FanStory.com - Unfinished Brushstrokes

Officer Kevin Langley leaned back in his chair and checked the clock. Fifteen more minutes and his shift would be over. He hated the tiny cubicle where he spent most of his working hours, but it was better than walking the beat, checking parking meters.

He stood, stretched his legs, and radioed the front desk. "Making my last rounds, Sally."

"Shouldn't take you long. Fairly slow night, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, just a pretty boy fighting with his demons and two guys from a bar fight. They've been doing some heavy snoring back there."

"Okay, see you when you check out."

*****

Kevin unlocked the door and entered the holding cells. The smell of vomit made his nose curl. Walking by the first two cells, he banged his nightstick against the bars and yelled, "Rise and shine, boys! It's time to face another day."

Neither drunk moved, but their loud nasal snoring told Kevin they were still alive.

He could see Trevor on the hard cot, shivering uncontrollably. His hands trembled, and he clutched his knees to soothe the gnawing ache inside. It wasn't a pretty sight, but Kevin had lost count of how many times he'd seen someone going through withdrawals.

"You guys never learn." Kevin shook his head. "You need to get it together, son, because you got a date with Judge Doyle in about two hours." His voice was stern, but his eyes showed a hint of compassion. He knew these were not bad people, just lost souls needing guidance.

Trevor's eyes were closed as he fought the relentless throbbing that pulsed behind his eyelids. He ignored the officer, partly out of rudeness but mostly because the craving for drugs consumed his thoughts.

"Live and learn, I guess. You had some powerful drugs on you. Lucky for you, you didn't take those they found in your pocket, or instead of withdrawals, you'd be in the morgue."

Trevor moaned and rolled to his side.

Kevin almost felt sorry for him; after all, he was just a kid. "You just might live to see your twentieth birthday — behind bars. That should give you something to think about."

Kevin checked his watch. His shift was over, and he'd done his five minutes of preaching. It was time to go home.

Alone, Trevor opened his eyes. His mind was a battlefield. His skin, slick with sweat, felt too tight for his bones. His teeth suddenly chattered, and his warmth became a frigid chill.

Eleanor stood at the foot of his cot, her ethereal form shimmering against the dull gray walls.

Trevor choked. His eyes bulged as he tried to focus on the figure looming over his bed. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. "You can't be real." He turned his head, looking for the guard. "How'd you get in here?"

"I just floated on in."

"I'm — I must be hallucinating. You look like Aunt Eleanor, but she's dead."

"You're right. I'm dead. Someone murdered me, but I don't know if you were involved or not. That's not why I am here."

Trevor shivered, not just from the cold but from the fear and guilt twisting inside him. "Why are you here then?" he muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

Eleanor's gaze softened. "I'm still your aunt, and I worry about you. The path you're on — the drugs, the anger, the foolish recklessness."

Trevor clenched his fists, a surge of defiance rising inside him. "You never cared. You hid all that money from us when we could have used it."

"It was your choice to ignore me when I was alive. Your last visit was all about money. You didn't think I saw you when you went through my jewelry box."

"I didn't take anything." Trevor hadn't known she'd seen him.

"No — because someone else already had."

"So, you were spying on me." Trevor snapped, "Get out of my head. Go away." His voice cracked. "I don't need your money. I've got a plan, and it will make me rich without jumping through hoops."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Trevor."

He looked away, his mind reeling. He didn't want to admit he was talking to a ghost or didn't have a real plan. He was grasping at straws. "I'll figure it out. Just leave me alone."

Eleanor replied softly. "Don't let your anger and pain control you. There's still time to turn things around, to find a better way."

He could feel the tears welling up, but he blinked them away. "I don't need your help," he said, his voice cracking. "Maybe the judge will see it my way."

"The judge? Why would he see anything the same way as a drug addict?"

Trevor's grin was malicious. His words had been empty ones until he spewed them at Eleanor. Suddenly, he did have a plan. "Go! Get out of my head. I've got this." He squeezed his eyes closed, praying she'd disappear.

As Eleanor's presence faded, Trevor's mind sharpened with resolve. He needed to talk to Judge Doyle. He was sure he could get the judge to see his side of the story. If not," he shook his head. "He'll be the one jumping through hoops, not me."

As the hours passed, he waited anxiously. He'd only have one chance, and it had to work.

His thoughts drifted back to Eleanor's visit, and for a moment, doubt crept into his mind. Maybe he should have listened. What if his plan backfired?

In the end, he shook off his uncertainty. He refused to second-guess himself. He had a plan, and he firmly believed that the Judge would come through.

*****
Before polishing off his porterhouse last night, Garth had asked Tango and Poppa to tail the judge. Tango's first report hadn't been very fruitful, or so he thought.

They'd followed the judge to a secluded home in a gated community. After checking the judge's address, Tango reported to Garth that the judge was making a house call and it wasn't his home. Poppa surfed the internet and found the owner's name — Margaret Ashley. He also discovered that Ms. Ashley was the sister of Eleanor Bennett, alias CJ Grey, the famous artist.

Garth knew they hadn't tied the package up with a pretty bow, but he knew they'd hit a jackpot of information.

Tango and Poppa had staked out the Ashley home and waited all night, taking turns sleeping, until the judge left the house at 2 a.m. They'd followed him to his own residence and then called in backup.

At 7 a.m., Tango was back on the job, sitting in his rented vehicle, a silver Dodge Ram 1500 pickup truck. With a large coffee and a spare on hand, Tango didn't have long to wait.

"There's a black sedan pulling out of the driveway now, boss. Sure looks like the judge. Guess he's getting an early start."

"Stay on him, Tango. My gut says our friend isn't headed for the courthouse this early in the morning."

"I'm on it." Tango maneuvered the pickup out of the tight park spot and began following the judge, keeping a safe distance, blending in with the morning traffic.

"He's pulling into an abandoned warehouse, boss."

"You gotta make sure he doesn't spot you, Tango."

Tango pulled his truck to the curb about a block from the warehouse and approached on foot. He watched as Judge Doyle stepped out of his car, surveyed the area, and made a call.

Tango edged closer, using the abandoned oil drums and equipment as cover.

"I'm here." Doyle snapped into his phone, his voice carrying just enough for Tango to hear. "You're late."

Tango couldn't hear what the person on the other end was saying, but the judge's end of the conversation told him enough. "I need that painting now."

Moments later, another vehicle arrived, and a man stepped out, opened his trunk, and carried a large flat package toward the judge. They both examined the painting. The judge nodded, giving his approval.

Taking a chance, Tango crept closer, finding a spot where he could overhear their conversation without being seen.

"The gallery owner is getting suspicious." Doyle growled, "We need to get this replica back to him so he'll back off."

"I'll send it through a carrier that cannot be traced back to anyone."

"Hopefully, Jackson will be so thrilled to have his painting back that he'll overlook everything else, at least until your guy is out of there. He tends to ask too many questions."

The other man nodded. "And if he does?"

Doyle's face darkened. "Then we've got a problem. And you know I don't like problems."

"Just let me know. I've got the guy who can get the job done, and no one will ever be the wiser."

The two men shook hands and headed for their cars. Tango's heart was racing. Once the two cars left, Tango retreated, remaining undercover until he was away from the warehouse. He hurried to the truck. Once inside, he called Garth.

"Hey boss, it's Tango. Doyle met this guy at the warehouse. Looked to me like he had the painting. They mentioned a replica and that the gallery owner was getting suspicious. Doyle's sending the painting back by carrier, hoping the gallery guy won't catch on right away.

"Good work, Tango. Did you get any recording?"

"No, I couldn't risk it. Do you think you've got enough information to get Donatelli on board?"

"It should be, but with that stubborn Italian, one never knows."

Tango laughed. "You two are a lot alike, boss."

"Watch your mouth, or I'll be slapping you with all the crap jobs."

Tango's laugh was loud. "In case it slipped your mind, I've worked all night, slept a couple of hours in the truck with Poppa, and tailed this creep into the worst part of town. I might be lucky to get out of here alive."

"Get back to the hotel, take a hot shower, and relax. I'm headed to Donatelli's office. Keep your phone close in case I need backup."

"Please, boss, not another fiasco like the time in Washington."

Garth laughed and hung up the phone. A quick flash of Allie and Donatelli rumbled through his mind as he stared out the hotel window. He missed her so much, but nothing would bring her back. Donatelli's lack of knowledge about her death surprised Garth, but he knew he wasn't in a spot where he could discuss it with him.