Morgan's Chase 8 (Judgment Day)

By Lucy St. John

THE ENDING OF MORGAN'S CHASE HAS NEVER BEEN CLOSER - OR MORE IN DOUBT

How do our choices betray us? How do events define us? And how is it possible that the swift sweep of life's onrushing arc defines our lives before we even get a chance to do so for ourselves?

In Morgan's Chase Book 8, Morgan finds herself asking all of these questions. But there are no answers. Only irreparable ramifications and eternal regrets. Because if we abdicate our responsibility to actively define our lives, then these critical choices are made for us. And we have no one to blame but ourselves.

Here, Morgan has made the mournful, monumental mistakes of omission. And this time, it might just cost her everything. All that she has worked for. And even more importantly, all whom she loves.

They say tide and time wait for no man. But for Morgan, a woman trying to desperately balance career, family and love, she finds that time is the tide. And it alone has the awesome power to wash everything away, while we helplessly watch.

Then, it's too late. Much too late.

Sometimes, the biggest mistakes are the things we don't do: All those precious moments we put off until some unspecified future date. All those important choices we delay until just the right moment.

A moment that never comes.

FROM THE AUTHOR:
Dear Friends,
I hesitate to say anything. The events of this book, Morgan's Chase No. 8, are so climatic, so cataclysmic, I don't want to give anything away.
But I will say this: The life of a billionaire CEO heiress doesn't make much for tragedy. But I always knew that Morgan's chase for the illusory perfection of work-life-love balance could never end in harmony. And her ultimate fate would be of her own choosing.
But when you are swept up in life's unrelenting current, running at a thousand miles per hour, sometimes you forget to choose. Sometimes the most important choices never get made.
And dream delayed can become a dream denied. Even for the richest and most powerful among us.
Because no one can control time. And time is our most precious possession of all. It's our gift. But we must choose to give it.
We can't hold it, for it slips through our fingers. Instead, we must live inside the moment with those we love.
Is it too late for Morgan Chase?
We are about to find out the answer.
Love,
Lucy
July 22, 2013
Pittsburgh, Pa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucy St. John
• Release date: Jul 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301050215

Lucy St. John

Lucy St. John is the super-secret Nom de Plume of a major league, highly successful female executive. She sticks to what she knows in creating her brand new, breakthrough romantic series, "Morgan's Chase." All the juicy details are ripped right from Lucy's own fast-climbing corporate life.St. John's superheated, highly evocative - and, yes, controversial -- narrative chronicles both the corporate boardroom battles and the behind-the-scenes bedroom tumbles of a corporate climbing female executive out to shatter the glass ceiling. In doing so, St. John's passionate prose is as authentic as it is addictive. Once you begin following Morgan's Chase, you won't be able to stop.Dear Reader,All of my fiction springs from the realities we women face every day in the push-and-pull of our professional and personal lives. So you know as well I that as hard as we work, as much as we try, life shows us that the forces of fate are for more powerful than all of our personal and professional struggles, combined.That's why all along the way, shocking events put Morgan's chase in perspective. At times, we find Morgan as an unlikely loser on both sides of her ongoing chase for balance in her personal and professional life. Her family is thrown for a loss, and so too is her love-life.The blows comes so fast and so furious, Morgan is pushed back on her heels like we've never seen her. There are dark times. But Morgan and her allies eventually pick themselves up and respond. And when they do, there's a new-found fury and purpose to their actions.Morgan hits her stride. She makes all the right moves in both her professional and personal lives. It appears she is on the cusp of achieving everything she ever dreamed - and more. At long last, after many false starts, she's about to reach a new level of intimacy in her romantic relationship with ex-Navy SEAL Travis Walker.Is the elusive finish line for Morgan's chase finally in sight?I welcome you to enjoy the deepest, richest, most exciting and satisfying Morgan's Chase installments yet. Indeed, it has all been leading up to this. And every character, every situation comes alive and plays a part in the wholly unexpected outcome.I just know you're going to love it!Yours,Lucy

Book preview

MORGAN’S CHASE

Book Eight

Judgment Day

By

Lucy St. John

Smashwords Edition

©Copyright 2013 by Lucy St. John

Chapter 1

Det. Mitch Reed was operating on a cop’s high, a heady mix of adrenaline from closing a case and all the resulting adulation from his crime-fighting colleagues. His partner, Victoria Banks, had seen it before, but never quite as animated as this.

Despite days of sleep deprivation from working the Bree Ballentine arson and attempted-murder case, Mitch was absolutely buoyant as his playful peers bought him beer after beer at the cops’ bar along Carson Street. There were smiles, slaps on the back and shots of whiskey plunked down on the worn wood of the authentic Irish pub. And Mitch appeared as if he could go all night, despite the bags under his always sad-looking eyes that weighed down the proud smile on his face.

And why shouldn’t Mitch smile? Why shouldn’t he be proud? After all, the dogged detective wore a fresh pelt upon his detective’s belt. Okay, so it wasn’t the fine fur that the blue-collar cop so badly wanted to bring down. His case-closing collar in the Bree Ballentine burning wasn’t Mitch’s mythical White Whale – the billionaire heiress whose arrest would right the wrongs that the wealthy had perpetrated upon the middle class for decades, closing steel plants and putting Mitch’s friends and family out of work. Oh, he had wanted it to be Morgan Chase, to be sure. She was Mitch’s ultimate target, the one the gruff, but idealistic, cop believed would settle all scores and right all that was wrong with the universe – or at least his part of it in Pittsburgh. But it was not to be.

Morgan had wisely walled herself off with all the protection money could buy – the lawyers, the public relations machine, the political payback and the fortress-like estate that kept a mere detective like him at bay.

But Mitch had brought down the next best thing – the billionaire’s father. The firefighter with an encyclopedic knowledge of flammable agents and elaborate arson traps sure fit the bill for having set the Bree Ballentine backdraft firetrap. There was no question about it. And the way Mitch had played it -- allowing Morgan to lead him right to her father and then coming on at the bar like a commiserating working class hero -- had been a brilliant bit of detective work, if Mitch said so himself. But something didn’t sit right.

As much as Mitch drank, as many messages of congratulations he accepted from his colleagues, he couldn’t bury his unease. The way he had let the old guy sweat. A Vietnam vet, no less. A blue collar Pittsburgh guy, like himself. A man who had become estranged from his suddenly filthy rich daughter and her children. A man holding on to what dignity he had left in his little ranch house in Monroeville.

Al Chase didn’t fit the bill as Mitch’s mythical White Whale that would even the score for working stiffs everywhere. Yet, he would have to do. Mitch hung those arson and attempted murder charges on the old man like decorating a Christmas tree. And the topper was, Mitch had gotten the old guy to sign a confession. It was a masterpiece of old-school detective work. So how come Mitch felt so shitty about it?

Maybe, it was the way Mitch had let the old guy load up on beer at the bar, only to lock Al Chase in the interview room, where his own bladder would betray him. Sure enough, by the time Mitch and his partner decided to enter the interview room, the guy’s teeth were floating. By then, Al Chase would have done anything – anything – just to take a piss with his pride intact. Old dudes like Chase would never, ever do it in their pants. The young thugs with not a scrap of respect in their entire bodies? Sure, they’d wet themselves like little babies in the crib. Shit, they probably still sucked their thumbs, too, Mitch thought. But guys like Chase. Real men. Vets. They would never let it come to that.

Put like that, Mitch Reed had preyed upon the very working class, honest American pride that he was always trying to restore with his police work by targeting the over-privileged. Perhaps this was what stuck in the cop’s craw that celebratory night at the bar. It was a jagged, choking bone that no amount of alcohol would wash down. But he could pretend, couldn’t he? Mitch Reed could drink and smile and slap backs with his cop co-workers, all while wearing his put-on pride at closing the case. Hell, he could fool them all, couldn’t he?

All but Victoria Banks, that was. His partner.

Mitch’s fake smile wilted every time his eyes scanned the room and stopped dead on Vickie’s face, her beautiful face. It hurt his heart, knowing she wasn’t square with the way he had played it with Al Chase. It hurt even more that Banks had swallowed her qualms of conscience in order to back him. Vickie was the best partner a cop could ever have. So how come Mitch kept taking advantage of her loyalty? When would he give Victoria all the respect she so deserved – as a detective every bit his equal, and as a woman who was his emotional superior in every way?

Mitch Reed didn’t have any answers. So, he averted his eyes from his partner across the crowded bar and accepted another drink to drown his doubts.

Across the bar, Vickie bided her time, sipping a beer and watching her partner protectively. She knew it was only a matter of time before the crash.

Mitch would come down hard from the physical toll the case had exacted. And cases always took their toll. The only question was when, even despite the cops’ high Mitch was riding. And she would be there to pick up the pieces. Vickie was sure she could put Mitch back together. But the case was another matter. None of it sat right with her. None of it.

Her partner was so hell-bent on hanging the Bree Ballentine arson on the Chase family. He had been from the very beginning, when Mitch played cowboy and went off to the estate alone, corralling and questioning the kids and their nanny, no less.

Then the rich protective mother and her Navy SEAL boyfriend rode in. And like white knights, they put a stop to the questioning and sent Mitch packing. Only, Vickie’s partner wouldn’t pack it in so easily. Mitch laid in wait, and Morgan Chase and Travis Walker had led him right to the firefighter father.

But loading the guy up on beers and then letting him sweat in the box until his teeth were floating? Was that any way to close a high-profile case?

Vickie knew that it wasn’t. And sooner or later, the case would crumble around them. And it would be both of them – not just Mitch. She would stand with her partner, come hell or high water. That was her code, sure. But it was also what Victoria Banks’s heart told her to do.

Mitch was at the bar, talking loudly. A group of detectives had just bought him another shot. He was already stumbling drunk. Vickie had seen enough. Looking over the shoulder of some too-cool vice officer trying to make time with her, Vickie excused herself and made a bee-line for the bar, just as the detective was passing out his poison.

Victoria elbowed her way to the bar and took the shot glass, just as the devious detective who secretly wanted to see Mitch Reed self-destruct was pushing it on him.

Thanks, Victoria smiled at the overweight, lazy detective, Sal Flores, who had never invested one molecule of himself in a case. He couldn’t understand Mitch’s passion, so he set out to undermine it and use it against Reed. This was not the first time.

Flores frowned at Victoria as she positioned her pretty self between the by-the-numbers jealous cop and her inebriated partner, who was all heart, all passion for the job. And just maybe, for her, as well.

Hey, Flores protested, frustration rearranging his porcine features. That’s for Mitch.

Victoria swung her gaze at her handsome but unsteady partner, who seemed more than willing to forego his shot.

We share everything, Vickie smiled. And tonight, we’re sharing a cab home. This is last call as far as Reed and I are concerned. So what are we toasting?

Victoria smiled broadly at the foiled Flores. He turned to the crony cops at his sides.

See, Flores grunted. This is why I’d never partner with a female. They turn into your old lady. Either that, or your mother.

Flores sneered at Vickie and grunted a wicked chuckle. His partners in crime-fighting joined in, always backing the most belligerent cop on the beat. This, too, was part of the code.

But Victoria Banks was something else altogether. And she was impervious to small-minded insults from the likes of Neanderthal cops such as Flores.

That’s good, Sal, Vickie said, never relaxing her ear-to-ear shit-eating grin. Because speaking for all the female officers of the world, I can safely say that we wouldn’t want you for a partner, either.

With that, Vickie hoisted the shot glass, then swung it to her mouth. She jerked back her head and swallowed the vile-tasting liquor in one gulp.

That’s to finding something – one thing – we can agree on, Sal, Victoria whispered in a breathy, alcohol-infused exhale. Thanks for the drink. What was that horse piss, anyway?

Jagermeister, Sal answered, still holding his full shot, as were the handful of cop cronies at his side.

Victoria nodded as if that explained everything.

I got that shit out of my system in college, she said. Guess you didn’t. She paused theatrically, and then adopted an expression as if just remembering a vital fact. Oh, that’s right, she continued. You didn’t go to college, did ya, Sal?

The fat cop’s lips tightened and his hypertension-flushed face brightened another shade of red.

School of hard knocks, Honey, he spat, condescendingly. I’ll take that parchment any day. My diploma’s the scars and bullet wounds on my person. Wisdom gained from a life of police work. I don’t need no scribbling on some piece of paper to tell me what I know. That’s for people who ain’t secure in themselves.

Whatever works for you, Sal, Vickie said. But next time, let me buy the shot. Irish whiskey, Sal. You can never go wrong with Irish whiskey.

Hey, the night’s young, Sal announced, then downed his shot as if to erase any evidence of his poor choice in alcohol. I’m not going anywhere.

Victoria shrugged. Alas, we are, she said, turning to her mute and swaying partner behind her. Come on, Detective. We got a cab to catch.

The summer night was humid and balmy. But the fresh air seemed to breathe a little life into Mitch Reed. Victoria kept an arm around his waist. She practically had to guide him out of the bar, acting as a human crutch. But as they stood on the sidewalk looking for a cab with its roof-light illuminated, he was coming around a bit.

You, Mitch mumbled, pointing a finger with alcohol-exaggerated movements. You always have my back.

His words were loud, and the pronunciation was both deliberate and sloppy – like a coma patient awaking after months of floating over the abyss.

Yeah, right, Vickie mumbled, her eyes on the street, searching for that tell-tale yellow light that symbolized the way home. Usually, it’s not quite this literal, she added, then squeezed his toned waist with the arm draped around him.

I don’t deserve you, Banks, Mitch mumbled with the earnestness and seriousness of the drunk. I really, really don’t. But I appreciate you. I appreciate you very, very much. You don’t think I do, but… I do.

Mitch turned to her then. Victoria was looking toward the street, but she swung her gaze back to Mitch.

He was standing right before her, bigger than life. He was still unsteady. His blood-alcohol content would blow the lid off any breathalyzer. But alcohol was also a truth serum. And it had brought out long-hidden emotions in Mitch.

You’re the best, Banks, Mitch said, staring down at her, his sloppy speech spraying saliva on the partner he was praising. But Vickie didn’t seem to mind.

Yeah, she agreed. I’m the best. I’d be a lot better if I could get us a cab, so we can get you home.

I know you didn’t like the way I handled the case, Mitch continued, as if not hearing her. As if holding an entirely different conversation with his beloved Banks.

But you backed me, anyway, he continued. You backed my play with the father, even though it could come back on us. Say his daughter buys him some high-priced lawyer; the guy could eat our lunch.

Food! Banks said, enthused. Now, there’s an idea. We both could use some grease to soak up all the alcohol. I know an all-night diner just down the street. We’ll have breakfast, then I’ll call us a cab.

Victoria, her hand still attached to Mitch’s hip, moved to direct them both down the street. But her partner stood firm. He raised a hand to her face, touching her cheek ever so gently. And the sensation stirred something deep within her.

I see you, he said, his once-glassy eyes now so clear and full of the emotions and passions that constantly stirred and boiled within him. Now, all the heat and light and intensity of Mitch Reed were focused like a laser on her, the partner more accustomed and comfortable with backing him up. Not standing, emotionally naked, right in front of him.

Vickie felt embarrassed, somehow exposed. Her nervous eyes shifted away toward the bar door, wondering if any of the carousing cops inside were watching them.

We should go, she stammered.

Mitch gently guided her gaze back to his.

I see what you do for me, he said, sounding sober as the day he was born.

Looking into his eyes was like staring to the blazing sun for Vickie. Her heart was beating a mile a minute. Her palms were sweating. Why was she reacting like this?

Secretly, deep down, this was what she had always wanted. She had even dreamed of it when her subconscious allowed her to. And now, it was right in front of her. He – Mitch Reed – was standing right in front of her. Open. Vulnerable. Available. And in her debt.

I don’t do anything,