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Sacrifice Of Angels

Author: Trisha
Rating: PG, Adult situations, Language
Category: Drama
Timeline: Mid-season three
Spoilers: None
Summary: Broots receives some distrubing news but its is worst for his daughter, Debbie, will his friends see them through?

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed in this fan fiction belong to NBC and any other copyright holders. No infringement is intended.


The metallic shrill of the telephone woke him from his restless slumber. So when he glanced quickly at the red digital numbers on the clock, he realized that he had only just crawled in to his bed. The latest goose chase for Jarod, ended yet again in a miss. He
thanked god that Debbie was at camp for the summer. He felt worn-out, this pursuit for Jarod was getting old and eventually it would end, but how he had no clue. Secretly, he hoped that Jarod would win.

"Hello," the voice had a groggy and deeper tone than normal.

"Derwin Broots, Detective Briscoe, New York Police," came the brusk reply from the other end.

"Yes. How can I help you, detective?" he sat up in bed. This call had his undivided attention.

"Do you know a Danielle Broots?" the voice asked quickly and quietly.

"Oh, God!" Broots closed his eyes at the mere mention of his ex-wife's name.

"I hate to be the one to inform you of this, but she was killed this evening. Mr. Broots, she was going to testify against a drug supplier, and well I am truly sorry. We offered to protect her, but she refused. Something about proving to herself and her family that she was turning her life around."

"How did you trace her to me, not that I mind, but. . . I lost track of her about a year and a half ago." Broots inquired.

"My partner, Dectective Jarod Clancy found a picture of her and a young girl in her belongings. This name and number witten on the back," Detective Briscoe replied to the questions.

"I'll want to claim her body. If I can. . ., " Broots choked back the tears.

"Of course. And Mr. Broots, my partner and I plan to see to it that justice in done. Again, I am sorry," the telephone clicked at the end of that remark.

He slowly replaced the receiver back in the cradle, numb at the news. Oh god, Debbie. How do I tell her that her mother is dead? I can't do it. She loves her mother so much, faults and all. She never gave up hope that eventually she would clean up her act and return to us. How do I tell her that it is never going to happen. Not now. Before reaching for the telephone, he takes a deep breath then pushes the number on speed dail. Waiting. . .

"This had better be good, or someone is going to die," came the reply from the other end.

"Miss. . . Miss Parker," he stammered.

"Broots, what do you want? Its two in the morning."

"I hate to ask, but could you. If its alright. . . If you would rather not. . . I just figured that you would understand. . ." he knew that this was going badly.

"Broots, get to the point, or else. . ." Parker replied caustically.

"Debbie, camp. Go to New York. Mother dead," he broke down over the receiver.

Parker startled by the admission, took a moment to answer him. "Calm down. Broots. CALM DOWN! Talk!" she patiently listened to him explain the previous phone call.

"Broots, go and take care of business in New York. I will go and get Debbie. And, Broots if you want I will be there when you tell her about her mom." Parker quickly brushed the tears from her eyes, grateful that he could not see them.

"Thanks, Miss Parker," and with that he hung up the receivcer for a second time, then wearily began to dress and pack for New York. It was then when it hit him. "Dectective Jarod Clancy?" Could it be. Oh course it was, but with Parker recovering from her gunshot wound, he had no intention of telling Mr. Lyle. Right now he had to think about Debbie, and he knew that he had done the right thing. She maybe a bitch at work but she a soft spot for his little girl. He smiled and knew in his heart that with all the people that cared for his little girl, that she would emerge from this better than that other little girl of long ago.

To Be Continued . . .


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