The Devil's Own Game

by Annie Hogsett

  “Stacey.”

  Daughter. I’d bet the farm.

  “Yeah. Just—don’t.”

  “I promise. She’s lovely, Gloria.”

  “Uh huh.” A whisper of tears. She clicked off.

  * * *

  I stood at the edge of the atrium, under Otis’s watchful eye. Shuffling the clutter of my confusion and fear, absorbing the normalcy of today’s café lunch-ers and sore feet rest-ers, squinting at their devices in the dazzle from the ceiling. The sun had come out and was streaming its light in on us, gilding everything. Last night’s frantic, milling crowd might never have been here. The building was healing itself. I could use some of that.

  Jeptha Wade had donated this land for a museum in 1916 “For the Benefit of All the People Forever.” Was his promise being held for ransom today? By an obscene beast of a man? Would it take Tom’s money to keep it safe?

  I knew us. Tom would pay. I would pay. Even if the money couldn’t save us, it might save this.

  I veered back to “Jeptha Wade?” A name bound to be on a few minds around town this afternoon. Was Kip Wade one of Those Wades? They were icons in the city’s history. Tito, the status-seeking social climber with his designer everything and his cloying Rich Guy Cologne, would be aware. But where would a man like Tito meet a man like Kip?

  Back inside Provenance, the reception desk was unattended. We asked the bartender. Otis checked in the kitchen. Stacey was nowhere. “On her break, maybe?”

  Maybe.

  Maybe Gloria Somebody was in more trouble than she knew.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I filled everybody in on Gloria’s story.

  “I believed her. At least enough to go fish her out of an apartment she’s hiding in up by Lee. You agree, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

  “She’s a person of interest with information we need. And, besides that, she was involved in a scheme with your Tito. You’ve convinced me he tends to be a death sentence for his associates.”

  We exchanged that glance again.

  Kill the messenger.

  “Let’s go get her.” She stood. “All of us. Tony and Otis for security. Tom, because he’s my new secret weapon.”

  Olivia was great. Maybe she’d keep us all alive.

  Right before I got Gloria’s call, we’d ordered lunch. I was getting the “goat cheese stuffed lamb burger with apricot jam, shaved fennel, and potato wedge.” That one had me from “burger.” Also “potato wedge.” An ordinary girl with sudden, unexpected access to lottery millions will simply move upscale on the burger and fries. You can take her out of McDonald’s, but—

  You heard it here.

  As we trailed through Provenance, I caught a glimpse of our food being delivered to our vacated room. It looked good.

  * * *

  When is an Escalade more than an Escalade? When it’s a brand new Escalade ESV, built to seat seven. 4-Wheel Drive. 3-Zone Climate Control. Swarming with options and amenities. The new car’s color was the inevitable black. The ultimate badge of SUV intimidation. “Black Raven” this time. “Ice Black,” the shade of the Escalade we traded in for this better, roomier one, was “not available” on this model. As far as Cadillac and Otis were concerned, Black Raven was the new Ice Black. I decided to secretly think of it as “Iced Raven.” Or “Raven On The Rocks.”

  I was unconditionally onboard with our new vehicle. It was another luxury tank.

  Today was the vindication of Otis’s “we gotta get us more room.” On this trip, once we gathered up Gloria, there’d be six of us. Tinted windows were good too. Tailor-made for transporting Gloria No Last Name. The woman most likely to be next on Tito’s hit list.

  Otis drove. Valerio called shotgun. Tom and I commandeered the second row of supple, expensive-smelling, black leather bucket seats. Detective Wood was stuck back in coach. We figured on putting Gloria in the center of the third row. I’d go back with them once we had her. We weren’t returning to the museum. Day would be done before we got everyone sorted.

  The “not going back” was the best part of my day so far.

  My shameful preoccupation, as we pulled out of Wade Oval Drive onto East Boulevard, rolling like an invasion force, was the lunch we’d abandoned in our rush to get to Gloria. The goat cheese-stuffed burger was on my mind and, by this point, I’d escalated from too nervous to be hungry to ravening wolf. My wolf was growling.

  At Severance Hall crime scene tape—about a mile of it—fluttered in the bitter wind. Everyone but Tom and I turned to stare. I was studying the slope down to the plaza where Kip’s body no longer lay. Shadows cast by bare branches. Yellow tape everywhere down there too. I imagined an assassin on the parapet above us, looking down, and for a split second we were driving through his line of fire.

  Otis made a left onto Euclid and headed east, past the Church of the Covenant to the intersection where Mayfield and Euclid meet. Tom, Otis, and I studied a map of this intersection on the first day of the first case of the newbie T&A Detective Agency. I would always think of that map as “The “Ouija Board of Death.” A spike of dread stoked my uneasiness about Gloria.

  Tito had disposed of witnesses a shocking number of times. Gloria had seen him. He’d seen her right back. Face-to-face. She’d also spent face-to-face-time with his ice-cold associate, whom I was ready to designate “Tito’s Sniper.”

  They’d never let a loose end slide.

  * * *

  Traffic up Mayfield was ugly. Otis drove as fast as he could, pushing his luck against the lights. A couple of times it worked, but when you’re stuck, you’re stuck. Every delightful Little Italy eatery we were creeping by was vying for my attention with pizza, pasta, and pastries. I’d lost my appetite.

  My hands were sweaty from gripping the leather armrests. My foot pressed down hard on a phantom accelerator. My heart pounded as if I’d been running. Gloria would be counting the seconds until we’d show up and pull her out of there—

  The hesitation I’d heard in her voice. When she told me she’d be waiting in “…a friend’s place on Lee.” That pause nagged at me.

  Let it go, Allie.

  I’d been with Gloria—been Gloria—last night, until the moment she’d flung herself out the door into the flashing vortex of lights. Howling with sirens. Her sirens and my sirens were the same sirens. Her night would have been a wakeful sequence of realizations about what she’d been a key part of. Worrying about Stacey. Wondering if she was okay. Afraid to call.

  Her scariest moment would be counting down right now. The escape hatch to safety opening in front of her. The cavalry so close. Maybe an awareness of danger rushing toward her too.

  Go, Otis, go.

  Chapter Sixteen

  4:10 p.m.

  In the sharp, clean afternoon light, the two-story red brick apartment building, a half block around the corner from Lee, looked 100 percent normal. A crisp, white pediment framed the door. Wide picture windows stared onto the street. From the front walk, I called Gloria’s new phone.

  No answer.

  The door opened into a small entryway, like an airlock, We stood inside for a moment. Waiting. Listening. I smelled air freshener and bacon, and my stomach turned over. Not in a hungry way. Somewhere above our heads a phone was ringing, but no one picked up.

  The inner door was supposed to protect the residents from unknown visitors. To block us. Make us identify ourselves. Wait to be buzzed through.

  It was ajar.

  Tony and Olivia left Tom, Otis, and me in the downstairs hall and started quietly on up, hands resting on service revolvers. One of the steps groaned, loud as a slammed door in the anxious silence. They stopped, waited, listened, started again. I let the phone keep ringing. It wasn’t set up to roll over for messages. She hadn’t had time.

  My chest was too tight for a normal breath. I tried to hear what Tony and Olivia could h
ear, but my ears were occupied with the droning ring and the racket my heart was making. I figured pedestrians out on Lee could hear that. After ten or fifteen seconds, Tony yelled, “Police!”

  Nobody answered. A door banged against a wall. More footsteps.

  Olivia’s “Gloria? It’s us. Allie’s with us. It’s safe to come out,” echoed down the empty stairwell. A pause. Another short walk. Another door banged. After another few seconds, the phone quit. More silence. Olivia came to the top of the stairs, wearing gloves and holding the silent phone. Our answer was on her face.

  “I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  It was a crime scene.

  Otis, Tom, and I had to wait outside the door. As far as I was concerned, this was a blessing. I was fine with the hall. Almost the entire apartment was visible from where we stood. The kitchen and living room were small and tidy. The bedroom door was open, but Valerio had placed himself between me and anything I didn’t need to see.

  I examined the living room. Systematically. Like a detective. Made note of the cheery colors. The battered recliner. A quilt assembled by a beginner. Lots of books. In the kitchen, cat dishes—food and water. A pottery mug, with the teabag still in it, overturned on the counter. The only sound in the place, besides distant street noise and Tony and Olivia’s hushed conversation from the bedroom, was the drops of tea hitting the floor.

  I did not need to confirm that Gloria was dead. I cautioned myself not to look, but Tony stepped out of the doorway and left me alone with a moment that imprinted itself on my memory before I could turn away.

  Gloria, the actor, had been trained, I was sure, to craft any gesture as an eloquent communication. Especially in a death scene. Gloria’s killer had broken her and thrown her aside with such violence her lifeless body spoke only of awkward disarray. Her grace and human dignity lay in a battered heap on the floor. I staggered backwards into the hall. Tom caught me. Held me tight. Offered no words of comfort.

  * * *

  Olivia had a brief conversation with somebody at the Cleveland Heights PD and we all went outdoors to wait. When the squad car pulled up, Olivia and Tony met them, shook hands, told them what we knew, and turned the scene over to them.

  Tony said, “See if you can locate the cat. Ask the neighbors.”

  We looked for Gloria’s friend’s name on the bank of mail boxes inside the hall and found “Gloria Kostas Apt. 203.”

  I cringed. Otis swore under his breath.

  “They coulda looked her up on Whitepages.com.”

  Olivia called downtown and told them where to start searching for Stacey “maybe last name Kostas” and to find out what she knew. She ended the conversation with, “This is a murder investigation and that young woman is at risk. Find her. She might come here, to the apartment. Call me when you’ve talked to her. And, Frank, listen. Her mother is dead—Just—Be kind.”

  Otis drove. Shadows crept out onto the street. The sense of warmth the bright afternoon sun gave us was draining from the day. Storefronts and houses stood transfixed by the failing light. Nobody talked. Tom hadn’t had anything to say since before Little Italy. I thought his mood was probably darker and more desolate than his blindness. None of us had anything to offer any of us.

  Something inside me—maybe Lee Ann Smith—seized control of my dull frozenness. Wouldn’t let me off the hook.

  You’re her witness here. Don’t leave her like that.

  This morning I’d believed I was looking through Gloria’s eyes—She was still with me. I was still with her.

  I am filling this cup with the boiling water.

  I’m unwrapping the teabag, keeping my fingers steady as I can. All my attention is on this tea. The color of the tea. The smell of the tea. Spice. Citrus—breathing it. I’m so scared. They’re coming to take me someplace safe. They’re almost here right now. With guns. She promised. By the time this tea is brewed they’ll be here. I’m ready. My things are packed. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. By the time this tea is brewed, I’ll be—

  Otis drove us on into the dusk.

  * * *

  Tony’s squad car was still in our garage. He refused our transparently insincere offer of a beer and drove away, promising to deliver Lieutenant Wood wherever she wanted to go. She wasn’t talking either. Not interested in a beer. I wondered how our homicide detective would be evaluating the T&A this evening. B-minus. Maybe C+, was my guess. Early days.

  The security duo in the garage greeted us. The welcome mat was still out.

  Down to three, we got ourselves beers, sat at the kitchen bar, and didn’t bother to drink them. We waited, not saying anything significant, until Tom’s watch responded to his touch, “It’s nine-oh-five!”

  Said our subdued good nights.

  Otis went to close up, sign off with his team in the garage, and head on down to his place. He was gone for ten minutes, during which Tom and I sat, not talking, too disheartened to move. Otis came back to us with something way more healing than beer.

  Otis’s home in the new residence was the man cave par excellence in the basement. Although calling an entire floor, only partially below grade, impeccably finished with wood, tile and stone, heavily appointed with Crate and Barrel’s finest, and featuring a state-of-the-art lounging and TV area, plus a game room with video and pool table, master-size bedroom with full bath, over-stocked kitchen, and a well-equipped laundry, “the basement” was a massive understatement. It was The Otis Johnson Level of this place. He’d let us visit, kick back, enjoy his spectacular in-your-face view of lake, patios, and pool, but the power of invitation was his, and he always had the right to throw us out.

  The most valuable thing in The Cave of Otis, according to him, was his complete collection of the full flavor-range of Mitchell’s Ice Cream. Otis’s Mitchell’s was stored in a spare freezer in his personal kitchen, next to his personal workout room. Where he kept his calories paid off.

  Many flavors on demand was one of the perks of sharing a house with Otis. He stocked it. Tom paid. We all shared.

  “What’s the point of being stupid rich?” He would ask as we sat around licking our spoons. “If you can’t buy yourself some fine ice cream? In many, many flavors? And keep it close at hand?”

  The Key Lime wasn’t enough to make me not want to run and scream, but it helped. Otis knew it was my favorite. That he knew this about me, and brought it to me on this wretched occasion, was sweeter than the taste of lime.

  In bed at last, with the house silent, and the waves outside about as shushed as waves ever get, I closed my eyes, snuggled my body against the sleeping warmth of Tom Bennington, and told all the day’s voices, “Good night and shut up.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Friday, March 2

  9:00 a.m.

  “Tom, are you absolutely positive this sniper person didn’t shoot at the wrong shoes?”

  Margo Gallucci. Unedited. Unrestrained. Unapologetic.

  She’d appeared in time for breakfast. About fifteen minutes after Valerio. I felt free to speculate about that in my imagination, but I didn’t raise the slightest suggestion of an eyebrow. At either one of them. Survival of the discreet-est.

  Margo was rolling. She barely paused for coffee and an ample helping of steel cut oats with brown sugar and fruit, before launching the Margo Interrogation Barrage.

  “I talked to Lisa Cole, and Lisa said she heard the dead man was wearing Brunello Cucinellis. Those shoes holler ‘rich guy’. ‘Lottery winner rich guy. Lottery winner rich blind guy.’”

  Margo and Lisa Cole were our brand-name shoe mavens. I could identify expensive, and even wear it sometimes, but I wasn’t on first name terms with it. Yet. My fancy mad-spiked boots quit speaking to me yesterday morning because I’d slopped them through rain and slush in Wade Park the night before. They needed a shoe doctor and maybe a shoe social worker to find them a more stable h
ome.

  Margo was a looser loose cannon than me, but her sharp instincts and her willingness to throw it all out there could be a bonus. Usually, she brought an interesting mix to the party. As a semi-official member of the T&A, Margo was both my inspiration and my red flag. Smart. Lots of energy. No mouth brakes.

  “Tom? Do you believe you were the target?”

  “Let’s all stop worrying about that. Survey Monkey says no, Margo. 99.99 percent. We have bigger fish to fry.”

  Margo beamed at him and shifted gears. “Ha. Fantastic. Does that mean this a case for the T&A?”

  So much for keeping Margo out of the loop.

  I caved. “Yes, Margo. Tony, would you care to explain how this is going to work?”

  “Not really.”

  Tony’s increasing personal interest in Margo was incrementally decreasing his enthusiasm for getting her deeper into the T&A. “Personal interest” was a euphemism.

  Margo glared at Tony.

  His motivation for stonewalling seemed uncharacteristically romantic, so I covered for him. “We think the murder was a message, Margo. For Tom. The fact that the dead guy was blind and resembled Tom does suggest it.”

  The rest of us already had a minute or two to absorb an act of such cold-blooded cruelty. Margo was horrified. Also unleashed. Zero to sixty. Three seconds or less. I braced myself.

  “A message? Somebody killed a human being so he could be a fucking message?” She stopped. Simmering. I could see she was torn between demanding more information and trying to digest what she had. Or breaking something.

  I waited, examining Margo’s face and general body language for a clue to what might be coming next. Once she got going, Loose Cannon Vigilante Numero Uno could swear like a sailor. Or Lisa Cole. If those two ever joined forces with Lee Ann we’d all be toast.

  Wrapped in one of her signature scarlet shawls and flushed with fury at Tito’s callousness, my former landlady was Margo-gorgeous. With lake and sky raging away at the windows behind her, she could have stepped out of one of those Italian masterpieces. Titian, today. Maybe. Not the really holy ones. At fifty-something-give-or-take, Margo was in full command of her creamy complexion, her carelessly fabulous hairdo, and her dark, expressive eyes. Which were back to flashing again.