Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (24 page)

By the time we finished, it was late afternoon and Mom and I went to dinner at one of her favorite restaurants.

“See,” Mom said, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I didn’t want to admit it, but actually it had been nice. I’d needed a bit of pampering.

“Thank you, Mom, but clothing and all this makeup is superficial. I am who I am. The clothes don’t define me. And whether I wear rouge or not shouldn’t define me, either. I shouldn’t have to doll myself up simply to please men or get their attention.”

“That’s right, dear, but what we did today wasn’t about pleasing men or letting clothes define you. The reason I took you shopping is because I want you to feel good about yourself and to leave the past behind you. Forget Bob and get a fresh start. You’re not the young, naive girl who fell in love with him back in Elmira. You’re a mature and sophisticated professional woman. Your new clothes simply show that better than your old outfits.”

The bags of clothing that I’d bought at Bergdorf Goodman barely fit in my car when we got back to Mom’s house. We hugged and I thanked her for providing me with a safe place to grieve. When I got home, there was a letter taped to the front door of my house with my name on it. I knew from the writing that it was from Bob.

Was he apologizing? Did he want me to take him back? Had he understood how he had ripped out my heart? I read his note while standing on the porch.

Bob wrote that he was sorry that I had caught him and Linda in bed. He’d wanted to tell me about her for several weeks, but hadn’t known how to do it without hurting me. He and Linda had not meant to fall in love. It simply had happened. He had fought it as long as he could, he wrote. “But we can’t control who we fall in love with. That’s part of the beauty of love.” He went on to write that he would always cherish the time that we had spent together and he even cited our Christmas Eve date at his grandfather’s farm as an example of how he would always “love” me. But he now was deeply in love with Linda. Someday, he hoped we would be friends. He ended his note by writing that I deserved someone better than him.

I crumpled his letter in my hand. At least his last sentence had been truthful.

I did deserve someone better than him.

PART THREE

Justice is blind; but, fortunately for
the sake of the welfare of society,
she can often see through
the bandage
.

—
ANONYMOUS

27

“Wow! what happened to you? I mean, you look sensational!”

That confused compliment came from Will Harris, who was standing in the doorway of my office. It was Monday morning and Harris had been sent by his editor to write a feature story about our unit and the dangers that women faced when they filed criminal charges against their husband. The paper’s reporter had written a story that weekend about Maya Lopez’s murder.

“So what’s with the new look?” he asked.

“I decided to make some changes.”

“Well, you look fabulous.”

He flopped down in a chair and we spent the next half hour talking about the Domestic Violence Unit. Next, Anne Marie took him on a tour and drove him to a women’s shelter where we’d arranged for him to interview a victim of domestic violence.

I had just begun doing paperwork when another figure appeared in my doorway.

“Why are you so gussied up?” Detective O’Brien asked.

Gussied up?
Did people still use that idiom?

I ignored his question and asked, “What brings you here?”

“The chief told me that I could transfer here, if I wanted.”

“So do you want?”

“Let’s go for a ride. I got a couple of conditions and I need you to go somewhere with me.”

When we got inside his unmarked squad car, O’Brien said, “I got two conditions. First, I want my own office, so if being around all you broads all day gets under my skin, I’ll have somewhere to retreat.”

“I agree,” I said, adding, “I think all of us would like somewhere in our office for you to go when you’re not needed.”

He chuckled and said, “Second condition. If we’re going to be partners, you got to start carrying a gun.”

Actually, I’d already considered the idea, especially now that Juan Lopez was on the loose.

Ten minutes later, we were standing before a glass counter in O’Brien’s favorite gun shop. I chose a .38-caliber police model Smith & Wesson revolver. As an assistant district attorney, getting a full carry permit for a concealed weapon was not a problem. I tried it out in the shop’s indoor shooting range. It was therapeutic. At first, I pictured the male targets as Juan Lopez. But when I had fired a shot low and it struck the silhouette in the genital area, I pictured Bob.

While I liked the Smith & Wesson, it was a bit bulky and heavy in my purse. The gun dealer recommended that I buy a second handgun, a Smith & Wesson Model 19, a .357-caliber snub-nosed airweight that had more kick but with its smaller barrel was easier to hide. He suggested I keep the larger .38 next to my bed at night and never go anywhere without the .357 snub-nose in my purse.

After I had spent a good hour testing the guns by firing at targets, O’Brien drove me back to work.

“Does this mean you’re going to join us?” I asked him.

“I can start tomorrow, assuming you have my office ready. In fact, I already have a case for you to take on.”

“What’s the case?”

“A young girl. I’ll bring her in tomorrow.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment, and then I said, “Thank you, O’Brien, for agreeing to help us at the unit and for taking me to the gun shop.”

“Dani,” he said in a serious tone, “there’s something I need to tell you. We got a ballistics report back from that bullet that was recovered from your wall—the one that someone shot at you.”

“Did it match the gun that Juan Lopez used to shoot Maya?”

“No,” O’Brien said. “Actually, it matched the bullet that ended Mary Margaret’s life. Rudy Hitchins isn’t in Canada. He’s still here somewhere, and obviously, he’s out for revenge.”

The next morning when I walked into the center, Anne Marie greeted me with a huge grin, making a buzzing noise as if she were a bee. The other women in the office did the same, making it sound as if we all worked in a beehive.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Anne Marie said, “You haven’t read this morning’s paper, have you? Will Harris wrote his article about us.” She handed me a copy so I could read his front-page story.

I’d never read the term “bee-stung lips” before. When I was in grammar school, other kids used to call them “fat lips.” Now, apparently they were an attribute.

Anne Marie said, “It looks as if Will Harris might have a crush on you.”

I carried the paper into my office so I could read the rest in private. I’d just finished when O’Brien ducked his head through my door and said, “Miss Fox, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Standing next to him was one of the prettiest teenagers I’ve ever seen. She had long black hair that fell past her shoulders, olive skin, and big eyes. Although she was at least five feet nine, I guessed she only weighed about 120 pounds.

O’Brien said, “This is Carmen Gonzales.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Fox,” she said. Despite her adult appearance, her voice was that of a child’s.

O’Brien had invited Anne Marie to join us, and as soon as all three of them were seated across from my desk, he began.

“Carmen’s father is currently locked up in the Metropolitan Correctional Center on charges that he distributed cocaine and laundered drug money at a high-end jewelry shop that he owned in Manhattan. His name is Carlos Gonzales and he’s a White Plains resident.”

He looked at Carmen and said, “Now that her father’s in jail, Carmen wants to tell you what he’s been doing to her for some time now.”

“What did your father do?” I asked.

“He raped me,” she said, casting her eyes toward the floor.

“Don’t be ashamed,” I said. “You didn’t do anything wrong if he raped you. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“The first time he did it?”

“Yes, but would you like something to drink first? Water—a soda?”

She shook her head, indicating no. With her eyes still locked on the floor, she began. “The first time he did it was a month after my stepmother died. My father—he called me into my parents’ bedroom. I’d just had my fourteenth birthday—that was two years ago. My father had photos of my dead stepmother spread out over his bed and he was snorting cocaine. I’d seen him use it before. We’d all hide when he got high because he’d get mean. He had a shotgun on the bed, too. At first, I thought he was going to kill himself. Or me. I was really, really afraid.”

Her voice cracked and Anne Marie quickly offered her a tissue. I picked up the ever-present candy dish that I kept on my desk and offered her some Junior Mints. When I was nervous or upset, I immediately reached for dark chocolate and found it comforting. She thanked me but refused.

“My father told me to sit on the corner of the bed and I did. I was in my pajamas. He put cocaine in his nose and then he grabbed the shotgun and he ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. I thought, ‘Oh my God, he’s going to shoot himself.’ I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there trembling. After about twenty minutes, he opened the door and he came out. I could tell from his eyes that he was really high and angry at me. I didn’t know why because I hadn’t done nothing wrong. I’d just been sitting there.”