Ghosts of Christmas Past (14 page)

“Get away!” Schneider flailed with her feet.

Lucy sidestepped the kicks and shook her finger disapprovingly at Schneider.

The movement sent another sharp spike of pain to Noir's chest. She ignored the injury and continued to loom over Schneider, her hidden face glowing.

Schneider gurgled.

Schneider had her back braced against a gravestone. Lucy crooked a finger at her, then pointed to the gravestone.

“Leave me alone,” Schneider whispered.

Lucy pointed to the gravestone again and vanished.

Schneider screamed.

Detective Jacobs ran into the graveyard, pulled Schneider to her feet and cuffed her.

Lucy sighed with relief, holding her ribs, and walked back onto the museum floor, still invisible.

Petit was down on the floor. Al had his foot planted firmly on Petit's injured arm and his gun pointed at Petit's head. Alvarez had the other armed man cuffed and secured.

Matthews pushed the rest of the Christmas lights off him. “I don't understand. What just happened?”

No one answered him.

Al holstered his gun and cuffed Petit. Petit let out a stream of curse words, complaining about his arm being shot.

“I hope the arm stays broken, asshole,” Al said.

Al looked around. Looking for her, Lucy decided. She tapped him on the shoulder, and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Hey, Fixit.”

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Sure.” No sense having him worry about her catching part of the shotgun blast.

“Meet me in the foyer,” Al whispered as he pulled Petit with him toward the exit. “Jacobs, radio for an ambulance for my prisoner,” he said in a normal tone. “And tell the Feds waiting out there that the scene is secure.”

“Yes, Captain.” He pulled his police radio from his belt, using the other hand to hold on to Schneider, who offered no resistance.

Alvarez looked around. “Captain, what was that thing in the cemetery? Was that part of the plan?”

“Death!” Schneider screamed. “Death was in the cemetery.”

“A confession was in the plan, Rookie. Guess Dickens couldn't avoid getting involved too,” Al said.

Chapter Fourteen

Lucy had to walk slowly to the back room because the ache in her ribs hadn't gone away. As soon as she was in a secluded corner, she pulled off the robe and unhooked the Velcro straps, letting the flak jacket fall to the floor.

The thing probably had saved her life but, damn, that still hurt.

She lifted up her shirt and looked at her chest. No bleeding. She pressed the sore area just below her left breast. Ouch. She took a deep breath. Okay, that hurt less than ten seconds ago. She picked up the vest and studied the inside. Shotgun pellets had clearly struck the outside of it but nothing had penetrated the inside liner.

She'd suffered nothing more than a smack in the ribs. Whew.

Lucy rolled her shoulders, glad to be rid of the heavy vest. Her shirt was soaked with sweat. She needed a shower and she needed it now, preferably with Al. What was it he'd said about someone who'd been through what she had been through avoiding violence? But she wasn't freaked. Those arrests had been very, very satisfying.

She went invisible again and walked out to the foyer through the Ancient World wing, thinking the
Holidays of the World
exhibit had to be overrun with cops by now. Once in the foyer, she caught the tail end of Schneider, her smaller bodyguard and Petit, sullen, with his arm bandaged, being led out the front door by a crowd of FBI agents.

Jacobs of the impressive mustache and Alvarez were speaking near the front desk. Lucy expected to see Al there but instead he was to the side, alone, staring at the new artwork on the walls.

Oh God, he was looking at her drawings of him. She froze, debating whether to walk out again. He looked so stern, so serious. All those hours spent getting him just right and his only reaction was a silent stare.

No, no, she must be overreacting. Either way, she had to know.

She walked over to him and peered over his shoulder. He seemed so lost in thought still, and he was frowning. Frowning. Ugh. That couldn't be good. She backed up one step, and decided if she could face a shotgun, she could face this.

But she'd been protected from the shotgun by the vest. She bet they didn't have a vest that offered protection from this.

She glanced over, saw Jacobs and Alvarez looking in the other direction and went visible.

“What do you think?” she asked Al from over his shoulder.

“I'm overwhelmed. By this and what you did back there.” He turned and hugged her. She winced.

Alarm flashed through his face. “Hell, one of Petit's shots got you. Damn.” He winced in sympathy and held her out at arm's length. “I'm taking you to see Doc Leslie right now. I bet the ambulance hasn't left yet.”

“And ride with Petit? No thanks.” She laughed, then caught herself when that sent a jab of pain. “I'm just bruised, Al. I checked. Nothing got through your vest. You were right to make me wear it.”

“Nothing got through but the force of it could still have done damage under the surface. This can't wait.”

He slipped an arm around her waist. She rested her head on Al's shoulder. He kept his arm lightly around her, and she felt her nerves settle. “Okay, okay. I don't want to walk around with broken ribs, either. But I'm not leaving until you tell me what you think of your portraits.”

“Later.”

“Now.” This was going to hurt worse than her ribs, she just knew it.

“Fine.” Al pointed to the first drawing. “This is the scene of the murders at the bank.”

“Exactly.”

“And that's how you first saw me?” He frowned again, his voice flat.

“You hate my
Detective Fixit
.”

“No, it's beautiful work. How could I hate it?” But he said it in the same strangled tone as before. “I didn't realize I looked that fierce.”

“You looked that intent,” she said. “What do you think of
Al
? Does being shirtless bother you?”

“No, I'm not bothered by that.” He rubbed his chin.

“But?”

“Was this artwork here earlier today?” Al waved his hand at the portraits and Cassandra's chrome sculpture called
The Spirit of the Double C
now occupying the center of the foyer.

“No, we installed it all this afternoon before you arrived. The exhibit was supposed to start soon and that gave us a good explanation for why all the artists were here, in case someone asked.”

“Good idea.”

She waited for more but he said nothing.

“You're in a weird mood, Al. Just tell me what you think, okay?”

“You know how art is supposed to reveal something to the person looking at it?”

“Good art is, anyway.”

He pointed to her drawings again. “Let's say the revelation I just got feels like I've been hit over the head by an anvil.”

“Is yours a good revelation or a bad revelation?”

“Let's say I still have stuff to fix.”

“Hey, Captain!” Jacobs yelled from across the room. “The police commissioner just pulled in and he's got an entourage in tow. He's already giving the Feds crap. You better get out there.”

“You do it,” Al yelled back. “I've got to make a run to the hospital.”

Jacobs rushed over. “Look, Fixit, the only person the commissioner is going to listen to is you. Dealing with him is way above my paygrade.”

If anything, Al tightened his arm around her waist. “Tough.”

“He's right, Al,” she said. “And I'm fine. I can go over myself to the hospital and get checked.”

“No,” he said.

Jacobs frowned, as if trying to figure out how she'd gotten hurt—as far as he knew, she hadn't been around during the sting—but all he said was, “I'll drive her over and stay with her, Captain.”

Lucy pushed Al's arm off her waist. “Great. Thanks, Detective.” She nodded to Al. “Go out and give them hell, Fixit.”

Al finally nodded and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I'll be home as soon as I can.” He glared at Jacobs. “You stay with her until I get back.”

“Absolutely, Captain.”

Al walked away, picked up his overcoat where he'd left it on the front desk and headed out the front door. Alvarez followed in his wake.

Lucy shook her head, deflated despite the night's success.

Revelation? Stuff to fix?

What the hell, Al?

Chapter Fifteen

The next week was a blur, save for the first night, when Al came home with flowers for her and the news that the police commissioner had finally come around to involving the Feds in the case.

She wished she'd been more awake to hear specifics but she'd been too zoned out on painkillers for her bruised ribs to say more than “thank you”.

After that, Al was hardly home to answer her questions. First, he was gone for a few days, in closed meetings with the Feds. Jacobs came by three times a day, with food, to check on her. Under orders from Al, no doubt, but he also asked questions about the light show that had blinded everyone at the museum. She just said it was something the artists had cooked up. Jacobs didn't seem satisfied but finally gave up the questioning.

And then Al came back, exhausted, and spent a huge amount of time at the precinct before she could even say boo to him. He did say he was meeting with the commissioner and asked for her patience while he worked something out. When he wasn't asking about her ribs, that was, and she finally got so annoyed at that she told him to call the doctor to be reassured that she was fine.

Frustrated, she threw herself into planning for the holiday party at the artists' warehouse, especially since she had finally convinced her parents to come to the Double C for the holidays. It was time they started to see her life here. Her mother said they might make it to the party, though they'd be late.

At least they were doing better than Al, who obviously wasn't coming to the holiday party. So much for getting through to him.

And that was why she was standing alone in her studio at the warehouse when the party started. She took a deep breath, sipped the spiked eggnog and let the Christmas sounds of Nat King Cole from the speakers above engulf her.

Al or no Al, she was determined this was going to be a good holiday. She'd go out to the party in just a second.

Dammit, Al.

“Lucy!” Cassandra walked over and threw a light hug around her. “Stop hiding back here. This is supposed to be a party.”

“You're absolutely right.”

Cassandra led her toward the front entrance where the three Christmas trees warred for space with a menorah and several other symbols of wintertime, including a snowman made from scrap paper.

Around them, the colony residents were passing out drinks and foods. Graham stood up on a table and showed off a copy of the newest history of the Double C. He'd reworked the book into the same design as Cassandra's
Spirit of the Double C
chrome sculpture. Like the sculpture, Graham's work was oversized and confused but somehow still beautiful.

Cassandra grinned in delight as Graham presented his work to her as a gift. Lucy sighed, happy. Yes, she belonged here.

Now that she had an audience, Cassandra was spinning a story, the tale of how Lucy had been instrumental in the arrests at the museum, though Cassandra left out the invisibility.

The arrests of Schneider and Petit had been picked up by the national media, but only published the official story that a joint FBI and Charlton City Major Crimes investigation had arrested multiple city employees on charges of theft and embezzlement. Al had gotten some of the credit. Even the national reporters were calling him Fixit now. Or, as Al preferred,
Captain
Fixit.

The national press knew nothing of the Ghost of Christmas Future.

The version of the story Cassandra gave was that mirrors designed by Graham had been used to make her seemingly vanish and reappear to scare Schneider into a confession.

When Cassandra finished, they both received a standing ovation. Lucy bowed, grinning, and realized that maybe Noir belonged here too.

“So where's Salvatore?” Lucy asked Cassandra when the tumult died down.

“The Feds promised to bring him back tomorrow. He was in conference with their forensic accountants until today.”

“How're Matthews and his fiancée? Did Salvatore say?”

“Salvatore says they're good. He said Matthews has been incredibly helpful with tracking where the stolen artwork was sold.”

“Good.”

“And your cop is doing okay?”

Lucy shrugged. “As far as I know.”

The front doors abruptly opened again and Santa Claus burst through the front door.

Lucy blinked, wondering if she was the one seeing things for a change. But Al, Detective Jacobs, Officer Alvarez (looking even prettier in civilian clothes) and several other cops walked in behind Santa.

“Ho, ho, ho! I have presents!” Santa gestured, and Al and Jacobs held up pastry boxes for display.

“Rickey's pies, fresh out of the oven,” Al announced.

A wild cheer rose up, and the crowd swarmed Santa and his “elves”. Al pushed out of the crowd, over to them, holding a single pie box.

“Merry Christmas,” he said as he presented the pie to Cassandra.

“I thought you had to work tonight,” Lucy said.

“Changed my mind,” he answered.

They stared at each other.

“Um, I'm going to cut a piece of my pie. Later,” Cassandra said and walked over to the buffet table set in the corner.

Lucy looked over at the crowd. “Who's playing Santa?” she asked Al.

“The police commissioner.”

“No way.”

“Yep. He wanted to see the place.” Al glanced around. “So did I.”

“You could have come anytime.”

“I know.”

“What made you bring your cops?”

“This place is a reminder of why we do what we do. They needed it. We all did.” He took a deep breath. “Look, can we talk privately a second?”

“Finally, you want to talk?”

“Yeah, I need to say some stuff to Lucy.” He draped his overcoat over his arm.

So she was Lucy now? “Okay.” She led him back to her workspace. Half-finished sketches, photos and prints of famous paintings were tacked on the divider for reference, including some of her early sketches of Al. There were zillions of sketches of his hands. She had wanted to get them just right.

“You worked hard on those,” he said.

“You noticed.”

“Yeah, about the drawings…” He set his overcoat across her chair.

“What about them?”

“I've been thinking a ton about how you named them
Al
and
Detective Fixit
.”

“You've been thinking about their
names
?”

“Just tamp it down a second, okay?” He loosened his tie. “I've been rehearsing this so I get it right, and you're throwing off my game.”

She crossed her arms. “Okay.”

“If you'd stop staring, this would be easier.”

“Not a chance. You've owed me this explanation for days.”

“Fine. I deserve that. It's like this. I've been giving you a hard time about being Lucy, about spending time in a new kind of life, instead of being Noir all the time, like when we first met, because I'm worried that I don't fit with Lucy.”

“Obviously.”

He took a deep breath. “I wanted you to choose because I thought if you picked Lucy that meant we lost our connection.”

“That's not—”

He held up a hand. “Let me get this out, okay?”

She nodded.

“But then I looked at the sketches and it struck me that I was two people, Al and Fixit, and you loved both of them.”

She blinked. That was so not what she'd expected to hear.

“Say something,” Al said.

“No, you're doing great, keep going.”

“I'm doing great?”

“Not if you don't keep going.”

He loosened his tie some more. “So then I realized that I was demanding that you pick who you really were, as if you couldn't be both Noir and Lucy at the same time, which was stupid. And I also realized that Lucy wanted me as much as Noir, because it was Lucy who drew those sketches.”

“I've been trying to tell you that, you dumbass.”

He grinned. “I know. I was being a dumbass.”

She put her hands around his waist. “At least you finally got that through your thick head.”

He caressed her cheek with his finger. “Quiet. I'm still not finished yet.”

“Now what?”

“Your sketches had both sides of me but, mostly, I'm just the Fixit guy. There's a reason for that. I buried myself in the job so I was too busy to even think about screwing up again. But when you showed up, you needed Fixit to solve the crime, but you also needed Al to really see you, even when you were invisible. You needed Fixit
and
Al.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I've been a great Fixit and a lousy Al. I love you. I want to learn how to be a better Al, if you're willing to stick with it.”

“Oh hell, Al, it took you a
week
to figure that all out?” She drew his face to her and kissed him.

He brushed the hair back from her shoulder. “Figuring it out only took me a day. Figuring out how to tell you took a lot longer.”

“I love you.” She blinked away a tear. “Tonight's a really good start on being Al.”

“I hope so.” He lifted her chin. “Look up.”

“For what?” But she tilted her head back anyway. “I don't see anything.”

“I see mistletoe.”

“There's no mistletoe.”

“It's invisible mistletoe.” He kissed her.

She melted in his arms.

“Too bad we don't have an industrial-size fridge here,” he said.

“Later,” she said.