Out of the Ashes: Heat Beat Thrillers, #1

Chapter One

Wind screamed across the football field as Tom Gibbons gazed at the evening sky, watching and hoping for the storm to finally come to an end. A gust ripped a layer of snow off the fourteen-inch base and drove it straight at him, pummeling his face and biting his cheeks.

The field was named for Kent P. LaSalle and was the home of the Stony Glen Seahawks, but Gibbons was the head groundskeeper and considered the field his own, his pride and joy—his baby. At the moment, his baby was buried beneath several tons of snow.

Off in the distance he heard the sound of truck engines and the scraping of plow blades that told him that his team was hard at work, clearing the parking field and the campus access roads. He checked his watch. It was four in the morning and he had just ten hours to clear every last flake of snow off the playing field in advance of the CAA Division 1 final.

He did some quick math. The snow was far from light but hardly wet and compacted. He calculated fifteen pounds per cubic foot. A million goddamn pounds of snow, he muttered. Five hundred tons of snow on the field alone, without the sidelines and stands figured in. It was going to be one hell of a long and grueling night.

He heard gears grind somewhere outside the stadium as a plow struggled beneath the weight of the snow it was attempting to lift. The sound of the straining equipment caused him to groan. He knew it would be at least another hour before the turf plows were on site, then afterward, the painstaking task of drying and grooming the field.

He lived close by, just across Route 97. He always kept the plow blade attached to his truck during the winter months. Route 97 was usually one of the first county roads to be plowed and he was normally able to make it to the stadium ahead of the rest of his staff as he had that evening.

He checked the temperature on his smartphone: eighteen degrees. He closed his eyes and prayed that the field drainage system hadn’t frozen and would do its job as designed.

A text appeared on the screen while the phone was still in his hand. It was the third such message he’d received from a member of his staff, notifying him that the worker was snowed in and could not report to work until the town plows came by and cleared off the street in front of his house. Five hundred tons of snow and a skeleton crew to move it. Shit!

Looking south, a drift covered the padded portion of the goal post up to the very top. Snow was caked against the uprights, and the stands ... the stands were invisible beneath an all-encompassing drift. The roof of the sixty-foot tall stadium-shaped main building that backed the stands looked surreal with snow billowing over it like suds on an overfilled glass of beer.

A tiny break in the clouds gave him a glimmer of hope. A distant star glowed somewhere in the heavens and was visible in the small dark gap. I hope that’s a sign, he pled. God, give me the strength.

He made a call on his radio to make sure the turf plows would be fueled and ready to go as soon as the access road was cleared, but he wasn’t the type to just stand around and wait. It took him several minutes to hike across the width of the field. He trudged slowly to the rotunda in front of the admission gateway so that he could see the progress of the plows in the parking field.

It was quite a sight to behold. He had personally hired each plow operator. They were maneuvering the plows with robotic precision and speed, molding the snow into giant mounds and pushing them up against the lampposts. He lit a cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke, a nasty habit he had just recently reacquired, one that helped soothe his nerves during bouts of extreme tension. He took in the scene before him as smoke from his cigarette rose and was dispersed by the wind.

He felt an impalpable lure pulling on him. It made him turn his head just in time to see a figure standing at the edge of the stadium rooftop. The snow had drifted away from the entranceway below leaving it coated with a mere dusting. It was in the instant that Gibbons realized that Coach Mark Horvath was going to jump off the roof. He felt a lump in his throat as he watched him fall through the air. It looked dreamlike, as if he were falling in slow motion, but of course, that was merely his perception, and in the blink of an eye he realized that the man was going to hit the concrete, face first.

Chapter Two

New York in February—not exactly great. The holidays had come and gone. No New York team in the Super Bowl ... again. Any memories of the holidays and good cheer had been dashed to bits by eighteen straight days of sub-freezing temperatures.

My name is Stephanie Chalice and I was, until recently, a New York City homicide detective. I was injured in the line of duty by an errant bullet that had hit the sidewalk, ricocheted, and struck me in the back of the head. It left me with a seizure disorder and some really frustrating gaps in my short-term memory. A year had passed, and I was almost eight months without any new seizures, but that wasn’t good enough for the NYPD, not by a long shot. Department regs mandated that I be seizure-free for an entire year and off any anti-seizure medications for a full six months. I was still on Dilantin and my doc wouldn’t even discuss the possibility of letting me stop. Still, as bleak as the picture looked, a flicker of hope burned within me, one I would not allow to die out.

My arms were wrapped around my warmest wool coat in a veritable death grip, but could not keep the howling winds at bay. I felt goose bumps rise on my arms as I hurried to my appointment in lower Manhattan. A street vendor was selling hot coffee and bagels but I’d stopped there the last time I was in the area and found the java to be a sad excuse for what I call coffee.

A trendy coffee shop came up on my left. The establishment offered shelter from the elements and in all likelihood, a good quality cup of bean. I passed it by knowing that nirvana was just down the block. The faded canopy over the storefront read: Stavros Diner. Inside, the man himself prepared the best eggs on a roll in The Big Apple. The air was heavy with the aroma of sizzling bacon as he glanced over his shoulder to welcome me with a smile.

Your regular? he asked in his heavy Greek voice.

I replied an enthusiastic, You betcha, my friend, and two coffees—one black and one with milk and sugar.

Stavros ladled enough liquid cholesterol onto the griddle to fry a side of beef and then quickly cracked fresh eggs with one hand. He had the dexterity of an assembly line robot, cracking the eggs and depositing the contents onto the griddle in one fluid motion.

I winked at the chef as I grabbed the paper bag he had just filled and walked toward the register to pay. His younger brother, Andreas threw in a corn muffin on the house. I pocketed the change and went on my way. A broad smile swept across my face as 26 Federal Plaza came into view, and for a very good reason.

As I said, up until recently an active tour of duty had seemed a million miles away, and I’d thought my life as a law enforcement officer had ended for good.

But then, when all seemed lost, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Chapter Three

Herbert Ambler was the senior agent in charge of the FBI criminal investigations office for New York City.

He was a dear friend, one with a lot of juice, enough juice to make a diehard cop whole again when she didn’t think it was possible. I don’t mean juice as in a magic elixir, one that could permanently repair my damaged brain. I meant juice as in clout, but I’m sure you figured that out already.

I knew that he’d been at his desk since 6:00 a.m. I also knew that he didn’t want to see me until after 7:00. I knew a lot about Ambler, decade’s worth, his history and habits ... his ups and downs. The things that made him the man I loved and admired. I checked my watch as I knocked on his door. He looked up and smiled. Yup. I’m right on time.

I don’t know whether I’m happier to see you or that brown bag you’re holding in your hand. He beamed warmly and sniffed the air like Hannibal Lecter relishing the scent of Clarice Starling’s perfume through the ventilation holes in the Plexiglas barrier of his cell. Scrambled eggs, bacon, and ... He took a second whiff. Cheddar?

On a roll, fried in copious amounts of lard. Got you coffee as well with too much milk and too much sugar. You’ve got a keen nose for an aging fed. I grinned at him. "I graduated at the top of my class at Quantico—straight A’s in ass kissing and man-pleasing although this is about as much man pleasing as you’re going to get from me. I am a married woman."

He gave me a bring-it gesture, beckoning with four contiguous fingertips. Let’s have the grub, recruit.

Ambler and I went back so damn far ... ages. He had always let me get away with lots of shit, so much so that I had to fight the urge to flip him off and say, Yeah. Recruit this! This feels so weird.

What does?

You being my boss.

I know what you mean. I kind of felt let down when you didn’t reply to my recruit crack with your middle finger. Think you can handle life at the bureau, SA Chalice?

The question you should be asking is: can the bureau handle me? I pulled up a chair. "From the bottom of my heart ... thank you, Herbert! I would’ve gone postal if you hadn’t offered to bring me aboard. I owe you big time. Skip big time. I owe you lifetime."

Nothing to thank me for, Chalice. Your record did all the talking. He took a great big bite of his sandwich. Man that’s good. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and took another chomp out of it. There’s nothing like greasy-spoon eggs fried in the same grease that’s been sitting on the griddle since the days of Boss Tweed and Tammany Hall. Anyway, NYPD’s loss is my gain. Just keep popping your seizure pills and we’ll be all good. You’ll be seeing the bureau doc on an accelerated basis. We want to make double-sure you don’t lose any more marbles than you already have.

Well that’s comforting.

Don’t mention it, he quipped. Besides, you don’t know what you signed up for. The FBI isn’t like that posh day camp you used to work for.

My forehead wrinkled. Is that so?

No, he snickered. Just messing with you. I think I’m going to enjoy being your boss.

Oh yeah? Just wait until we’re off the clock.

All kidding aside, Ambler had been able to accomplish what an outstanding police record, my CO, and a deputy police commissioner couldn’t. He’d gone all the way to Washington to personally vouch for me. In doing so he’d given me back a badge, a gun, and an honest to God sense of purpose, one I’d have been hard-pressed to otherwise achieve.

I felt absolutely reborn.

For the moment.

And then a shadow darkened the office. Just outside the plate glass wall stood a woman in jeans, her face covered in shadow from the hoodie that was pulled over her head. She had the eyes of a starving wolf. The only thing that said bureau about her was the ID tag clipped to her belt. A chill ran through me. Who the hell is that?

Ambler’s mouth was full. I had to wait for him to swallow his mouthful of eggy goodness before he dropped the bomb. That’s your new partner, Chalice. That’s Mather.

Chapter Four

My jaw dropped. "That’s Mather?"

It hit me like a bolt of lightning. Ambler wasn’t just saving me. He was, with one broad stroke, attempting to save us both.

I knew of her from the stories Ambler had told me and from the articles in the press. She had been one of the agents working the Sandman murder case. Jo’Ell Sand, a wanted serial killer had murdered her father and her boyfriend. He’d somehow ferreted out her home address and paid her an unexpected call, one that had changed her life forever. She’d been his intended target of course, and the men in her life had sadly become collateral damage, debris left in the wake of a madman’s savage rampage. Her soul had been torn out and dashed to bits. Was it any wonder she looked the way she did, as if she were chasing the grim reaper desperate to extract her revenge?

I looked into her eyes as she entered the office. They seemed black, as if they were lifeless. I stood and offered my hand. You must be—

She cut me off with an open palm. You know who I am and I know who you are. She stepped around me and took a seat.

She must’ve changed. This couldn’t be the same agent that Ambler had felt so strongly about. He’d told me how much I’d like her and that we should one day meet, but that was before a monster had driven straight through her front door and pumped lead into her man’s chest. I searched my mind for a time reference and found what I was looking for. I had read about the incident while I was in the hospital recovering from the head wound. It seemed that the two of us had been healing about the same length of time, but her loss ... her loss was far greater than mine. I turned to look Ambler in the eye. Herb, how could you? How could you throw two broken women together? How does this make sense?

Ambler crumpled the foil his sandwich had been wrapped in before making the introduction I had attempted moments before. Stephanie Chalice, meet Chloe Mather. The two of you will be working together. He took a sip of coffee and gave us an I’m-in-charge look. Chalice, I told you all about SA Mather and I told Mather all she needs to know about you. Either of you have anything to say? Questions you want to ask? If so, this is your chance to get them off your chest because you two are the walking wounded, and everyone I had to beg for your jobs is betting you’ll crash and burn. Idiot that I am, I’m betting that you’ll beat the odds and you’d better or else you’ll be the noose around my neck. Anyone got anything to say?

Mather said, No.

Ambler turned to me looking for my answer. Uh-uh, I said with a rattle of my head. No. Not a thing.

Chapter Five

I can do this, I told myself. You asked ... no, you begged for a second chance to do meaningful police work and you got one. Now reach down deep and make it work.

Despite the darkness and suffering she wore like a shredded battle flag, I knew there was a dedicated cop buried somewhere deep within Chloe Mather’s injured heart, a cop who craved justice and was driven to make it right.

Just like me.

And it went without saying, without Ambler saying it anyway, that this second chance was my last chance at a real law and order career and that my next stop would be a suburban shopping mall as a segue-riding security guard.

I suspected it would be much the same for Mather.

Thump. We had just left Manhattan and hit a pothole on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway as soon as we emerged from the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. Right out of the box she asked, Can I trust you? It was as if it had been heavy on her mind and the pothole had jarred the question out of her.

She wasn’t asking if I was trustworthy. Actually, I wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to know. Can you trust me?

With the seizures, Chalice. Are you going to start flopping around like a fish out of water?

I haven’t had a seizure in eight months.

That’s not what I asked you. Am I putting my life at risk by working with you?

Only if you continue running that smart mouth.

Thump.

She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye but said nothing.

And the silence was just fine with me because I needed time to wrap my head around this new relationship, an amalgam of damaged cops.

She lived on Long Island, knew her way around, and was behind the wheel as we drove out to Stony Glen University. The football coach had fallen from the top of the stadium building and smashed his face on the concrete promenade—lights out for good. Suffolk County PD had initially ruled the coach’s death a suicide.

But a professor by the name of Ben Woznia wasn’t so sure, in fact he challenged the police findings.

The shoulders of the Long Island Expressway were piled high with dirty snow, and the roadway was coated white from heavy salt applications. Mather was confident behind the wheel and piloted the car with precision. I actually admired her driving proficiency. Did you have time to review the file? she asked.

Her question was attitude-free. It dawned on me that the way to break through to her was not by cracking wise or annoying her with questions she wasn’t ready to answer, but simply to work the case and give her all the time she needed to heal, all the time she needed to see me for who and what I was.

Yeah. There wasn’t much, I said. The outage from the storm took out power to the stadium. The security cameras were useless because the backup batteries died before the incident took place. The only witness to the fall didn’t see anyone up on the stadium roof with the coach, and the high winds caused drifts that made it impossible to retrieve shoe prints. I guess that’s why Suffolk County PD asked for help. It was too complex to sort through.

No.

No?

She shook her head. "No. I live in Suffolk and I