Marrying Mike...Again (5 page)

“Oh
ma chère,
we’re not counting weeks.”

“Days?”

“Hours, honey. Hours.”

“Ah, hence the new nameplate.” While she’d been meeting with the lieutenants, someone had thoughtfully taken down the
Bitch
plate. Someone else had thoughtfully replaced it with a new four-letter word. One that was far worse.

Mike looked troubled again. “I’ll take that down on my way out.”

“Don’t bother. They’ll just put up another.”

“Well, maybe I could pass the word around—”

“Not your war to fight.”

Mike’s jaw clenched. “No,” he said after a second. “I suppose it isn’t. You know,
Chief,
maybe it shouldn’t be war. Maybe going head to head only guarantees that you’ll lose. So some of these boys are rough around the edges. So Rusty likes to mouth off. He’s still a good cop. Give him a little ground now, maybe you’ll get it back later.”

“You’re blind to Rusty, Mike. He doesn’t just mouth off. He believes what he says.”

“He’s a good cop—”

“He’s a racist, sexist, egotistical pig, and I’m not just speaking from past experience. For God’s sake, he’s carrying a gun in the name of the law, not selling life insurance.”

“Is that really why you hate him, Sandy, or is it simply ’cause he’s my partner?”

She drew up short. So did Mike. He exhaled first. “Sorry,” he acknowledged. “Shouldn’t have gone there.”

“I think we have to agree to disagree on that subject,” she said stiffly.

“Yeah. Maybe we should make a list, all the things we aren’t allowed to talk about during these meetings.”

“Then the meeting would be too short.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His lips twisted. “Ah, hell.”

He drifted into silence, and Sandra understood how he felt. She was trying her best, too, and it was still hard not to hit old buttons. Or escape old memories and emotions. Everything had always been so tangled between them. Love and war, passion and pain. So unbelievably good inside the bedroom. So completely incapable of carrying on a simple conversation outside of it.

Sandra had hoped four years would be enough time to put things behind them. She’d been wrong.

“Sandy, how are you? I mean,
how are you?
”

“I’m—I’m okay. And you?”

“Fine.” He shrugged, smiled wryly. “You know me. Always fine.”

She smiled. Yes,
fine
was definitely Mike’s favorite word. “And your family?”

“Good. Chris is getting married. The last Rawlins to go. He found himself a naval pilot if you can believe that. The woman can not only out throw him on the football field, but she can also fly rings around him. So far we’re threatening to accept her into the family and kick him out.”

“I can imagine.” Mike’s family had threatened to kick her out, too. Definitely no love lost there. Belatedly Mike seemed to realize he’d touched a nerve, and he moved hastily to a fresh subject.

“And your family?”

“Same as usual. Mom has her bridge club and new interior decorator. She’s happy. The firm’s still growing, so dad’s happy.”
They’re relieved we’re divorced,
but no need to say that. Mike knew her parents loved him about as much as his parents had loved her.

“What’d they think of you getting into law enforcement?”

“That I’m nuts.”

“Same old, huh?”

“Yeah, same old. I imagine your parents had a few choice words about you getting to work for me.”

“They’re still rolling on the ground laughing.”

“It is ironic, isn’t it?”

“Hey, you know me. All water under the bayou.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, and had to look away. “Yeah.”

Mike finally rose to his feet. He turned the chair around and placed it back in front of the desk. He kept studying her with dark, unreadable eyes. “So are you seeing anyone, Sandy?”

She hesitated, caught off guard by this line of questioning. “No. You?”

“Nah, nothing serious.”

“With you, I didn’t think they ever were serious.”

“It had been with you,
ma chère.
It had been with you.”

He strode for the door. It was just as well. Sandra’s heart was beating too fast in her chest now and she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

At the last minute, however, his hand on the knob, Mike turned around. That look was back in his eyes. Dark, somber, searching.

“It wasn’t so bad,” he said softly. “You and me. Our marriage wasn’t so—”

“Mike, look me in the eye and tell me you were happy. Look me in the eye and tell me our marriage was the best year of your life.”

He couldn’t do it. And they both knew it.

After a moment, he turned around. He ripped open the door with more force than necessary. He slammed it shut behind him. He stormed down the hall.

And that made Sandra think back to other days, to the last day. The day she announced with a pounding heart and sweating hands that their marriage was over. And in stead of saying no, instead of finally fighting for her or at least taking her in his arms and telling her it would be all right, Mike had simply said, “Fine.”

Fine. Mike Rawlins’s signature word.
Fine.

That had been the day Sandra had finally stopped loving her husband and had learned to hate him instead.

“What the hell kind of assignment is this?”

“The easy kind.”

“Let me see if I got this straight. We identify who this Vee kid is. We track him down. We talk to his family and friends. And then we just walk away? We turn our backs on some cop-threatening punk and write up a report on the subject instead? This,” Koontz said seriously, “is what happens when you put a woman in charge.”

“Welcome to the nineties,” Mike told him, and resumed tapping on the keyboard. “She does have a good point about him writing the letter, though.”

“Conjecture. We’re risking our necks for conjecture.”

“When has it ever been any other way?”

Koontz scowled. He always got annoyed when Mike was right. He hunkered down by the computer, where Mike was perusing the gang database for Vee’s name. Koontz was actually the more computer literate of the two, but he hated to work the keyboard when other cops were around. Looked too clerical.

“You were in her office for a long time,” Koontz said.

“It’s called a debriefing, man. You should try showing up for one sometime.”

Koontz wasn’t fazed. “That was some suit she was wearing,” he observed next. “Showed off just enough curves and class to intimidate us poor working stiffs. Except for you, of course. You always did go for the uptown type.”

Mike kept his eyes glued to the computer screen. Koontz shook his head in disgust.

“Ah, man, I’m right, aren’t I? You’re going soft on her again. One look and you’re like a junkie desperate for a fix. Didn’t you listen to what I told you? When you go into her office, stick to business. Say nothing more, nothing less. In and out quick.”

“The meeting was quick.”

“Liar. You were in there for over half an hour. Debriefings for idiot cases never take more than ten, fifteen minutes. You made small talk. You got
personal.
”

Koontz spat out the word as if it were a communicable disease. Mike didn’t comment. He’d learned long ago that responding to Rusty’s tirades just added fuel to the fire. It was easier to let him burn out on his own.

“Mike! I was there the first time, remember? I watched the whole thing unfold like a damn train wreck. I
know
what I’m talking about.”

“Look,” Mike said, “Three monikers that start with
V.
Write them down.”

Koontz growled at him. Mike ignored the look and grabbed a pen. He didn’t want to talk about Sandra right now. He wanted to work, he wanted to escape from all the confusion a simple thirty-minute meeting could bring. Besides, he had a rule: He never discussed Sandra with Rusty, and he never discussed Rusty with Sandra. Their mutual dislike was their problem, not his.

“One V-dubb,” Mike read off to his partner, “one Vavoom, and one V-Vex. Vavoom is really Cheryl, so we’ll count her out.”

Koontz finally looked at the names. “Vavoom, huh? Wanna bet what her occupation is?”

“She’s fourteen. Maybe not.”

“Hah. Fourteen is prime age out there. I double my bet that she is.”

Mike shrugged. Koontz was probably right.

A long time ago, Mike had figured out that the trick to understanding Rusty was that for him, the world was actually a simple place. There were good people—cops—and bad people—everyone else. Which meant that, despite Sandra’s claims, Rusty was an equal-opportunity cynic. There wasn’t a person he met whom he didn’t assume the worst about, and not a man, woman or child whom he didn’t suspect. If he ever met Sandy’s well-groomed dad, Koontz would assume money laundering. If he ever met Sandy’s pristine mother, Koontz would assume plastic surgery and Valium. That was just his way.

“Try known associates,” Koontz said.

“I’m gettin’ there.” Mike typed in the search field and the ancient database whirled. The computer made an unhealthy sound, then coughed up an answer.

“Criminy,” Koontz said. “We gotta get some new hardware around here.”

“We did. White Collar grabbed them. Said they needed them more. All good fraud these days is on computer.”

“Ha, more likely all good computer games. What kind of caseload does WC have these days anyway? I say we wait until dark, then steal the computers back.”

Mike glanced over at his partner. It was always hard to tell when Koontz was joking.

“Zero matches found,” he said. “Your turn. On to NCIC.”

Koontz grudgingly traded places with Mike. Rusty was the most familiar with NCIC and already had the national crime database whirling as Mike rolled the first kink out of his neck.

“It’s odd that Vee doesn’t even appear as a known moniker,” Koontz grumbled.

“Unless he doesn’t actually belong to a gang.”

“The kid is thirteen. You don’t get to be thirteen on the east side without someone jumping you in.”

“A holdout? Maybe outta respect for his brother.”

“Do we got a name for the brother?”

“Nope.”

“Damn. Dead end here, too.” Koontz pushed back from the computer, frowning harder. “He’s gotta be in the system.”

Mike agreed. “Known family associations with gangs. Street name, claims of being a straight shooter. You’d think we’d find a record.”

“Maybe it’s fake. Whole letter’s just a hoax to yank our chains. Someone out there likes toying with the men in blue.”

“Or maybe Vee’s a new moniker. Vee for vengeance.”

“Huh. It’s possible. Don’t know why these kids have to make up new names, though. It’s not like anyone in the east side is naming their son Bob anymore.”

“What about the Crime Scene Unit? They get any prints off the letter?”

“Wrecked,” Koontz told him. “Seems everybody at the newspaper touched it, so prints are impossible. Letter was hand-delivered, so no postage. Envelope not sealed so no saliva. Get this, the letter was actually typed. Old manual typewriter with Wite-Out for corrections. Not a neat job, but still means no handwriting analysis. Of course, we could probably match the letter to a particular typewriter, but that assumes we know enough to find the typewriter. Case is getting easier all the time, isn’t it?”

Mike sighed and picked up his jacket. “Only one thing left to do.”

“No…”

“We gotta find the kid somehow. Newspaper office sits on a major bus line.”

Koontz groaned louder. “Ah, nuts, I hate this kind of grunt work.”

“It’s not just a job,” Mike assured him. “It’s an adventure.”

Chapter 3

D
riving to the bus station, Mike started thinking about his ex-wife again.

He didn’t want to. After the divorce, he’d adopted a strict policy of not looking back. He’d been raised with a certain philosophy about the world. Roll with the punches, live life easy. So he’d gotten a divorce. That’s the hand life had dealt him. Move on.

Besides, if he thought about it too much—remembered Sandra’s smile, her scent, the way she’d sigh right after he kissed her—he got angry. Angry that she was gone. Angry she hadn’t given them more of a chance. Angry that he was
divorced,
dammit, and he’d never wanted to be divorced. Would someone please tell him what the hell he was supposed to have done differently?

Mike didn’t like getting angry. So he made the rule about not looking back. Easygoing Rawlins. Rolling with the punches. Living life fine. Yeah, that was him.

Until today. Today was doing him in.

Sandra striding into the morning meeting, looking even better than he remembered. God, he loved it when she had her chin up and her eyes sparkling for a fight. Koontz had it all wrong. Mike had never minded that his wife could be bossy or tough. Hell, he’d
loved
that about her. Sandra was the first woman he’d ever met who couldn’t be swayed just by his grin. She gave as good as she got. She made him work for things. She made him feel alive. That was his wife.

And he knew the rest of her, too, the softer side she’d never show someone like Koontz. The late nights when she’d compulsively rub the back of her neck where her muscles knotted from carrying the weight of the world around with her all day. The next morning when she’d drag herself out of bed with the worst migraine rather than let her father’s company down. Then along the way to work, she’d stop and watch the little kids run through the park, because Sandy really wanted to have children and worried that she was too driven and career oriented to be a good mother.

Rainy days dragged her down. Sunny days perked her up. Her favorite treat was undercooked brownies eaten hot and gooey straight from the pan. And her favorite way of spending Sundays used to be in his arms.

Mike didn’t want to know how she was spending her Sundays now. That would make him angry. So he thought about their wedding, instead.

It had been in Boston, some huge stone church where all Aikenses had tied the knot since time immemorial. Sandy’s mom had hired a fancy florist to deck the place out in satin bows and white roses, and they’d triggered a pollen attack so bad Mike’s brother had to be led out of the church. Mike hadn’t really noticed.