Dad In Blue. Shelley Cooper
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familiar knot tightened Carlo’s stomach as he stared at the words that had been engraved on a brass plate. He was being honored for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.
You’ve got it all wrong, he wanted to shout as applause filled the room and more camera flashes blinded his eyes. I’m not who you think I am. I’m certainly no hero. Because of him, one of his men was dead. Because of him, a woman and her young son would forever grieve.
Incredible as it seemed, he was the only one who knew the real truth of what had happened that day. In the three hundred and sixty-five days that had passed since then, no one had publicly, or even privately, denounced him. No one had righteously stepped forward to set the record straight.
Coward that he was, he hadn’t been able to do it, either. He hadn’t even been able to tell his family the truth.
And now he was being hailed as a hero. Talk about a perversion of justice.
Forcing a polite smile, Carlo nodded at all the well-wishers and tried not to flinch at the words of encouragement and the handshakes and pats on the back his staff gave him as they filed out of the room. After everyone left, and before anyone else could interrupt, he fled to the washroom and locked the door. He needed time alone to compose himself before facing what was left of the morning.
Leaning forward, he peered into the mirror. The face that stared back at him was drawn and pale, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted, his mouth a tightly sketched line. He looked worse than a cruiser that had been battered unmercifully in a high-speed chase, then run through a mile of mud puddles for good measure. The only things fresh about him were his crisply pressed blue uniform and the shiny badge that, until a year ago, he’d worn with pride. He wondered what his men would think if they knew how badly his hands shook every morning when he strapped on his gun belt.
Carlo sighed, and the sound echoed heavily in the small room. He was thirty-six years old, and all he’d ever wanted out of life was to be a cop, like his father and his grandfather before him. He’d joined this midsize, suburban Pittsburgh force straight out of college. Over the years, he’d risen steadily through the ranks, until he’d been named chief of police at the astonishingly young age of thirty. And he’d thrived on it all.
Until that awful day a year ago, he’d walked the streets of Bridgeton, confident he’d be able to face any challenge that crossed his path. His brother, Antonio, who worked undercover for the city of Pittsburgh, liked to needle him that he had the cushiest job in the world. According to Antonio, while drive-by shootings were commonplace on his beat, the worst crime Carlo could expect to encounter in Bridgeton was a drive-by shouting.
Joking aside, Antonio’s words hadn’t been far from the mark. On a typical day in this bedroom community of twenty thousand people, arrests were made for theft, vandalism, disorderly conduct and the occasional domestic disturbance. Murder, rape and aggravated assault were almost unheard of.
Carlo had been so proud of his force’s safety record and the fact that there were few unsolved cases on the books. Truth to tell, he’d been overly proud. And cocky as hell.
Then the unthinkable had happened. There was an old saying about pride going before a fall. Carlo’s certainly had. Along with it, so had his confidence. Where once he had reveled in the responsibilities of his office, now he didn’t trust himself to tie his shoes properly, let alone coordinate the efforts of the people in his charge.
He’d thought hard work was the solution to the feeling of helplessness that consumed him. He’d thought it would take away the nightmares that bedeviled him whenever he tried to sleep.
He’d thought wrong.
He second-guessed himself on every decision. Each time a call came in, each time one of his men climbed into a squad car, he tensed. For months now, he’d been living on automatic pilot, just going through the motions, and he’d been lucky. Nothing terrible had happened. But if the events of this morning proved anything, it was that his time was running out.
Squaring his shoulders, Carlo faced what he’d been denying for so long. Automatic pilot wasn’t good enough where his people, and where the citizens of this town, were concerned. The way he was feeling, he had no business being anywhere near here. Until he came to terms with the demons driving him, he wasn’t going to be any good to anyone.
Back at his desk, he jotted a quick note to the mayor, asking for an unpaid leave of absence. Then he called Lon Sumner, his deputy chief, into his office and informed the man that he was now in charge. When Lon asked when Carlo would be returning, he didn’t answer. Truth was, he didn’t know if he would be returning at all.
What would he do if he wasn’t a cop? The question that would have been unimaginable a year ago echoed over and over in his brain. As he climbed the stairs to the second floor, and the mayor’s office, Carlo was certain of only one thing: He never wanted to be responsible for anyone, or anything, again.
Chapter 1
Dozens of wooden animals littered the kitchen table. Deer. Horses. Dogs. Cats. Sheep. Goats. An elephant. Even a skunk. Picking up a square of wood, Carlo used a carving knife to make several rough cuts across the grain. An owl, he decided, was what he would carve next, and after that, perhaps a camel.
The unexpected peal of the doorbell made him jump. His knife slipped, nearly taking a chunk out of his thumb.
Muttering a curse beneath his breath, Carlo carefully placed the knife on the table. He knew exactly who he’d find when he opened the door: his brothers. All five of them. For the past six days, since he’d gone on his leave of absence, they had taken turns checking in on him. Hourly.
For sheer convenience, the telephone was their preferred method of reaching out and touching him. They’d instituted their phone check-in system years ago, when his baby sister, Kate, had left home to strike out on her own. A year and a half ago they’d relied on it heavily when a stalker had threatened her. Kate had always hated their constant surveillance, even when she’d been in danger, and Carlo finally understood why. His brothers were driving him crazy.
They were worried about him, and for that he felt a twinge of conscience. Just as he hadn’t told them what had actually happened on that day a year ago, neither had he told them the reason for his leave. In his opinion, his justification for not doing so was sound. If he told them the truth, one of two things would happen. They would either turn away from him in disgust, thus giving him the blessed peace he craved. Or their concern for him, and for his state of mind, would deepen, in which case they’d insist on setting up camp in his living room so they could monitor his every move. The way his luck was running, he’d give odds on the latter.
Which was why, two hours ago, after countless how-are-you-doing calls, he had taken the phone off the hook. He should have expected that, when his brothers couldn’t get through to him via Ma Bell, they’d show up at his front door instead. It just went to show how muddled his thinking had grown lately that he hadn’t anticipated an unannounced visit.
The doorbell echoed again.
Carlo had half a mind to pretend he wasn’t home and to let them stand there, out in the freezing cold. He would have, too, if he hadn’t been certain they’d do something drastic in response. Like bashing the door down. Or dragging out the police force and the fire department to bash it down for them.
With a resigned sigh, he placed the square of wood beside the carving knife and stomped into the living room.
“Don’t worry,” he growled, throwing the door wide. “I haven’t died…yet….”
Instead of his brothers, a woman stood there. She was lovely. Clad entirely in black, from the turtleneck encircling her long neck to the slacks and leather boots peeping from beneath her thigh-length wool coat, she was the picture of elegance. Even her purse and gloves were black.
A short silence greeted his announcement before she softly replied, “I’m happy to hear it.” Her voice was low and husky, as if she were fighting a cold, or on the verge of hoarseness.
Hair the color of corn silk