money to preserve natural habitats for wildlife in the Galapagos Islands. Furthermore, she’d stipulated that Sully, Rex and Truman couldn’t tell their prospective mates about the money while wooing them.
“The Galapagos Islands?” Sully had muttered in disbelief when he and his brothers had retired to his childhood bedroom to discuss the matter.
“Don’t get me wrong,” his youngest brother, Truman, had said. “I’ve got nothing against sea turtles.”
Sully had laughed. “Me, neither. It’s the marine iguanas that get on my nerves.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” their middle brother, Rex, had joked, “penguins are such a pain.”
Marriage had seemed so unlikely for all of them, and it really did seem as though wild animals might benefit from the win. But now their little brother had proposed to Trudy Busey, a reporter from the New York News. Even more amazing, Truman, the brother most anxious to get the money, had vowed to give his share to the Galapagos Islands, anyway, so Trudy wouldn’t think he was marrying her for anything other than love.
Sully sighed. Of course, all the brothers had to marry in three months or the deal was off, which meant the Galapagos animals would be the recipients. With Augustus’s disappearance, everything had changed. Rex, who had no girlfriend, was heading to Seduction Island, and Sully…
He glanced at the letter in his hand. He’d written it the day he’d heard his mother had won, and while he was usually more cynical, the letter was like the ships he used to build in bottles—uncharacteristically romantic. It began: “Dear Lady of my Dreams…”
Sully’s eyes dropped to the text.
Who are you? Where do you live? Why haven’t I met you yet? If only I knew where to find you, sweet lady—which city blocks to wander, which cafés to visit. If only I knew what your face looks like…a face I’ll hold between my palms and see resting on a pillow if you really turn out to be the lady of my dreams.
Are you out there? Maybe I’m too confused about what I want. Maybe I’ve passed you a thousand times without recognizing you. If I saw you, would I even know you? My last relationship lasted a long time, and she was in a helping profession, as I am. We had so much in common; we wanted stability and a reasonable lifestyle, to share our tight-knit families and have kids of our own.
But it wasn’t enough. There was no passion. I don’t mean sex, if that’s what you’re thinking. I mean…passion. There’s no other word. I want my heart to race, my palms to sweat, my knees to weaken. Being able to remember love like that gets you through the hard times, and life being what it is, there are always hard times.
I’m a man who needs sparks and fire. Desire that compels. A person complicated enough to hold my attention. Are you out there, lady?
It was signed simply, “Yours.”
The letter had been in the drawer for a while, but now, on closer inspection, Sully realized what he should do with it. At the bottom, he wrote, “I can be reached here,” and left the address of an untraceable post office box, one he used in police work and for confidential personal correspondence. It was the address he’d given the lottery board, and just yesterday, they’d sent a questionnaire for him to fill out, apprising him of tax matters. Apparently, they were assuming Sheila Steele was going to turn her winnings over to her sons. The lottery board had no idea what Sheila Steele was up to—or had been before her husband disappeared.
Well, he was right to use the P.O. box, Sully decided. He was a realist and too suspicious to offer his home address. If he really sent this, it was hard to predict who might get hold of it and respond.
But he was going to send it. With a faint curl of a smile, he stood, circled the desk, went to a bookshelf and lifted an intriguing bottle he’d found in a junk shop during one of his lunchtime strolls through Greenwich Village.
“A genie bottle,” Sully had pronounced, taking in the pale amber glass, round design and squat neck. He’d been thinking, as he often did, that he should start building ships again, and that this bottle would be perfect.
“Old,” the shopkeeper had said, stopping to talk. “But not as uncommon as you might be guessing. I usually have one or two around the shop.”
When he blew off a layer of dust, Sully imagined a trail of smoke rising from the bottle, as it might from a genie’s lamp. Chuckling softly, he imagined the dust materializing into a woman. “Maybe it will,” he murmured.
Rolling the letter, he inserted it and tightly stoppered the bottle with its cork. Returning to the desk, he lifted his jacket from the chair back, then headed for the door.
“McFee,” he said to Nat as he passed the desk right outside his door, “I’m going for that walk you suggested.”
“Anyplace special?”
Sully shrugged. He was the central player in this busy, West Village precinct, and it was rare he took time for himself when he was on the job. Still, no one needed to know he was strolling toward the banks of the Hudson. Already, he saw himself jogging toward the end of the Perry Street pier, drawing back his arm and swinging it in a wide arc. He saw the bottle fly from his hand, sail through the air and splash down into the choppy, brackish water. It would float a moment, then slowly sink, and once swallowed by the dark water, it would be caught in strong tidal currents and swept out to sea. Maybe a foreign woman would find it, someone as far away as Australia or China. Someone destiny would choose….
Before returning his mind to more pressing matters, namely his father, Sully tilted his head and considered. Wouldn’t it be strange, he thought, if a woman really did find his message in a bottle and write him back?
2
The Present…
SITTING IN the underground parking garage, not wanting to leave her city-issue car for the sweltering August heat, Judith glanced at the blue suit jacket she’d folded beside her on the passenger seat, then stared murderously toward a glassed-in attendant’s booth and a fire door leading from the garage into Sullivan Steele’s workplace.
“The Great Protector,” she muttered, turning off the ignition. “Yeah, right.”
If Sullivan Steele had any urges to protect his fellow man, it was probably because he anticipated having those people cover for him if he ever got into trouble himself. Not that the Steeles didn’t have stellar reputations. Around New York precincts, the men were legendary. The father had been in law enforcement for years, and all the sons were cops. Nevertheless, Judith had noted that good reputations often put a glossy finish on far less savory realities.
It was amazing what people got away with. Stable-looking homes with white picket fences often hid a world of trouble. That was the case, Judith supposed, with the Steeles. Sullivan had risen up through the ranks—with suspicious ease, in her opinion—to become the youngest precinct captain in Manhattan, so swiftly that it was rumored he was going to wind up in city government, maybe even mayor.
Oh, he was good at his job, but it was Judith’s responsibility to make sure he hadn’t greased any palms on his relentless climb. And while she had to admit he’d earned his position on merit, the family connections had to have helped. Somebody probably owed somebody a favor….
It was how these things worked. Still, she grudgingly had
