* * *
‘You weren’t all that wrong,’ she said softly as she took a quick sip of hot coffee. She suddenly felt the need to hide behind something and that’s all there was to hand.
‘Excuse me?’
She gazed at Love. ‘I was overreacting and you were right. A little fun is exactly what Timmy needs.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Love nodded and stretched his long legs out along the side of the Formica-topped table.
They were sitting in the hospital’s cafeteria. Following the revelation of Timmy’s blood results, Love had grabbed the doctor’s hand and whisked her downstairs to the ground floor to where the hospital’s cafeteria was situated. She didn’t protest or argue. Not this time. She seemed pleased to be caught up in this man’s presence as she followed him into the cafeteria where he purchased two hot drinks.
‘So. Monica is not Timmy’s biological mother.’
‘No. A close relative but not his mother.’
‘That could be awkward. I get the feeling Timmy doesn’t realise.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘Experience. Gut feelings.’ He smiled thinking back to his earlier conversation with Stuart.
‘We can’t just come out and ask him.’
‘Give me credit for some finesse, Doctor.’ Love glanced at a couple walking by. The man was balancing a tray laden with tea and a plateful of currant buns. They walked a little way until coming to a stop at a table near to Love’s. The man glanced over. He caught sight of Doctor Cooper and his gaze lingered appreciatively taking in her sparkling almond-shaped eyes with their golden flecks that matched the highlights in her shoulder-length, centre parted, curly hair. And her lips, not a surgically-enhanced trout pout or otherwise, but pretty. A face that was square in shape which held all her features, that on their own were not particularly remarkable but put together made an attractive picture.
Love leant towards the doctor. ‘I’ll ask Timmy only about the case, that’s all I do. At least, that’s all for now.’
‘Timmy can’t remember much. He’s too traumatised.’
‘That’s understandable.’ Love nodded.
‘However, it’s my belief that sooner or later he will start to recall what happened, it’ll come back to him in pieces.’
‘Let’s make sure someone’s around to pick them up,’ Love said, stirred his tea and took a mouthful. It tasted good. It hit the spot and he relaxed a little.
The cafeteria was large but many of the tables were empty. Business picked up during lunchtime then slowed down a little before picking up again towards the afternoon. Teatime.
‘What about you?’ he asked as he brushed away a few sugar granules from the table. Whoever invented those tiny packets of sugar didn’t take into account not all people were gifted with dexterous fingertips.
‘Sorry?’
‘Do you get enough fun?’
‘That really is none of your business, Detective Love, and I fail to see...’
‘Cool it, Doc, cool it. No need to get all hot under the collar especially when we were starting to get along so well.’
‘Let’s keep to the case, shall we?’
‘I intend to, Doc. The better we work together, the better we can help Timmy and in turn he’ll be able to help with the case.’ He threw back his head and drained his cup. ‘Shall we?’ He stood up and took her arm to assist her from her chair. Even chivalry was alive and well in tough New York cops. ‘My only interest is getting to the bottom of this investigation, Doctor Cooper, that’s all I care about,’ he added.
He didn’t see the look that passed over her face.
Five minutes later, Love was sitting in his car. ‘Stuart?’ He spoke into his mobile. ‘I’m about to leave the hospital and listen, mate... get the kettle on. I reckon we’re going to need it.’
Becoming a detective wasn’t Love’s first choice of profession.
A sprained knee ligament in his second season as a professional baseball player brought his career to a resounding halt and so at twenty-two years old and to the delight of his father, he’d joined the police force. His mother was less enthused claiming how dangerous it would be and how she’d now have two men to worry about.
‘No more dangerous than getting hit in the head by a baseball,’ his father a police lieutenant at the time had retorted.
Mrs Love had a huge crush, a real thing going for Joe DiMaggio and that, Love suspected, was the real reason behind her disappointment.
Love did well in the force and within a few years had risen to detective. He was good at his job. Fair but firm and he got results.
One day, whilst he was on duty, he’d got a call to assist in a burglary and aggravated assault resulting in a shooting. The address given to him was downtown in SoHo, New York. An area he rarely visited as it was full of arty warehouses and loft apartments inhabited by artists, models and fashion designers.
In his summer uniform of crumpled linen jacket, standard black chinos and white shirt and conservative tie, he felt out place and didn’t care a jot. The burgled apartment belonged to some model. Her neighbour was the one who had been shot and wounded in his heroic attempt to prevent the thief from running off with her jewellery worth over one hundred thousand dollars. He hadn’t succeeded but was hailed a hero by neighbours and friends as he bled all over the occupant’s white leather sofa. Love arrived, got rid of the lingering fan club, spoke to the officer on the scene and had the hero ushered into an ambulance. Love was busy making notes when someone approached him from behind.
‘At least he didn’t run off with my Galliano,’ said a sultry voice. Her name was Belle and three months later, she became Love’s wife.
By the time Belle was fourteen, she was five feet ten inches and still growing. The obvious road open to her was a fashion model and she took it. Belle was the result of a Jamaican father and Irish mother. Topping at five feet eleven inches of exotic gorgeousness with long, wavy black hair and deep-set eyes the colour of the Emerald Isles themselves as her mother was always fond of telling her. Twelve years later, she was at the top of her profession and captivated everyone who met her.
Love hadn’t seen his wife in over five years. Not since he’d left the States and moved to England when eighteen months into their marriage, Love had come home to find his wife getting up, close and personal with his then partner Frank Delaney.
She was in love for the first time, she told him. She hadn’t been happy in months, hadn’t he noticed, she’d asked accusingly?
Yes, he’d replied sadly, he’d noticed.
Scrambling to his feet, Frank had spluttered something about being sorry and how he hadn’t meant for Love to find out that way.
Love turned on his heel and walked out.
He never went back.
He jumped in his car and drove straight to police headquarters and by 23:00 hours that same evening was boarding a plane to London, England. He didn’t bother going back to the apartment for his clothes. Clothes were Belle’s department, not his.
Stuart would have more in common with Belle when it came to fashion.
Love bought only what he needed although he did insist on one criteria. Quality. He always bought good stuff regardless if it was the height of fashion or not. A pair of jeans, a couple of T-shirts, jumper. For work: chinos, usually skinny. Black, two pair. Two jackets. Six shirts, cotton, and six pairs of stretchy boxer briefs. Three ties. His conservative tie he was wearing, a silk patterned one a present from Belle, and one black tie. The latter two of which were at his office. A stop at the all-night drug store took care of his personal items and along with a few books and files that represented his life he threw everything into an old sports bag he kept in his locker. His only personal item was a signed baseball that he kept on his desk. He picked it up, threw it in his bag, and left.
He caught a taxi to JFK Airport and two hours later, Dick Love was on his way to England and a new life.