True Blue (3 page)

The ten young men collected their things and shuffled off to the showers. It was six-thirty in the morning and Roy had already gotten in three games of five-on-five full-court at his sports club in northwest D.C. It had been eight years since he’d suited up for the University of Virginia Cavaliers as their starting point guard. At “only” six-two without rockets in his legs, Roy had still led his team to an ACC championship his senior year through hard work, smart court sense, good fundamentals, and a bit of luck. That luck had run out in the quarters of the NCAA when they’d slammed headfirst into perennial power Kansas.

The Jayhawks’ point guard had been a blur of cat quickness and numbing agility, and, at only six feet tall, could easily dunk. He’d poured in twelve threes, mostly with Roy’s hand in his face, dished off ten assists, and harassed the Cavs’ normally solid point man into more turnovers than baskets. It was not exactly how Roy wanted to remember his four-year collegiate career. Yet now, of course, that was the only way he could recall it.

He showered, dressed in a white polo shirt, gray slacks, and a blue sports jacket, his standard work wear, threw his bag in the trunk of his silver Audi, and headed to work. It was still only a little past seven, but his job demanded a long, full day.

At seven-thirty he pulled into the parking garage of his office building in Georgetown located on the waterfront, snagged his briefcase off the front seat, chirped his Audi locks shut, and rode the elevator car to the lobby. He said hello to Ned the thirty-something heavyset guard, who was cramming a sausage biscuit into his mouth while leisurely turning the pages of the latest
Muscle Mag
. Roy knew that if Ned had to get up from his chair and simply shuffle fast after a bad guy, he not only would never catch him but someone also would have to perform mouth-to-mouth on old Ned.

As long as it’s not me.

He stepped on the office elevator and punched the button for the sixth floor after swiping his key card through the slot. Less than a minute later he reached his office suite. Since Shilling & Murdoch didn’t open until eight-thirty, he also had to use his key card to release the lock on the law firm’s glass doors.

Shilling & Murdoch had forty-eight lawyers in D.C., twenty in London, and two in the Dubai office. Roy had been to all three places. He’d flown to the Middle East in the private plane of some sheik who had business dealings with one of Shilling’s clients. It had been an Airbus A380, the world’s largest commercial airliner, capable of carrying about six hundred ordinary people or twenty extraordinarily fortunate ones in ultimate luxury. Roy’s suite had a bed, a couch, a desk, a computer, two hundred TV channels, unlimited movies on demand, and a minibar. It also came with a personal attendant, in his case a young Jordanian woman so physically perfect that Roy spent much of the flight time pressing his call button just so he could look at her.

He walked down the hall to his office. The law firm’s space was nice, but far from ostentatious, and downright slum-dogging it compared to the ride on the A380. All Roy needed was a desk, a chair, a computer, and a phone. The only upgrade in his office was a basketball hoop on the back of the door that he would shoot a little rubber ball into while yakking on the phone or thinking.

In return for ten- or eleven-hour days and the occasional week-end work he was paid $220,000 per annum as a base with an expected bonus/profit share on top of that of another $60,000, plus gold-plated health care and a month of paid vacation with which to frolic to his heart’s content. Raises averaged about ten percent a year, so next cycle he would ratchet to over three hundred grand. Not bad for an ex-jock only five years out of law school and with only twenty-four months at this firm.

He was a deal guy now, so he never set foot in a courtroom. Best of all, he didn’t have to write down a single billable hour because all clients of the firm were on comprehensive retainers unless something extraordinary happened, which never had since Roy had worked here. He’d spent three years as a solo practitioner in private practice. He’d wanted to get on with the public defender’s office in D.C., but that was one of the premier indigent representation outfits in the country and the competition for a slot was intense. So Roy had become a Criminal Justice Act, or CJA, attorney. That sounded important, but it only meant he was on a court-approved list of certified lawyers who were willing basically to take the crumbs the public defender’s office didn’t want.

Roy had had his one-room legal shop a few blocks over from D.C. Superior Court in office space that he’d shared with six other attorneys. In fact, they’d also shared one secretary, a part-time paralegal, one copier/fax, and thousands of gallons of bad coffee. Since most of Roy’s clients had been guilty he’d spent much of his time negotiating plea deals with U.S. attorneys, or DAs, as they were called, since in the nation’s capital they prosecuted all crimes. The only time the DAs wanted to go to trial was to get their in-court hours up or to arbitrarily kick some ass, because the evidence was usually so clear that a guilty verdict was almost inevitable.

He’d dreamed of playing in the NBA until he’d finally accepted that there were a zillion guys better than he would ever be, and almost none of them would make the leap to professional hoops. That was the principal reason Roy had gone to law school; his ball skills weren’t good enough for the pros and he couldn’t consistently knock down the threes. He wondered occasionally how many other tall lawyers were walking around with the very same history.

After getting some work lined up for his secretary when she came in, he needed some coffee. It was right at eight o’clock as he walked down the hall to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The kitchen staff kept the coffee in there so it would stay fresher longer.

Roy didn’t get the coffee.

Instead he caught the woman’s body as it tumbled out of the fridge.

“No special reason.”

“Why come tonight?”

Beth Perry looked at the uniformed driver in front of her. “Keith, turn some tunes on up there. I don’t want you falling asleep. On these roads we’ll end up driving off the side of a mountain.”

“Right, Chief.” Keith dutifully turned on the radio and Kim Carnes’s jagged voice reached them in the backseat as she crooned “Bette Davis Eyes.”

Beth turned to her sister. When she spoke her voice was low. “This way we avoid the press. And just so you know, I’ve had eyes and ears in that place from day one. I tried to run interference the best I could for you.”

“So that’s why the cow backed off.”

“You mean Juanita?”

“I mean the cow.”

She lowered her voice further. “I figured they’d planned on giving you a parting gift. That was the reason I showed up early.”

It irritated Mace that the chief of police had to have the radio playing and whisper in her own car, but she understood why. Ears were everywhere. At her sister’s level, it wasn’t just about law enforcement; it was about politics.

“How’d you manage the release two days ahead of schedule?”

“Time reduced for good behavior. You’d earned yourself forty-eight whole hours of freedom.”

“Over two years, it doesn’t seem like that big an accomplishment.”

“It’s not, actually.” She patted Mace on the arm and smiled. “Not that I would have expected it from you.”

“Where do I go from here?”

“I thought you could crash at my place. I’ve got plenty of room. The divorce was final six months ago. Ted’s long gone.”

Her sister’s eight-year marriage to Ted Blankenship had started to unravel before Mace had gone to prison. It had ended with no kids and a husband who hated his ex principally because she was smarter and more successful than he ever would be.

“I hope my being in prison didn’t contribute to the downfall.”

“What contributed is that my taste in men sucks. So I’m Beth Perry again.”

“How’s Mom?”

“Still married to Moneybags and the same pain in the ass as always.”

“She never came to see me. Never wrote me a single letter.”

“Just let it go, Mace. That’s who she is and neither one of us is going to change the woman.”

“What about my condo?”

Beth glanced out the window and Mace saw her frown in the reflection off the glass. “I kept it going as long as I could, but the divorce took a big slice out of my pocketbook. I ended up paying alimony to Ted. The papers had a field day with that even though the file was supposed to be sealed.”

“I hate the press. And for the record I always hated Ted.”

“Anyway, the bank foreclosed on your condo four months ago.”

“Without telling me? They can do that?”

“You appointed me as your power of attorney before you went in. So they notified me.”

“So
you
couldn’t tell me?”

Beth glared at her. “And what exactly would you have done if I had?”

“It still would’ve been nice to know,” Mace said grumpily.

“I’m sorry. It was a judgment call on my part. At least you didn’t end up owing anything on it.”

“Do I have anything left?”

“After we paid off the legal bills for your defense—”

“
We
?”

“That was the other reason I couldn’t keep paying on the condo. The lawyers always get their money. And you would’ve done the same for me.”

“Like you ever would’ve ended up in a pile of crap like this.”

“Do you want the rest of the bad news?”

“Why not? We’re on a roll.”

“Your personal investment account got wiped out like everybody else’s in the economic freefall. Your police pension was history the moment you were convicted. You have a grand total of one thousand two hundred and fifteen dollars in your checking account. I talked your creditors into knocking your debt down to about six grand and got them to defer payments until you got back on your feet.”

Mace was silent for a long minute as the car rolled along winding roads on the way to the interstate that would eventually carry them into Virginia and then on to D.C. “In all your free time while you were running the tenth largest police force in the country and presiding over the security details for a presidential inauguration. Nobody could’ve done better. I know that. And if it had been me overseeing your finances, you’d probably be in a debtor’s prison in China.” Mace touched her sister’s arm. “Thanks, Beth.”

“I did manage to keep one thing for you.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“Different world and the mayor insisted.”

“Has there been a threat?”

“I get threats every day. Stalkers at HQ, here at home.”

“I know, so what’s changed?”

“Not for you to worry about.”

The car slowed and Beth Perry rolled down her window and exchanged a few words with the officers on duty, and then she and Mace headed into the house. Mace dropped the duffel bag containing everything she’d brought to prison with her and looked around. “You’re not going to tell me the truth about all the new security?”

“There’s nothing to tell. I don’t particularly like it, but like I said, the mayor insisted.”

“But why did he—”

“Drop it, Mace!”

The sisters did a staredown and Mace finally backed off.

“So where’s Blind Man?”

As if on cue, an old fifty-pound mutt with gray, black, and tan markings came into the room. As it sniffed the air, it gave a yelp and bounded toward Mace. She knelt and scratched Blind Man behind the ears and then gave the dog a lingering hug, pushing her nose into its smooth fur as Blind Man happily licked her ear.

“I think I missed this guy almost as much as I missed you.”

“He’s been pining for you.”

“Hey, Blind Man, you missed me, man, you missed me?”

“I still can’t believe they were going to put him down just because he can’t see. That dog’s nose is so keen it’s better than having two pairs of twenty-twenties.”

Mace rose but continued to stroke Blind Man’s head. “You always have been one to bring in strays with special cases. The deaf cat, and three-legged Bill the boxer.”

“Everybody and everything deserves a chance.”

“Including little sisters?”

“You’ve lost weight, but otherwise you look to be in great shape.”

“Worked out every day. Only thing that kept me going.”

Beth looked at her strangely. It took Mace a few moments to interpret. “I’m clean, Beth. I was clean when I went in and I didn’t touch anything while I was in there, although let me tell you there were more drugs in that place than at Pfizer’s world headquarters. I exchanged meth for endorphins. I’ll take a pee test if you want.”

“I don’t, but your probation officer will as a post-release condition.”

Mace took a deep breath. She’d forgotten that she was now officially on probation for a full year because of some complicating factors in her sentencing. If she screwed up they could send her right back for a lot longer than twenty-four months.

“I know the guy. He’s okay. Plays fair. Your first meeting is next week.”

“I thought it would be sooner than that.”

“It usually is, but I told him you’d be staying with me.”

Mace stared fixedly at her sister. “Any news on who set me up?’

“Let’s talk about it later. But I’ve got some ideas.”

There was something in her voice that made Mace decide not to argue. “I’m starving, but can I grab a shower first? Two minutes a day of cold drizzle over two years gets to you.”

“Towels, soap, and shampoo are all set upstairs. I’ve got the rest of your clothes in the guest bedroom.”

Thirty minutes later the two sisters sat down in the large, airy kitchen to scrambled eggs, coffee, bacon, and toast that Beth had prepared. The chief had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt with “FBI Academy” stenciled on the front. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was barefoot. Mace had on a white long-sleeved shirt and a pair of corduroy pants she’d last worn over two years ago. Snug before, they now rode low on her narrow hips.

“You’re going to need new things,” said her sister. “What are you now, about one-fifteen?

“A little less.” She ran a thumb inside the waist of the saggy pants. “I didn’t know I was such a porker before.”

“Yeah, a real porker. You could sprint circles around most of the force even back then. No donut runs for Mace Perry.”

As sunlight spilled through the windows, Beth watched as Mace took her time with each bite and drank the coffee in careful sips. Mace caught her sister eyeing her and put her fork and cup down.

“Pathetic, I know,” Mace said.

Beth leaned across and wrapped long fingers around her sister’s forearm. “I can’t tell you how good it is to have you back safe. What a relief it is—”

Beth’s voice faltered and Mace saw the tall woman’s eyes suddenly tear up; the same eyes that had stared down the worst the city had to offer. Like Mace, she’d started as a beat cop in the toughest neighborhoods of D.C. that no tourist would ever have ventured into unless he was tired of living.

The chief hurried over to the counter and poured another cup of coffee, gazing out the window into the small backyard while she regained her composure. Mace returned to her meal. In between bites she asked, “So what was it you kept for me?”

Relieved by this change in subject, Beth said, “Follow me and I’ll show you.”

She opened the door to the garage and nudged the light on with her elbow. It was a two-bay arrangement. In one parking slot sat Beth’s black Jeep Cherokee. The vehicle sitting in the other space caused a grin to spill over Mace’s face.

A Ducati Sport 1000 S motorcycle painted cherry red. It was the only thing Mace had ever splurged on. And still she’d gotten it dirt cheap and secondhand from a portly cop who’d bought it after going through a midlife crisis only to realize he was terrified to ride the damn thing.

She stepped down to the garage floor, ran her hand along the upside-down high-performance Marzocchi front forks forged from glorious brushed aluminum. Then her fingers slipped over the Sachs shocks that had softened journeys over some rough terrain when she’d used her private ride to chase down some bad guys off-road. The bike had a removable tailpiece cover to give it a sporty, aerodynamic look, but if you popped it off, it revealed a seat and became a two-person ride. However, Mace liked to ride solo. It had a six-speed gearbox, Marelli electronic fuel injection, L-twin cylinders, and its engine generated nearly a hundred horses at eight thousand rpms. She’d kept the bike far longer than any man she ever had, because she loved this machine far more than any guy she’d ever dated.

“How’d my creditors miss this?”

“I assigned it over to myself, so there was nothing to miss. I did it in lieu of payment for administering your affairs.” She held out the key. “Your license still valid?”

“Even if it wasn’t, you couldn’t keep me off it.”

“Nice thing to tell the chief of police sworn to uphold and protect.”

“Just
uphold
that thought, I’ll be back.”

Mace slipped the helmet on.

“Wait a sec.”

She looked over in time to see Beth toss her a black leather jacket she’d bought for her when she’d gotten the bike. Mace slipped it on. Her shoulders had widened enough to where it was a tight fit, but it still felt wonderful, because those shoulders and the rest of the body attached to it were now free.

Mace engaged the engine.

From behind the door to the kitchen there came the sounds of claws scratching and then Blind Man started to howl.

“He’s always hated you on that thing,” Beth yelled over the roar of the bike’s engine.

“But God, it sounds so good,” Mace shouted back.

Beth had already hit the control for the garage door. Good thing, because a few seconds later the Ducati roared out of the bay and into the crisp morning air, leaving its signature mark in burned-off tread on the cement.

Before the security detail could even react and move the barriers, Mace had already whipped around the staggered portable walls, angling the Ducati almost parallel to the ground. The machine responded flawlessly, like she and it had already fused into one organism. Then she was gone in a long exhale of Italian-engineered exhaust.

The security detail scratched its collective heads and turned to look back at the chief. She raised her cup of coffee in mock salute to their dedicated vigilance and returned to the house. She kept the garage door open, however. Four years ago she’d lost one garage door to her little sister’s overeager entry. She did not plan on repeating that mistake.