Nancy Holder - Daughter of the Flames

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.