour shift at Jefferson Hospital as a NICU nurse. The cameras had time-stamped her departure from the hospital at seven eighteen in the evening. She was discovered in the park around midnight by two teenagers. The young couple had literally stumbled over her body while trying to find a secluded spot to make out.

Despite his numerous pleas, Andrew could not convince Mia to stay put, at least for that night. She had made the ninety-minute drive in a little over an hour. The moment she had walked into her parents' home, he knew something inside of her had snapped. Mia's eyes had been bloodshot and crazed. He had tried to console her, but she wouldn't have it. She had rushed into her parents' bedroom, where she found her dad crying. She had knelt down, taking his head into her arms, and wept with him.

Andrew had expected Mia to spend some time at home after the funeral. But the weeks turned into months and it was apparent that Mia had no intention of returning to Pennsylvania, despite the fact she had been offered her first teaching position at some picturesque elementary school in the mountains. His suspicions were confirmed when she blurted out over dinner one Sunday night that she was joining the force. He remembered the look on Tim's face. He had actually smiled, though his joy could not completely extinguish the despair in his eyes.

Four months had passed and the police weren't any closer to finding out who had killed Joyce. The case was growing colder with each passing day. A month prior, the NYPD had forced Tim's hand and made him take early retirement. At the time, Andrew had thought it was best that his brother was no longer in the trenches and had been removed from such a morbid environment. But the moment Andrew had learned that his brother had killed himself, he questioned whether all that extra time on his hands only expedited his death, significantly reducing his reasons to wake up in the morning.

Andrew remembered paying Mia a visit the night before she had left for training. He had hugged her, whispering words of encouragement. Alone in her bedroom, her dad safely in the kitchen cooking meatballs—an activity he hadn't engaged in since Joyce's passing—Mia finally had let her guard down and sobbed into his chest. She didn't tell him why she was crying. She didn't have to.

“Don't tell him, Uncle Drew.”

“You don't have to do this. This is not your dream, Mia.”

“But I have to find the bastard. He's out there somewhere. Besides, look how happy, how proud my dad is. I haven't seen him look so alive since my mom…” she said, not allowing herself to finish.

“You would make him proud in whatever you do, whichever field you choose. Can't you see that?” Andrew asked, pleading with her to understand.

Mia shook her head. “I can do this for my dad. I'm going to find him; you'll see,” she said, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. Attempting to compose herself, she cleared her throat and forced a smile.

Her decision had been made. There was no changing her mind. Andrew knew from the look in her eyes that there was no turning back. “I'm here for you, sweetheart. You know that, don't you?”

“Yeah, I do,” she said, hugging him tightly.

He embraced her, allowing the chapters of her life to play in his mind at a speed he wanted so much to slow down and repeat over and over again. He remembered her first day of school and how she waved at him and her parents as she galloped onto the school bus with confidence. He recalled the night Mia had come home from school crying because Jason Wyatt had broken up with her through a note passed during gym class. His frown quickly turned into a smile at the memory of her scoring the game-winning basket in the girls' state championship. She couldn't wipe the smile off her face for an entire week after that.

With no children of his own, Andrew felt that Mia was more of a daughter to him than a niece. Although Andrew struggled to keep it together, he knew he had to stay strong, for both of them. “You are most definitely my favorite niece,” he said, trying desperately to lighten the conversation.

“Not a difficult feat since I'm your only niece,” she said, chuckling and sniffling at the same time.

“Quite a watchdog you got there. I should be careful that he doesn't lick me to death,” Andrew mocked.

“Henry can be intimidating when he wants to be,” Mia said, patting the big galumph on the head. With the dog's ears plastered back and his tail wagging incessantly, he couldn't look any more submissive.

“I'll take your word for it.”

Mia opened the screen door, unleashing the gentle giant. He jumped up. Just as Andrew suspected, he was mauled and licked repeatedly. “Down, Henry!” Mia scolded. When she realized that Henry's excitement was nowhere close to dying down, she bribed him with a treat and put him in one of the bedrooms.

Andrew looked around the quaint home and realized that Mia hadn't changed anything in regards to the décor, with the exception of Henry. He didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing that the house appeared as if it was trapped in time. Andrew suspected it was the latter. He decided he would talk to his niece about her living situation, but not now. At the moment, there was something he needed to propose. It was a risk; he wasn't going to waste a moment denying it. The assignment he was asking her to take on would either unleash the demons she tried desperately to keep at bay and send her spiraling, or free her from the pain and guilt she harbored. Even as he uttered the words, he was still on the fence as to whether he was making the right decision.

“I have a favor to ask, sweetheart.”

S
cott Morris's attention was divided. And he did not like it one bit.

The scene before him should have brought him satisfaction, as it had on so many occasions. He had just informed the young man in his office that his cancer was in remission. The man stood and, with tears in his eyes, thanked his doctor. Scott smiled in return and told his patient that he wished to see him every six months from here on out. He would always need to be monitored, but for now, he was in the clear. The man shook his hand and practically skipped out of his office.

Scott had cleansed his patient of the filth that had infested his body. Another creature made clean because of him. That was what was important. Not the patient's happiness or appreciation that he would live to see another day. It made no difference to him that the young man had a wife with a child on the way. Or that now, because of Scott's skills and attention to detail, the child would grow up with a father.

Scott was growing restless, a state that he was not at all comfortable with. Because it was during these times, when his typical patient and meticulous nature was compromised, that he could make a mistake.

Control, Focus, Control…Act.

He repeated the words over and over. Scott had made up his mind in those early hours when Chase Montclair had not reemerged from his Angel's apartment building. Erin had blatantly disobeyed him. She and her lover needed to be punished. There was no way to avoid that outcome. He knew from experience that he wouldn't be able to move on to the next one until the current situation was resolved.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said.

“Dr. Morris, I apologize for disturbing you. But would you be able to take a call from a Dr. Dennis Thompson?”

Scott looked at his secretary. He had gone through three in the past five months. A combination of job incompetence and an aura of filth had surrounded each woman who dared to assume the role as his secretary. So he was pleased when Ms. Beatrice Foley had taken the job. She was a widow, and from his very brief encounters with her, she appeared to lead a simple life. She also minded her own business. A definite plus, considering.

“Yes, I had reached out to him earlier to discuss a case. Please put Dr. Thompson through,” Scott said, returning Beatrice's smile.

Beatrice nodded and left his office. Moments later his phone rang. “Dennis, thank you for getting back to me.” Scott consulted with the world-renowned doctor, asking his opinion on a treatment schedule he wanted to implement for a patient of his. The type of cancer his patient had was fast moving and all encompassing. He needed to eradicate it quickly, but wanted the other doctor's take on this rare and deadly form of cancer. Scott was able to swallow his pride and accept guidance, if it resulted in a clean patient at the end of the day.

“Scott, I'm glad you called. I was meaning to reach out to you. I apologize that I was unable to attend your father's funeral. Mitchell was a wonderful man and will truly be missed.”

Scott sat back in his leather swivel chair. “Thanks, Dennis. I still can't believe he's gone,” he said, giving the man the socially appropriate and expected response.

“Listen, Scott, a few of my colleagues are going hunting for a few days. Not sure if you hunt, but I was wondering if you wanted to get away for a while, get your mind off of things? I have a cabin upstate, nothing glamorous, but it has the necessities.”

Scott's immediate reaction was to say no thank you. But before he blurted out such a knee-jerk response, he thought about it for a split second.

When one door closes, another opens.

“You know, I think I'll take you up on that. A little time away would be good,” he said, his voice fitted with a touch of contrived sadness.

“Excellent. I'll call you later with the details. Unfortunately, I have a patient waiting for me.”

“Not a problem, Dennis. We'll talk soon.”