One Last Chance

Chance nodded. “I heard the chief wants the feds out of here as soon as possible.”

Morgan nodded. “That’s why we’ve got the go-ahead to table everything else until this is wound up.”

“Which could be a while.” Chance grimaced. “It looks like de Cortez is determined to build one hell of a respectable facade here.”

“Yes. We may have to do a little prodding, eventually.”

“Make him an offer he can’t refuse?”

“Perhaps. But for now, our instructions are to just watch.”

Chance looked steadily at the man he’d worked for, for over five years. “None of this is news, Lieutenant. We’ve discussed it all before.”

“Yes.” Morgan got up and went to sit behind the desk. “But what we haven’t discussed is that devoting all our time to this investigation is going to back up everything else we have going.”

“I know.” Chance was truly puzzled now.

“It’s almost November now. We may have to push hard all the way through the holidays to catch up.”

Chance’s expression changed from quizzical to shuttered.

“I’m sorry, Chance,” Jim Morgan said softly, “but I can’t guarantee you the time off.”

“I understand.”

“I know how hard it is for you to—”

“No. I’m sorry, sir, but you don’t.”

Morgan sighed. “You’re right. I don’t.” He paused. “I wish I could promise you we’ll be able to spare you by then.”

“You can’t. I understand.” He got up. “Is that all?”

Morgan hesitated as if he were about to say more, then stopped. He only nodded before adding, “Get some rest. You’re looking a little ragged.”

Chance gave a short, sharp nod, then turned on his heel and strode out of the office. Jim Morgan shook his head slowly as he watched him go. His expression was sadly compassionate, his mouth compressed into a tight line as he lifted the top folder from the stack on his desk and began to read.

Chance lay sprawled on his bed, trying to blame his sleeplessness on the bright silver glow that filled the room. He was exhausted, he could feel it in the aching of his head and the grittiness of his eyes, but still sleep eluded him.

He rolled over and swung out of bed in one smooth, controlled motion, and walked over to the sliding glass door that led to the small deck. He’d intended to close the drapes to darken the room and then try again, but instead found himself tugging open the heavy door and letting the chilly night air wash over his naked body.

He stared out at the hillside before him, not really seeing it. He’d chosen this place for its seclusion and remoteness. It was a spacious set of rooms over the garage of a large, expensive house whose owner was more than happy to have a police officer in residence while he spent most of the year traveling around the world for his lucrative business.

The garage wasn’t even visible from the street. It backed up to a steep hill, and unless you knew they were there, you might never guess the rooms above it existed. Chance liked it that way, and had gotten to the point where he didn’t even think of why every time he came home or left. The gang that had blown his life apart had been put away. But the knowledge that a man in his job made new enemies every day never left him.

He slammed the sliding door shut with a mutter of disgust. He admitted at last, with tired certainty, that sleep was beyond him tonight. He’d lain there for hours, trying not to think about the one thing his mind refused to let go of. When he looked at the clock that glowed atop the old ammunition crate Quisto had jokingly given him to use for a nightstand, it was only to calculate what was happening at the club.

She’d be starting the first show now, he’d thought at nine. Then at ten-thirty, the second. And at eleven-fifteen the last. What then?

And then, he’d told himself sourly as he rolled over and pounded his innocent pillow with merciless force, she’d go home and climb into bed with the boss. An image of them intimately entwined shot through his mind and banished any hope of sleep that night.

Still muttering, he yanked open a drawer and got out some clothes. He picked up the worn pair of jeans he’d tossed across the foot of the bed and pulled them on, then tugged a thick cotton sweater over his head as he walked into the living room. He slipped on the leather dock shoes he’d kicked off inside the front door, and grabbed his battered faded-denim jacket from the hook on the hall tree. He locked up with instinctive care and headed down the narrow staircase.

He noted almost absently that the third and twelfth steps from the top still creaked with a satisfying loudness. More than once Mr. Hagan, the house’s owner, had offered to have someone come in for repairs. Chance had quietly declined without explaining why.

He skirted the edge of the large pool, the water shimmering from the lights below and the moonlight above, giving the lagoonlike pond an eerie glow. The man-made rocks that surrounded the glistening water looked real and solid yet strangely ethereal in the silver glow. Once he would have appreciated the effect, would have let his imagination run with the slightly unreal setting, let it become the almost fantasy place it appeared.

But the capacity for such whimsical thought seemed burned out of him now, and all he could do was think vaguely that he would have to remember to switch on the waterfall for a while tomorrow, to keep the pump clear of debris. It was one of the little things he did regularly around the place, and while Mr. Hagan had never asked him to do those tasks, he felt it was small enough payment for the low rent and privacy he was getting.

Not to mention, he thought with a wry grin, access to Hagan’s small fleet of cars. The wealthy man had a passion for the more exotic forms of transportation, and the contents of the five-car garage were the proof. After Chance had lived there for about six months, Peter Hagan had apparently decided he was reliable, and had entrusted him with the keys to his babies while he was gone for weeks at a time.

“Take ’em out now and then,” he’d said casually. “It’s not good for them to just sit.”

There was, he’d thought ruefully then, enough kid left in him to make it difficult to stifle the little kick of excitement that went through him while driving the finely tuned, powerful vehicles.

He hit the combination on the keypad outside the garage door that disarmed the elaborate alarm system. The big door lifted, and he stepped inside. Like furniture in a house closed up for the winter, the cars were low bulky shapes beneath enveloping covers. Chance’s open Jeep sat at one end, quietly unimpressed with its august company. He grinned wryly at himself, at how he’d found himself missing the high, stiff ride of the totally utilitarian vehicle after a few days of that smooth, purring power.

It was a good thing real police work didn’t imitate movies and television, he’d thought more than once when behind the wheel of one of the low-slung sleek cars. He could just see himself explaining to Pete how he’d racked up his Lamborghini chasing some crook. No, real life was full of long hours of drudgery and paperwork, with those moments of pulse-pounding, adrenaline-induced frenzy few and far between.

He started automatically for the Jeep, then realized that the odd angle of the vehicle meant it had a flat tire. He looked down the row of covered cars.

Gee, Buckner, that’s too bad, he told himself flippantly. Guess you’ll have to drive one of these.

He uncovered the one that had been sitting the longest, the blatantly red Ferrari F430. The tan top was up and he took a moment to drop it, thinking he would need the blast of cold air. It started with its characteristic throaty roar, and within moments he was pulling onto the street, the heavy iron gates swinging automatically shut behind him.

After a run up the coast that did nothing to ease the restlessness that plagued him, Chance at last pulled to a halt near the waterfront, in a spot overlooking the marina that housed boats whose extravagance matched the car he carefully parked. He didn’t think about it anymore, the fact that he couldn’t afford even the upkeep on the toys that belonged to the people he was sworn to protect. Possessions had come to mean very little to him in the past few years.

He wandered along the waterfront for a while, watching the moonlight play on the water. He tried to keep his mind empty, knowing all too well that moods like the one that had descended on him tonight too often resulted in a flood of memories he didn’t want. He wasn’t up to dealing with it, not tonight. He walked on.

He wasn’t really aware that he had changed direction until a car racing by made him look up. With a little shock, he recognized his surroundings. Had it been an accident, or had some subconscious urge turned his steps in this direction?

He hesitated at the corner, staring up the street. He could see, just beyond the halo of a streetlight two blocks up, the shadowy shape of the surveillance van. There was no movement on the street, only the sound of distant cars passing. A horn honked, somewhere a heavy door slammed, and then silence reigned again. It had to be later than he realized, he thought. No drunks out, no last stragglers leaving the club. He glanced at his watch, shaking his head ruefully when he saw it was nearly three-thirty.

He could go relieve the guys in the van. He wasn’t going to sleep anyway. Then maybe he could go home and get some rest before he was due back tomorrow. Tonight, he corrected himself glumly. He and Quisto were set to go back to the club tonight, and then to take over the stakeout on the house afterward.

Approaching footsteps snapped him out of his reverie. Instinctively he drew back into the shadows, watching, waiting. A woman, he thought, listening to the quick, light stride. And then, suddenly, without knowing how, he knew. He fixed his eyes on the circle of light cast by the corner streetlight, knowing she must pass through it.

When she did, it was as if the light had merely been waiting for her presence to come to life. It seemed to dance around her, gleaming on the sleek fall of her hair, glinting in the huge gray eyes.

She was wrapped in a thick red sweater that came almost to her knees, over a white turtleneck sweater, slacks and boots. Her hair was brushed to a smooth sheen, unlike the dramatic, tossed mane she wore onstage. She was carrying what looked like some kind of a notebook in the crook of her arm, and she looked lost in contemplation. Like a butterfly adrift on a puff of air, he could hear her humming a soft, airy melody. It seemed incredible that the power of that voice could be harnessed to anything so fragile, so delicate.

Not a butterfly, he thought suddenly. An eagle maybe. The essence of restrained power. Able to glide effortlessly on the breeze with the most delicate adjustment of feathers, yet in the blink of an eye able to soar and plummet with dynamic grace.

She walked on, into the shadows, and the streetlight’s glow once more became merely a circle of light on an empty street. She crossed the street, mere yards away. Chance stepped out of the shadows. She jumped back, every muscle in her slender body tensed to flee.

“At least I didn’t knock you sideways this time,” he said quietly.

Her gaze flew to his face, and he saw the tension drain away as she recognized him. Still, she looked at him warily, as if too aware of the late hour and the empty street.