Daughter of the Flames

Chapter 3

I zzy jerked her head up.

“What?” she said out loud.

Not this one, said the voice.

Then it all faded like a strange, bad dream and she was left to wonder if it had happened at all.

The Prop elevator opened, to discharge the one guy in the precinct who didn’t think of Isabella DeMarco as a semi-guy. Detective Pat Kittrell entered the reception area and ambled up to the window beside Cratty, loose and easy and minus the balled-up tension tearing at Izzy this morning.

Or maybe he was just better at hiding it. Their previous captain, Hal Schricker, had said that anyone who spent more than six years in law enforcement was certifiable, himself included. Pat had been at it a lot longer than that.

He was six-two; white-blond, including his eyebrows; sunny green eyes; no visible scars in the field of tanned skin, but she knew his history. He had a wound: his pregnant wife had been murdered by a drunk driver years ago. Maybe the tragedy had healed over into a scar by now, but she didn’t know that yet. Texas born and raised, he had been with the Dallas police at the time of the murder.

Afterward, he’d bounced around; there was a stint in Arizona, one in Albuquerque and then New York. He’d put in enough time with the NYPD to become a detective, and he had transferred into the Two-Seven just before Thanksgiving.

But there was nothing New York about Pat Kittrell. He was all Southern gentleman, with plenty of time for the niceties. Courtly, old-fashioned, and in some ways as traditional as Big Vince. He talked slowly, he smiled broadly…and she was beginning to suspect that he really liked her.

They had been out a few times—coffee, a quick meal after work, cut short by a call back to the precinct for him—what to outsiders would appear to be ridiculous and short-circuited attempts to date. There were reasons so many cops were divorced and drank too much.

They were trying to go to a movie, but so far their schedules hadn’t cooperated.

And I’m going to invite him over for dinner, she thought, her stomach doing a flip. Big Vince wants to sit down with him and make sure he’s good enough for me, even if he is a non-Italian.

“Mornin’, Iz,” Pat said as he came up behind Cratty at the window.

She put up a hand in greeting, but shifted her attention back to Cratty as Yolanda smacked his hand. He was attempting to fish out one of the pens in Izzy’s Walk for the Cure coffee cup beside their terminal.

“I want to spell ‘contraband’ right,” he whined.

“Too late. Unless you want to do the whole page over, like Yolanda said,” Izzy told him.

“You go, Iz,” Yolanda said in support, pointing a red nail at Cratty. “Don’t listen to him. He’ll try to flirt you into it.”

Cratty whined some more. “Wrong. That would be sexual harassment.”

“Not coming from you,” Yolanda teased him. “Because it has to be sexual. ”

“God, she’s mean,” Cratty said, sighing as he turned hopefully back to Izzy. “C’mon. You’d let Kittrell here change it.”

Izzy felt her cheeks go hot. She hadn’t realized anyone had noticed their mutual interest.

“Wrong,” Izzy said sternly. “The rules are the rules.”

“Woof,” Yolanda said approvingly. “Venga, mami.”

“Okay, okay,” Cratty muttered. “Let it stand.”

“No one is going to care,” Izzy reminded him, glad they could proceed. “The bosses are after collars, not spelling errors.” Cratty was a very ambitious cop. Izzy wouldn’t be at all surprised to see him make captain—unless whatever was bugging him was big enough to tarnish his sterling reputation.

With rapid-fire efficiency, she finished his paperwork and added one of her bar codes. She handed him back some dupes, his receipts for the drugs, which she would keep in one of her lockers until there was enough accumulated in the department sufficient for a pickup. Then it would go to central holding, supposedly for destruction, but no one really believed that. The Justice Department used a lot of contraband to pay for the return of CIA field personnel and other clandestine activities.

“Thank you, ladies,” Cratty said, recovering his charm. “Your turn, Detective,” he said to Pat.

He moved off and Pat took his place. Pat had a five o’clock shadow. His beard was light brown. There were deep dimples in his cheeks when he smiled, and he was smiling now. He was wearing a black suit and he looked sharply masculine, more like a businessman who had just tiptoed out of a date’s bedroom than someone who put away bad guys for a living.

He said to her, “I pulled an all-nighter. Had an Aided I picked up in Two-Seven David. He got messed up by some At-Risks trying to loot a Bombs R Us.”

An “Aided” meant he’d had to accompany someone, victim or perp, to the hospital—the Metropolitan, in this and almost all cases. That meant reams of paperwork and, usually, hours and hours of overtime. An “At-Risk” was a juvenile offender. And “Bombs R US” was any electronics store where a wise perp could buy all the components he needed to build a bomb, which had been located in the sector referred to as 27D.

She could ask for details, but it was shoptalk and she was trying to develop an other-than-work relationship with him.

“You’re okay, though?” she said.

“Sure. I’m going home to sleep for a year. Or maybe until you get off work.”

Her smile was frozen into place by a surprise attack of butterflies. “Ah,” she croaked. “Then you’ll be hungry when you wake up.”

His gaze was direct, his eyes sparkling. They reminded her of the Pacific Ocean, although she had never seen it. “Yes, I will be,” he said. “Starving.”

“Yeah, well.” She touched the tortoise shell clip restraining her insane hair. “Um, that’s good, because I want to…”

“You reading your patrol manual?” he asked her. “Thought after I catch some Zs and you piss off some more law-enforcement officers, we might have dinner and I could quiz you.”

Pat was helping her study the official handbook of the Department because she was getting her application together for the Police Academy. She had the sixty units of college level courses; she was still young enough—there was really nothing stopping her. Learning the manual was to give her an added boost of confidence—Pat’s suggestion. He had sussed out that she was afraid she wouldn’t measure up, despite being a cop’s kid and the NYPD’s fondness for families continuing the tradition. But because she was so anxious, Pat wanted her to have an edge. She did, too.

Her father would lose his mind if he found out. He had made it more than clear that he did not want her to become a cop. The streets were brutal. He had lost Jorge Olivera, his partner, to a bullet from Jorge’s own gun, grabbed away by a suspect in a stupid convenience-store robbery attempt. He had lost his wife to an incurable disease no one could name. Izzy knew that if something happened to her, it would kill him.

And yet…what she had was not enough. What she did, not enough. She processed forms and organized evidence. She knew it was important work, that it contributed to putting away the bad guys and protecting the innocent. She understood that without clear-cut procedures, the machinery of justice, such as it was, would shatter, precisely because police officers operated under the rule of law. Chaos belonged to the street. Order, to those who wore the blue. Otherwise, it was only a matter of might making right.

She liked learning the manual with Pat, but she hadn’t come clean about her real problem. She had a phobia about guns. They scared her. Badly. Every night of her recurring nightmare ended with a gunshot.

She had not even told Dr. Sonnenfeld that.

Because what if her phobia was insurmountable? The goal of becoming a cop was what made it possible for her to swipe her tag into that elevator security lock every single workday.

The tenth anniversary of her mother’s death made it seem more important that she follow her dream—also, more frustrating. She had thought her father would have moved along by now, too. Found someone to take care of him—a woman his own age.

As the years ticked by, that seemed less and less like it was going to happen.

Izzy licked her lips. “Great minds think alike,” she said, “except for the ‘quizzing me on the book’ part.” How to deliver this news? “Big Vince wants to check you out.”

She went blank. This was new territory for them, and she was groggy from lack of sleep. “Because, you know, he doesn’t want me to apply to the Academy. So, tonight’s not good for the multiple choice…” She trailed off.

“Iz?” he asked, peering at her. “Are you asking me over for dinner at your place, darlin’?”

Darlin’? She worked overtime not to blush. For God’s sake, she was twenty-six years old. She’d even had sex…twenty-six million years ago.

Trouble was, she seemed to pick men like her father—very macho on the outside, but in search of some woman to dump all the detail work on, including the housework and the day-to-day details of, well, daily life.

Or maybe that was part of the definition of macho.

Maybe this invitation was a mistake.

“Iz?” he prodded, smiling at her with all the patience and good humor a seasoned detective could muster.

“I am,” she confirmed. “I am inviting you to our place for dinner. Tonight, if you’d like. Short notice, but what does it matter in our line of work?”

“That would be lovely,” he drawled, pulling a smile across his exhausted features. He was the kind of man who could say words like “lovely” and drench them with masculinity. “I’d like that.” He snaked his hand through the window and caught up hers. Warmth and lovely tingles. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll pass muster. Your father’s just looking out for you. He’s a cool old guy.”

“Say that to his face and he’ll deck you,” she shot back, smiling faintly, enjoying the sensation of flesh on flesh. They’d brushed lips, hello and goodbye, not done much else. She was the one who had pulled back every time. He was the one who let her.

He flashed her a quick wink. “Let him try.”

“Say that to his face and he will. Seven? That work?”

“That works. I’ve got the address.” He chuckled when she looked slightly surprised.

She released his hand, picked up her Starbucks and sipped. “We’ll be waiting. Big Vince will notice if you’re late.”

“Got it.”

They shared another smile and he sauntered off into the day. His back was broad. His hips, not so much. Sigh.

Yolanda poked her in the ribs with her elbow.

“Snag him, mami, ” she said. “He is totally sweet.”

“You snag him,” Izzy teased her.

Yolanda closed her eyes and shook her head. “Chavela, I am finished with men. Never, never. Until at least next Tuesday.” She opened her eyes and giggled. “It doesn’t hurt to look. And that guy’s looking at you, so you might as well return the favor.”

“Whatever,” Izzy said noncommittally, picking up Cratty’s bag of drugs. “Meanwhile, I have evidence to stow.”

“Another day, another box of junk,” Yolanda said. “As if it mattered very much.”

“It has to matter,” Izzy said. “Doesn’t it?”

Yolanda sighed. “You have stars in your eyes, amiga. Me, I just want to do a good job and collect my paycheck. Find a guy, marry him, become a housewife and get fat.” Her eyes gleamed with predatory eagerness. “The simple life.”

“Believe me, there is nothing simple about it,” Izzy replied.

At five, Izzy was done for the day. She walked a few blocks in the setting sun to 110th where the Five had a stop. She went back down into the bowels of New York City and caught the train, groaning because it was packed.

As she held on to a strap in front of an old woman with a shopping bag, she reviewed her meal preparations for the evening. Cooking relaxed her, and she began to smile to herself as she envisioned the dishes she would prepare.

Serving and eating them with Pat and her father at the same table was another matter entirely.

The Five screeched to a stop and she joined the line dance as the other passengers shuffled toward the double doors and into the borough of Brooklyn. The train was steamy from riders sweating in their outerwear, rather than bothering to unpeel in the close confines of the car.

The doors opened to the underground station, letting in the stench of urine and the haunting refrain of a sax busking in the distance. Over the echoing clack of footfalls, two people argued loudly in Korean.

The escalator was broken, as usual; she took the cement steps, slowing behind a young Asian girl in a Yankees bomber jacket. Anticipating the chill outside, Izzy pulled her own jacket closer, wishing she’d worn her long coat.

Yeah, a coat like that one, she thought idly as she reached ground level and began to cross India on the same side as Russo’s and Fantone’s.

A man in an ankle-length black coat was standing in front of her row house. His legs are probably toasty…

An unexpected chill shot up her spine.

There was something about that man. Something she didn’t like.

She narrowed her eyes. There was nothing odd about him, at least when seen from the back. He was standing at the far end of the row house, closer to the Russos’ than hers, which was the one in the middle. He wasn’t particularly tall, and there was nothing menacing about his stance. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his head of dark hair tipped back as if he were gazing at the stars.

Her body went rigid; adrenaline coursed through her in classic flight or fight.

Why?

She didn’t have a clue. There was nothing about him to elicit her extreme reaction. But the sense of danger heightened as she reached the crosswalk and prepared to cross to her side of India.

Feeling foolish, she slunk behind the closer of the two maple trees to her right. The pocket park was padlocked after dark, and by the gleam of the streetlight, she could see that it was deserted.

Izzy peered between the branches of the tree. The man in the coat was nowhere to be seen. Snow fell where he had stood. Her heart still pounded; she was wet with sweat.

I’m insane.

She reminded herself that she knew self-defense; she also reminded herself that in the Department, the cops who trusted their instincts and knew their limitations were the ones who survived long enough to retire.

So she dialed Big Vince’s number, hoping he had beaten her home. She’d ask him to step outside and wait for her. Her father always answered her summons if he could—he had programmed his Nokia to play “Donna e mobile” from an opera by Verdi when his daughter called.

But she got his voice mail, so she left a message.

“Just wondering if you’re home. I’m almost there,” she said. Then she disconnected, put her phone back in her small black leather hobo bag and squared her shoulders. Her gaze alternating between her path and the street, she got to the crosswalk, waited for the light and crossed the tarmac, which was shiny with ice.

Warm, cheery lights from the windows of the other homes splashed across bushes and snow.

See? It’s all good, she told herself.

Then she neared the spot where the man had stood. Footprints. And a cigarette butt.

“Jerk,” she muttered, bending down to retrieve it.

If she had felt a sense of dread before—upon waking, at Mass—now it was so strong that she actually recoiled, taking a step backward.

Baffled, she turned and hurried up the three stairs leading to her stoop, unlocked the door and went in, and slammed the door behind herself.

What the hell is wrong with me? she wondered as she dropped her purse on the recliner and hung her jacket on the coatrack.

She entered her private domain—the kitchen—and started dinner. She decided that she had imagined the whole thing, and let it go.

Once she got the lasagna in the oven, she changed into a long black skirt and scoop-necked black sweater. When Pat knocked on her door in his black leather coat, black turtleneck sweater, jeans and cowboy boots, he looked a little bit like the Marlboro Man. Izzy had always thought the Marlboro Man looked hot, except for the cigarette.

The cigarette reminded her of the man loitering on the street and she debated about mentioning him to Pat. But there were flowers to coo over—a big, lavish collection of roses and baby’s breath. Besides, there was nothing Pat could do and he was not her knight in shining armor.

“That was delicious,” Pat said three hours later as he finished drying the dessert plates with the gold borders and stacking them on the counter. He took another sip of Amaretto from an ornate hand-blown Venetian liqueur glass, then folded the kitchen towel into a neat rectangle and hung it on the hook beside her mother’s collector plate of Pope John Paul II.

Izzy smiled appreciatively at the compliment. He had eaten heartily, thereby earning points with her and her father both. Big Vince had also been gratified to find out that Pat was a widower, like himself.

“Oh, I figured you for a divorced man,” he’d remarked casually. He’d worn his navy-blue sweater from Gino’s seminary, a Christmas present, advertising that they were Catholics and not so much fans of divorces.

“No, sir,” Pat had told him. Izzy was glad he’d said “sir.” Maybe he outranked Izzy’s father at work, but this was the patriarch’s table…and the patriarch’s daughter, too.

“But you’re not a Catholic,” Big Vince had ventured, as if that would be hoping for too much.

“Raised a United Methodist,” Pat had offered, clearly the best he could do. Izzy had winced. In her father’s hierarchy of Christian denominations, United Methodists hardly counted.

“Well, we were lapsed for a while,” Big Vince had said, dispensing religion largesse. “If you two will excuse me…”

He’d made himself scarce in his room, watching TV alone. Izzy knew this signaled his approval; had he disliked Pat, he would not have left him alone with his baby girl for one second.

Izzy poured Pat another shot of Amaretto, then gave herself one. She tipped her glass against his and said, “Cheers.”

“Dinner was great, dishes are done, bodyguard has left. So you can relax,” Pat said, sliding his arm around her waist and drawing her close as he leaned against the counter.

She put down her glass; he set down his own, and cupped her chin. He smiled at her. “Good?”

She nodded. He kissed her. His tongue slid between her parted lips and she tasted the sweet Amaretto, the saltiness of him. Her heart picked up speed; her body tensed. She felt his excitement. His hand moved down to the small of her back.

She put her hand around his neck and kissed him hard. He grunted as if in surprise—she usually kept their kisses short and easy—but after her victorious meal, it felt supremely right to kiss Pat Kittrell like she meant it.

When she ended the kiss, he settled his arms around her and said, “Seems I passed muster.”

“Seems you did.”

“It was washing the dishes, wasn’t it?” He kissed her again.

“Yes,” she concurred. “Think what will happen if you do the vacuuming.”

He guffawed and wrapped both his arms around her waist. “Let me at your Dirt Devil.”

“We both have to work tomorrow,” she said. “But next time, come over a little earlier and I’ll get you right on that.”

“Next time.” He stroked her cheek. “Nice to know there’s going to be one.”

“Yes. It is,” Izzy agreed.

Then he was gone, and her father said grudgingly, “He’s okay.”

She said, “Glad you think so,” and that was that. Then she added, “There was this guy outside when I came home. He was standing in front of our building, smoking.”

“Yeah?” Big Vince narrowed his eyes. “He bother you?”

“Not like that,” she told him. “He just seemed wrong, somehow.” She gestured. “He was about six feet, long black coat, smoker.”

“Hair color?”

“Mmm.” She made a face. “Some kind of dark. Streetlight, couldn’t tell.”

“Okay.” She could see the wheels of his cop brain filing it all away. “I’ll mention it to Hackett.” Grace Hackett was the beat cop for their neighborhood.

“I don’t think it was a big deal,” she continued. But she did. “Strike that.”

He drew an invisible line in the air. “Done.” He considered. “Maybe we ought to rethink that argument about you carrying some kind of protection. Such as a gun.”

There it was, her phobia. Once she conquered that…

Tell him. Tell him that you’re going to apply to the Academy.

“I think we should,” she said. “Rethink it. Because…” She took a breath.

But at that precise moment, a cheer rose up from the TV and his glance ticked back toward it. He shouted, “No! Oh, damn it!”

Exhaling—she had just squeaked out of that one—she said, “Good night.”

“Sleep,” he ordered her, watching the set. “Oh, for crying out loud!” he shouted, raising his hands into the air. “Well, whatcha gonna do?”

Smiling faintly, she left him to his travails.

She laid out her clothes for tomorrow, got into her nightgown—a fresh one, silky and lavender—and put her hair into a sloppy bun. She knelt at her bedside for the first time in a long time and prayed.

Take care of my mother, and let her know—

And again, as in St. Theresa’s, something shifted around her. Lowered, darkened.

Spooked, she crossed herself and climbed into bed.

Blood streamed down her face.

She was leaning over the lacy balcony as the creatures rushed the mansion. The trees were ablaze. The wounded were screaming.

He was gasping at her feet. If she didn’t get him to safety soon, he would die.

In the beating center of the battle below, a faceless man looked up at her.

A gun went off.

Chapter 4

“O kay,” Pat said to Izzy, “the movie was bad. But do you have to punish me all night for it?”

She shifted against the maroon-leatherette booth of the diner as she smiled apologetically at him. She knew she was terrible company.

They were having an after-movie snack, he a burger; she, a bowl of chicken noodle soup. She had scarcely eaten a thing since the night he had come over for dinner. Scarcely eaten and hardly slept.

That was three nights ago, when the nightmare had changed. That was an understatement—taken a quantum leap was more accurate. Maybe that helped to explain the growing feelings of unease that had been plaguing her in the waking world. The anniversary of her mom’s death usually churned her up for a couple of weeks, but this was ridiculous.