The Thieves of Heaven (15 page)

“What’s up?” Thal asked as he opened his locker.

“You were supposed to meet me upstairs fifteen minutes ago.”

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to screw you up.” Thal swiped his sweaty brown hair out of his eyes. “Let me take a thirty-second shower and I’ll be right up.”

Busch walked out of the locker room, calling back to Thal, “You’ve got three minutes.”

Thal looked around; no one else was in the area. He pulled off his dirty sweats and tossed them on the floor, throwing his towel over his right shoulder. He hopped in the shower, soaped up and, true to his word, was out of the icy water in thirty seconds. Efficiency was his motto. No need to waste time when there were more important things to attend to.

He combed his hair and threw on his pleated pants. Buffed up his shoes with his wet towel and grabbed his freshly pressed white shirt out of his locker, hastily putting it on. Thal wasn’t a modest man, he just didn’t want Busch (or anyone, for that matter) to see his right shoulder. Dennis Thal knew that, despite the Ralph Lauren shirt and Cole Haan loafers, he wasn’t what he seemed.

Thal knew the “tattoo” would set Busch off. The black skull with roses growing out of fractured bone would just confirm the big cop’s beliefs. It had been the foolish move of a sixteen-year-old, a way to be cool and fit in. In Thal’s case, it didn’t work. Costing three hundred and fifty dollars, the tattoo was a thing of hip beauty on the day it was done, but it no longer had the luster and the fine artistic lines he’d paid for. The scar tissue from a burn had distorted it to a grotesque horror that he couldn’t erase.

If Busch saw his tattoo, it would raise too many questions, questions that Thal could never answer. He had worked hard at polishing his lily-white image and something so incongruous would surely raise more than curiosity in a veteran cop like Busch. And Det. Dennis Thal hadn’t gone through all this trouble being assigned to Busch to be found out—he had a job to do and he wasn’t about to let his employer down.

The files on the left side of the desk stood eleven inches deep, a good three inches shorter than the stack on the right. For the last five minutes the piles alternated in height as Busch aimlessly pulled a case folder, pretended to review it, then shifted it to the other side of his desk. His parolee was fifteen minutes late; it wasn’t like the man, and Busch was growing concerned.

“Isn’t it a violation of parole to miss a required meeting?” Thal asked as he sat ramrod straight in Busch’s side chair.

Busch didn’t bother answering: he called the shots, not Thal. He was about to put him in his place when from somewhere under the papers came a muffled ring.

Busch pushed files aside and answered his phone. “Busch.”

“Hey, it’s me.” Michael sounded out of breath.

“You OK?”

Thal looked at Busch, his brow furrowed in question.

Busch quickly changed his tone. “You’re fifteen minutes late.” He wasn’t about to let Thal know of his friendship with Michael St. Pierre. He sensed that Thal would somehow turn it around and use this knowledge against him.

“Sorry, I had to take care of some things for Mary.”

“How is she?” Busch asked, a little curtly.

“She’s hanging tough, she starts chemo this afternoon.” It finally occurred to Michael: “Someone’s with you.”

“Yeah.” They were now on the same page. “Listen, you’ve got to get in here, we had a formal meeting scheduled to review your rehabilitation; skipping it is not an option.”

“I didn’t mean to put you in a tight position.” Michael paused, then said, “I’ve got to go away for a few days.”

Busch’s blood ran cold. “How many days?”

“A week.”

Busch was afraid to ask the question but he had a job to do. “Why?”

Michael was in his apartment, cradling the phone to his ear, staring at the Vatican plans spread out on his dining room table. “It has to do with the financing of Mary’s treatment. I’ve got some security work to do.”

Busch wasn’t buying it. Friend or no friend, he knew he was being misled. He’d get his answers but that would have to wait until he shook Thal.

“When?”

“I have to leave tonight.”

“Not until we meet.” They both knew Michael couldn’t leave the state without Busch’s permission.

“I don’t know if I’ll have the time.”

“Make the time.” Busch was real clear on this. He had never spoken to Michael in this tone before. Busch wanted answers, Michael could tell, and he owed him an explanation. He’d meet him, but the truth would have to wait. Michael was sure the last thing the truth would do in this case was set him free.

Busch and Michael stood behind the fence of a Little League baseball game, the bats bigger than the kids. Busch was the coach; he loved any and all sports, and he would pass what he knew on to his son. Robbie Busch played second base; down and ready, the boy was determined not to let a ball get by his pint-sized body. Neither man looked at each other. Instead, they kept their gaze on the kids on the field.

“So, where are you heading?”

“Virginia. Fredericksburg.”

“Seven days?”

“Yeah.”

The batter stood in the box, his three-and-a-half-foot body crouched and ready for the pitch. And though the pitcher didn’t have a prayer of throwing within the child’s diminutive strike zone, it didn’t matter, these kids swung at everything. Three pitches, three strikes, and the first batter was out.

“Let me go with you, I’ve got some time coming. Four hands do twice the work in half the time.”

“No, that’s all right, it’s mostly tech stuff, installation work.”

“Hell of a time to be going.”

“It’s the deal I made.”

“And what kind of deal is that?”

Michael looked at Paul; the subterfuge was killing both of them. “Standard contract.”

A squirt of a kid smacked the ball to third. The third baseman tried to make the throw but it fell short. The runner rounded first heading to second. The skinny pitcher picked up the ball and tossed it to Robbie who made the catch and raced for the bag, neck and neck with the runner; he reached out with all of his eighteen-inch arm and made the tag.

“Great job, Robbie!”

Robbie grinned wide at his father.

As the next batter came to the plate, Busch turned to Michael, getting serious. “Where did you get the money for Mary’s treatment?”

Michael kept his eyes on the game. “One of my clients.” He paused; he didn’t like being backed into a corner. “The one in Virginia.”

“Who?”

Michael ignored the question. “He gave me some work and helped me get a loan.”

“Thought you said you had no credit.” It was turning into an interrogation.

“I don’t.”

“Then how does someone without credit get a loan?”

“They get a benefactor.” Now, Michael looked directly at Busch. “Someone who has faith in them. Where are we going with this?”

“You tell me, Michael. Where
are
we going with this?”

Michael just stared; it was all he could do. He knew if this went on any longer he’d slip up, if he hadn’t already. He had to stay focused. Ninety-nine percent of the job was not getting caught and Michael was afraid that was about to happen.

“Will you look in on Mary while I’m gone?”

“You know I will,” Busch snapped. He was beginning to seethe. Michael was hiding behind his wife.

Michael turned to leave.

“Michael—don’t make me do my job.”

Michael said nothing as he got in his car, started it up, and pulled from the curb.

Michael drove down Maple Avenue. He had packed light, a carry-on with summer-weight clothes and the overstuffed black briefcase. He would pick up his tools and supplies once he landed in Italy. There was no sense being subjected to unnecessary questions at Customs.

Michael had tried to reach Mary before leaving but she’d been asleep. The medication they gave her helped the pain not only by numbing it but by helping her sleep through it. Although he had said his good-byes earlier, he longed to hear her voice before he was airborne. It would be the first full night they’d spent apart since he’d been released. Michael’s heart was breaking. He had left Mary alone for three and a half years while he was in prison. He’d sworn he would never do it again. And yet here he was, abandoning her in her most desperate hour.
But, this job is different,
he reminded himself.
This job isn’t for personal gain or ego challenge.

He had asked their neighbor, Mrs. McGinty, to feed and walk Hawk. The old lady was more than happy to help. She’d even refused the money that Michael offered for her services. She was glad to keep CJ in her apartment for the week, glad to have the cat’s company since she had lost both her own cat and her husband, Charles, in the last six months. It was good to have a purpose again, she told him.

Michael pulled into the long-term lot and paid for seven days in advance. As he locked the trunk, he noticed a green Torino slow up outside the parking fence. He had spotted it back on the highway; he had always had a fondness for muscle cars, so this one had easily caught his eye. Those big engines were a thing of the past, rarely seen in anything but police cars these days. He hadn’t paid it much mind as it exited the interstate behind him but now he watched it continue past the lot.

Michael locked up the car and headed for the terminal. He didn’t see the Torino again and breathed a little easier as the large sliding doors of the airport came into view. Paranoia, he told himself. He had been out of practice for almost six years now and was probably just being overly cautious. He stepped up to the airline check-in counter. No one on line. A pretty lady with a Southern accent took his ticket. “Will you be checking any luggage today, Mr. McMahon?”

“Just carry-on, thank you,” Michael replied, checking in under an alias. His first crime committed, he had just broken his parole. The airline attendant handed Michael his boarding pass, thanked him, and directed him to the security checkpoint.

Paul Busch was beginning to feel terrible. He had followed Michael, never knowing his intended purpose, never knowing what he would say when he caught up to him. Michael had followed procedure and it was Busch’s call whether or not to let him leave the state. As he walked through the doors of the airport terminal, he decided he would just see Michael off, granting him his permission to go. He would put his faith in him.