Undercover Babies

So far, the police harassment had been relatively minor. Parking tickets. Speeding tickets. Hang-up calls. Citations for breaking archaic laws like the size of lettering on his office sign and the potted plant he’d left on a step. But today, he’d testified in court on behalf of a bum accused of shoplifting. Mac knew the poor guy was innocent; he’d been in the store, he’d seen the rich kid who originally took the camera in question and then shoved it into the bum’s hands when it appeared he was going to be caught. It was Mac’s testimony that had swayed the jury to dismiss the charges.

This time, his testimony had counted. A year before, he’d been the only cop to speak out against three officers whose use of excessive force had led to the unnecessary death of an addict.

Bottom line: If not to intimidate, what was the purpose of breaking the window?

It couldn’t have anything to do with Grace. It was just coincidence that she was sleeping in that room. If it wasn’t coincidence, then that would mean someone who knew something about her knew she was here. And cared that she was here.

He walked back inside and down the hall. He found Grace sitting on the side of the bed, staring at the shattered glass, shivering in her robe thanks to the cold air now streaming through the broken window. The thought that the broken window had anything to do with her seemed ludicrous.

“What happened?” she said.

“Nothing to worry about,” he snapped, guessing she wouldn’t question anything too closely and, sure enough, he was right. She rubbed her eyes and closed them again.

“We need to get you back to bed,” he said, his voice brusque to cover the tender feeling he could sense stealing over his heart.

She nodded without opening her eyes.

Stepping around the glass, he leaned down and hoisted her over his shoulder.

She screeched, “Put me down!”

In that heated demand, the woman whose rounded bottom currently rested atop his shoulder and whose head was now upside down facing his back, had packed more passion than he’d so far heard from her and it reassured him. “Can’t have you cutting your feet,” he said as he carried her out of the room and deposited her on the sofa.

She tugged on the robe, the first sign of modesty he’d witnessed, and that, too, reassured him. As she grumbled, he found pillows and blankets in the hall closet. By the time he had made her a new bed and tucked her into it, she was asleep again.

For a while, he stood in the open bedroom doorway, ignoring the ice cold air. He stared at the brick. Should he report the incident to the police? Wouldn’t the jerk who threw it love that! There was no way the brick sported fingerprints. Better to swallow the cost of replacing the window himself than give Chief Barry the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled Mac’s cage.

This was proof, however, that as the months passed and the election neared, the stakes would grow higher.

It was also proof that the only job he’d ever wanted—to be a cop, to make a difference—was lost to him.

The only niggling worry was Grace. If someone had tracked her to his apartment, then she was being watched.

Was she in some kind of danger?

Impossible to speculate on that when he possessed so little information. Reason said no one wanted her, no one had tracked her.

He swept up the mess, closed the bedroom door and sat back down at the desk. Behind him, on the sofa, Grace slept soundly.

SHE AWOKE when the phone rang. She could hear the rumble of a man’s voice. For one blissful moment, she snuggled in the cocoon of warm blankets and thought to herself how nice it was to be warm when the world all around was cold.

Cold?

Grace sat up abruptly. Mac appeared in the kitchen doorway, two coffee mugs gripped in his hands.

“Morning,” he said, handing her one. “How do you feel?”

She’d noticed how big he was the night before. This morning, she added attractive to her observation. He’d changed into jeans and a black cotton shirt, which he wore like a second skin. His dark hair, damp from the shower, fell boyishly over his forehead. The expression in his eyes was cautious. He probably wondered if she was going to flake out on him again, if she needed a hit of some illegal substance or a drink.

The only thing she craved was the caffeine she’d just introduced into her bloodstream via the excellent coffee. She said, “I feel okay.”

“Did you remember anything about yourself?” His face now reflected how anxious he was to hear the right response. Unfortunately, she couldn’t give it to him and she shook her head. The enormity of her situation flooded back. She still had no idea who she was.

For a while there, she’d thought that at least she would be able to think clearly today; the veil of exhaustion seemed to have lifted with the coming of the morning sun. But now, the old confusion was back and she felt tears welling in her eyes. She bent her head to hide them.

Mac moved away as though to give her space. “My wife was about your size,” he said, gesturing at the desktop where he’d placed a modest stack of clothes.

“Won’t she mind—”

“She’s in New Jersey and she isn’t my wife anymore, so no, she won’t mind if you use her castoffs. I’ll go scramble some eggs while you use the bathroom.”

“Wait.”

He paused for a second while she fought to find the right words. It was no use; she hadn’t the slightest idea what they might be. A plea for him not to abandon her even though she could sense he was dying to get her out of his hair? What argument could she make? The logical place for her would be a hospital but the thought of going to see a doctor terrified her. Why?

She said, “Who was on the phone?” fully aware that it wasn’t any of her business.

“Sister Theresa,” he said curtly. “Before that, a friend of mine. Before that, the building super who wanted to know why one of my windows is broken. Now go get dressed. We’ll talk after breakfast.”

Balancing the clothes and the coffee mug, she made her way down the hall into the bathroom. She could feel a draft of cold air blowing from beneath the closed bedroom door as she passed, and the night’s adventure came back to her.

A broken window. Made a person wonder exactly what Mac did for a living that someone should break his bedroom window.

The first thing she did in the bathroom was look at herself in the mirror. She found a twenty-something woman with extreme black hair cut painfully short. Blue eyes, full lips. Tanned skin. An abrasion on one cheek.

The face belonged to a stranger.

The next thing that caught her eye was the bruise on her shoulder, the bruises cascading down her left side, the needle marks on her arm, scraped knees, one of them bandaged, and, most distressing of all, the faint stretch marks on her stomach.

No memories of any of it, but the unease she’d felt the night before, the pressing urgency of a task undone, of somewhere she needed to be, someone she needed to be with, came rushing back. She put her hand on the doorknob, ready to march right out and demand—what?

Maybe she’d dress first…

She found her fancy black underwear still draped over the towel bar where Mac had hung it to dry the night before. Where did she come by such exquisite lingerie?

Mac had provided black wool-lined slacks that felt snug through the rear and a light blue sweater too tight in the chest. His ex-wife must have been a trim little woman, she thought as she pulled on socks and slipped her feet into the woman’s designer loafers, which fit a lot better than Jake’s boots had.

The clothes were warm and more or less comfortable, boring and predictable, but good quality. Still, she entered the kitchen awkwardly, feeling insignificant in Mac’s presence, wondering if he would look at her decked out like this and think of his ex-wife.

“Everything fit?” he asked as he buttered toast.

“It’s all fine. Listen, I have to go.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That’s great. Then you’ve remembered who you are and where you live?”

“Well, no—”

His expression reflected a disappointment almost as vast as her own. He said, “You can leave any time you want, but why not eat breakfast first?” As he said this, he handed her a plate dominated by a cheese omelet and toast.

“I can’t eat—” she began but he cast her a stern look so she shut up and sat down at the table. Her stomach was too twisted to handle food. She began to regret drinking the coffee. Mac, not knowing this, of course, refilled her mug before sliding his own omelet onto his plate. He took the seat opposite her at the small, round table.

“I have to go to work,” he said after taking a few hearty bites. “I’ll drop you off wherever you want—”

“The alley,” she said, putting down her fork and dropping all pretenses of being interested in food. For something to do with her trembling hands, she picked up the mug and was grateful for its warmth.

He repeated her destination in a wooden voice. “The alley.”

“It’s where this all started. I have to find out what’s going on. I have to know…there’s someone I need to go to…somewhere I need to be. Time is passing. I’m wasting time…”

Her voice trailed off as she heard her words. They sounded desperate, grasping. She’d walked down that alley with Mac the night before and there had been nothing there but a pile of empty bottles. And though the sense of urgency wouldn’t go away, how did she act on it when she had no idea who in the hell she was?

“I think you should go to a hospital and be examined. Maybe you suffered a head injury or—”

“Absolutely not,” she said emphatically. Her head pounded with the effort of staying focused and she rubbed her temples with one hand. “I’ll just stay here until my mind clears—”

“You can’t stay here alone.”

“Why not?”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a parody of a smile. “Well, beyond the fact that I don’t know you and am not in the habit of leaving strangers alone in my house, there’s the fact that someone broke the window of the room you were sleeping in last night.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would anyone care where I sleep?”

“Good question. Maybe no one cares. I don’t have enough information to tell.”

“Couldn’t the brick have been intended for you? Do you have any enemies?”

“A few. But my enemies would aim for my head. Unless it was a cop.”

“A cop?” As sketchy as her memory was, she knew enough to be surprised that a man who was obviously intelligent, lived in a nice apartment and dressed well had an antagonistic relationship with the police. “The cops are your enemies?”

“Not all of them. In fact, I was a cop myself until a year ago. I talked to my former partner early this morning. He confirmed that tensions are high around the precinct, but he doesn’t think anyone would stoop to a sophomoric trick like tossing a brick through a window. Maybe he can help you—”

“No police!” she said. She slammed the mug down too hard on the table. “No police!” she repeated, not sure why she felt so strongly but knowing she did.

Did she subconsciously know she’d done something wrong, broken a law, was wanted by the authorities?

“Okay, no police,” he said calmly, ignoring the puddle of coffee spreading across the table top.

She nodded, swallowed and dabbed at the coffee with a paper napkin. She felt tears burning her nose. Her stomach was a tight knot. She said, “What did Sister Theresa want?”

“She warned me that I should be careful, that you might have needs I can’t fill, that I might hurt you by trying to help you.”

“Or that I might hurt you,” Grace whispered.

“I’m invincible, so don’t worry about that. Listen, you can’t stay here and you won’t go to a shelter or a hospital. Where do you want to go?”

The response came without thought. “Home,” she said softly. “I just want to go home.”

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