The Thieves of Heaven (33 page)

The monitors Jane stared at were each assigned to a felon awaiting a court date, a prison cell, or the end of a sentence. Those granted house arrest with the sexy ankle bracelet were the lowest of the low-risk. These were the ones who knew remorse, who knew contrition; the chance of their running was slim to none. Hell, the bracelet really wasn’t necessary; it was just a constant reminder that they were being watched. Jane knew this and so her diligence wasn’t acute. The rookie had brought a couple of books as her predecessor recommended—he’d forgotten to mention to bring lots of sweaters—but was ignoring them in favor of today’s crossword puzzle.

She nearly fell backward in her chair when the alarm went off. A shrill cutting tone from monitor twenty-seven. Its little green blip had vanished. “No, no, no, no, no, no. Shit!” Reaching for the phone, she knocked her books and the newspaper to the floor, but before she could even dial, the blip came back as if it was there all along.

She dialed anyway.

The phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mr. St. Pierre?” she asked frantically, a quiver in her voice.

“Yes?”

Jane’s brain was still reeling from the adrenaline rush. Was it some computer glitch? Had she made a mistake on her first day? “BHPD Tracking and Monitoring. We seemed to have had a momentary loss of transmission.”

“Sorry. I went downstairs to get my mail.”

She exhaled in relief. “Probably lost transmission in the elevator,” she reasoned. A more authoritative tone returned to her voice. “You must report in any time you are leaving the apartment.”

“Right. Sorry. I’m new at this. It won’t happen again.”

“Good.” Crisis averted, the rookie hung up the phone and tried to catch her breath.

A small black duffel was packed and sat ready on the front hall table. Michael was on the living room floor belly rubbing Hawk, the portable phone still cradled on his shoulder. Thinking. Thinking hard.

He tossed the phone on the sofa and used both hands on his dog. He stretched out his right leg and studied the ankle monitor on it. His tools were spread about the floor. He had removed the cover of the ankle box and—as a test of its capabilities—momentarily removed an internal wire. He needed to know how far he could push before he brought the whole police force down on his head.

“All right, my canine friend,” he said aloud. “How am I going to get out of this?”

Simon, bag in hand, looked at his watch. A plane taxied on the tarmac in the distance. Michael had said he would be there waiting. Well, that was the first lie—should he expect less? Maybe, Simon thought, he should go on his own. He had recovered many items for the Church in the past and had performed services of a far more lethal nature in the name of God. Why had he pursued Michael in the first place? Was it for the keys? Or out of wounded pride? Never had he failed before. The thought crushed him. Why had he come here? He never needed, nor had he ever sought, help before. And why from the man who had deceived him, stolen from him? A man he knew deep in his heart was untrustworthy. Simon prayed this wasn’t the first mistake of many.

This is the second call for Flight 1225 to Berlin.

Jane sat back, eating her McSandwich dinner. The rookie’s heart had stopped racing with fear an hour ago. Now, it was racing for other reasons. He was six one, hair blond as corn silk, and his jaw—well, she loved a strong jaw. She had seen Doogy only once at the Academy—no one messed with him about his name, he was just one of those confident people who could carry it off without ridicule—but he had burned a hole in her mind. She had no idea he was assigned to the same precinct until he had walked in.

“Hey, how’s it going out there?” she asked, putting on a buddy voice, trying to be just one of the guys.

“Hard to tell. Awfully quiet my first day out. How’d you draw the bad straw of Siberia?”

“Beats the streets.”

“Yeah, right,” Doogy said. “All that training going to waste.”

“I volunteered; they said I can pick my next rotation. That training will be put to good use soon enough.”

“Seriously?” He looked around at all the computers. “Yeah, maybe this isn’t such a bad gig. None of the dirty work thrown at you by senior officers, a comfortable seat to avoid the sweltering heat. How come I didn’t know about this?”

She loved the way his face scrunched up in disappointment. “Pays to be in the know.”

He nodded, then pointed at the monitors. “So, tell me about it.”

“I watch the movement on parolees, detainees, house-arrests. Exciting stuff.”

“Looks like a bad video game. Those dots don’t move much.” He pulled up a stool.

Got to stay focused, she decided. “They’re either sleeping or watching TV. Never much movement. Hungry?” She offered him some of her fries.

“Sure.” He reached over.

Big hands; she was trying to shake that myth out of her mind lest he notice. She was running out of small talk. “So…” she stammered.

“Get a lot of reading done, I imagine.” He gestured toward her books.

Yeah, he was interested, his body language screamed it.

“Now, what is that person doing?” He pointed at a little green dot racing all over the place like a video game gone berserk.

It took Jane a moment to snap out of her lust, she wasn’t sure what he was talking about at first. But then she saw it. Monitor twenty-seven. Again. This time, she knocked her sandwich clear across the room as she lunged for the phone.

Busch and Thal knocked on the front door. No answer. From inside the apartment came a loud crash, like something falling over. Thal raised his foot to kick in the door but Busch stopped him midway, dressing him down with his eyes. Busch flashed a key and opened the door.

“Mike?” he called out.

Everything seemed normal. The apartment was clean, there were fresh flowers on the hall table. Thal headed to the den while Busch checked the living room.

Another crash, this time from the bedroom. Busch eased toward the bedroom door, his gun drawn now. “Mike?” Another crash, glass breaking. “Quit screwing around!” the big cop hollered. But there was no response. He spun in the doorway, gun raised. Busch nearly screamed as something flew in his face and he staggered backward. His heart hammered in his chest as he holstered his gun. “Fucking cat.”

CJ tore into the living room, streaking up on the couch. Seconds later, Hawk came running out hot on her trail, screeching to a halt as he saw Busch. The dog sniffed his hand as Busch reached out to pet him. But he caught the scent again and growled at the cat on the couch. CJ hissed and took off. The two animals raced about the room in comical circles until the cat finally jumped up to the high bookshelf, the dog barking and jumping at her tail as it swung just out of reach.

Thal walked back in the room. “How can he not be here?”

And that’s when they saw it hanging from the dog’s collar: the security anklet.

“Smart son of a bitch,” Busch muttered.

Thal was flipping papers around on Michael’s desk. He found an open book and several newspaper articles. Picking one up, he started to read.

Busch was on the phone. He kept his back to Thal; he could no longer bear to look at the man. Busch had checked everywhere: the hospital, the precinct, the security shop. No one had seen Michael. The last time anyone had heard from him was when the rookie at the parole-tracking desk had called at 5:07 that afternoon, admonishing Michael for leaving his apartment to get his mail.

What scared Busch the most was when he called and spoke to Mary. She said that Michael had to go away for a few days. That was information he wasn’t about to share with Thal, or anyone for that matter. Busch’s ass was in a holy sling of shit now. The house arrest had been his idea; it had been his decision not to arrest Michael on the spot yesterday. If he didn’t find the man and quick he’d be in a lot more than shit. How could Michael do this to him?

Busch hung up the phone and turned. Thal was still reading. Busch looked about the surface of the cluttered desk. Michael was working on something, of this Busch was sure.

“Looks like he’s had company.” Thal pointed to two glasses and the empty bottle of whiskey. “I think your
friend
has an obsession going.” He tossed a copy of
International Business
to Busch; Finster was on its cover, his charismatic smile shining under friendly dark eyes.

Busch found it hard to disagree with Thal’s obsession reference. Everything upon the desk was about this Finster guy: newspaper articles, magazines, pictures.

“You”—an accusatory finger was in Busch’s face—“let him
go.
”

Busch grabbed Thal’s digit and nearly snapped it in two. He’d had enough of this crap. “Point that at me again and I’ll do more than break your finger.”

Thal’s body twisted toward the floor in pain, yelping. The irony struck Busch square in the mouth: Thal couldn’t handle pain. The man thrived on tormenting, on giving it out. But he couldn’t handle it. But then a wash of emotion flowed over Thal’s face and as he looked up at Busch, he smiled. And Busch realized his conclusion about Thal was completely wrong. Thal enjoyed pain, he enjoyed it whether he was giving it…or receiving it.