Something clicked and I grinned, feeling pretty smart. "Who knew you were going to be there for dinner that night?"
Gus laughed. Not like it was funny. More like it was the dumbest thing he'd heard in a long time. "If you was paying attention, you'd know what everybody in town knew: I had dinner at Lucia's every Thursday night, kid. The whole freakin' world knew it."
Nothing like getting a hole a mile wide blown in your one-and-only theory to take the wind out of a girl. I propped my elbows on top of the stack of newspapers and cradled my head in my hands. "Which means anybody could have arranged the hit."
"Sure." He shrugged. Like it was no big deal that someone had planned and executed (pun intended) the hit that left Gus Scarpetti with no less than sixteen gunshot wounds. Of course, it only took one to kill a guy, but whether that one shot straight to his heart had come before or after the other fifteen, nobody could tell. At the time, the coroner hadn't even tried to guess. I suppose it didn't matter. Dead was dead. And one look at the photographs of Gus lying facedown in the middle of Mayfield Road
, his left leg cocked at a funny angle, his right arm thrown over his head…
Well, even I could tell he was dead.
" 'Unnamed police sources speculate the hit was the work of the LaGanza crime family and its boss, Victor LaGanza.'" The words stared up at me from the front page of the newspaper and I read them out loud, dangling the tidbit in front of Gus like it was a choice morsel of Lucia's veal parmigiana.
He didn't bite. "Victor the Mosquito didn't have the balls. You should excuse the expression. He didn't have the muscle, neither. Besides, no way it's as easy as that. That's the story the cops put out and they probably wanted to believe it. It wrapped everything up neat and clean, you know? They didn't have to get off their butts and do any work. But like you'd remember if you were listening when I told you before, if it was that easy, I wouldn't be here right now. My unfinished business would be finished and then I'd be finished. Capisce?"
"I capisce. But if LaGanza didn't do it—"
"Pepper and Penelope. They're not really close, are they? I mean like if someone's name is John and they call the guy Johnny. Or if somebody is Vittorio and his friends call him Vito. So how did they do it? How did your family get from Penelope to Pepper?"
The change of subject left me momentarily disoriented. At the same time I wondered why Gus didn't want to talk about Victor LaGanza, I scrambled to regain my hold on reality. It didn't take me long to realize there was no use even trying. I was talking to a dead man. And I was concerned about reality?
"I couldn't say Penelope. Not when I was little. Then when I was a bit older… " Heat touched my cheeks and I instantly regretted it. I didn't like dredging up the past. And I didn't like admitting that I had faults. Even when they were faults that I'd mostly outgrown.
Stalling for time I didn't have, I checked the clock again and realized it was almost five. I scooped up Paris Nights in one hand and my purse in the other. When I was done, Gus was still staring at me. Still waiting for an explanation.
"I had a temper," I said, even now reluctant to admit that I was the preschooler who refused to sit and listen, the one who talked back to teachers, not because I was disrespectful but because when they pushed me past my limit, I just couldn't keep my mouth shut. "My parents said I was fiery. Like pepper."
He nodded. "It's the red hair. True every time, and not one of them… what do you call them?… stereotypes. Redheads." He clicked his tongue. "I knew better than to ever trust a redhead."
"Thanks." I stood, the better to get to the door the moment the big hand hit the twelve. "But we weren't talking about me," I reminded Gus. "We were talking about your—" I couldn't bring myself to say murder. It was one thing to read about homicides in books or newspapers. It was another to watch the crime shows on TV. But standing there, face to face with someone who was actually a victim of the ultimate in violent acts…
Rather than think about it, I turned to head to the door. How Gus got there before I did, I don't know. I couldn't make a grab for the doorknob. Not without reaching right through him.
Something I was definitely not prepared to do.
He knew it, too. Gus grinned. "What do you say, chicky? You could stay a while longer."
I wasn't about to be schmoozed. Not by a ghost with the chutzpah to block the door with his own body.
Or ectoplasm.
Or whatever it was.
I didn't have the time or the energy to even try to work through the thing. Instead, I propped my fists on my hips. "You could wait," I told Gus.
"I've been waiting thirty years."
"Then a couple more days won't matter."
"I'm damned tired of waiting."
"Then tell me about Victor LaGanza."
Gus wasn't used to being outsmarted. Especially not by a woman. His top lip curled and for a minute, he just stood there and stared at me, waiting for me to back down.
Maybe he forgot that redheads had a reputation for being stubborn, too.
"Me and Victor… " Gus rubbed a hand across his jaw. The diamonds in his pinky ring glinted in the overhead fluorescent lights. "We went back a long way. We came up in the organization together. He stood up for me at my wedding. He was my son, Rudy's, godfather."
"Friends. But not all that friendly. Not if the police think he was the one who ordered the hit."
"The police were wrong."
"How do you know? I'm all for this gut-instinct stuff but if we're going to work through this, we need facts. How do you know, Gus? How do you really know that LaGanza isn't the one who had you killed?"
Gus sniffed like he'd caught wind of a bad smell. "Shows what you know. No way Victor would have offed me. It would have been bad for business. You see, we were doing a deal."
"And he was the trustworthy sort."
"Yeah." With a twitch, Gus pulled back his shoulders. "There was a brand new state lottery back then and people being people, we knew that pretty soon, the suckers would be spending millions on it. We figured a way to get us a piece of the pie."
Logic had never been my strong suit. If it was, I would have reasoned my way to figuring out that Joel Panhorst was a dud long before he pulled the rug out from under our relationship and the fifty-thousand-dollar wedding I was in the middle of planning. But this time, even I could see the writing on this wall.
"That explains everything!" I told Gus. "Finished business or no unfinished business, it must have been LaGanza. He wanted the money for himself. Millions, right? That's what you said. Sounds like a motive for murder to me."
"No way." Gus shook his head. "It's all wrong. Just sit back down and—"
"Not a chance." I dared one more look at the clock and it confirmed my worst fears. By the time I drove down the hill to Little Italy…
By the time I parked in back of my apartment building…
By the time I raced over to Mangia Mania and ducked into the ladies' room to check my hair and my makeup…
I'd be lucky if Dan didn't give up on me and go home.
And there was no way I was going to take a chance on that.
I shooed Gus out of the way and maybe because he wasn't used to being bossed around, he was too stunned to argue. He stepped aside, and before he had a chance to change his mind, I raced out the door.
My head down, I flew by Ella's office, and even though the door was open and I could hear her on the phone, I refused to make eye contact. She'd wave me inside. Like she always did. She'd want to chat. I said a hurried goodbye to Jennine, who answered the phones in the main office, and I was out the door and into my car in record time.
But it wasn't until I drove through the impressive iron gates at the main entrance to Garden View and out onto Mayfield Road
that I breathed a little easier.
No more work for the day.
No more cemetery.
No more Gus.
At least for tonight.
I flicked on the radio and sang alo
ng with "Old Time Rock and Roll," my mood improving with each block I put between myself and the cemetery.
For the first time since Gus Scarpetti showed up outside his mausoleum, I could finally concentrate on having a good time.
I could keep my mind on Dan Callahan.
And off murder.
Chapter 4
He was wearing black pants with a brown shirt and one of those blue windbreakers I was used to seeing on the old men who hung around Corbo's Bakery. Fashion sense aside, it was easy for me to keep my mind on Dan from the moment he walked into Mangia Mania, spotted me, and waved. He was cute. Scruffy hair, worn sneakers, and all.
That was the good news.
And the bad?
It was apparently not going to be so easy for Dan to keep his mind on me.
He brought my brain scans with him.
He slipped into the chair across from mine and slid the large manila file folder marked MARTIN, PENELOPE onto the table right next to the list of drink specials. He scooped a lock of hair off his forehead. "Sorry I'm late."
"Not a problem." Really, it wasn't. Except for the file folder and a niggling worry that Dan was thinking more professional than personal when it came to me, I was feeling magnanimous. Especially since I was a little late myself. And since when I got there and Dan was nowhere to be found, I had time to add a quick coat of Paris Nights to my lips and run a comb through my hair.
I felt like a new woman. A new woman who wasn't going to let anything spoil the evening.
Not even that file folder.
As if he was reading my mind, Dan's smile was apologetic. It was also as adorable as a basket of puppies. In the dim light that was supposed to pass for ambiance, I saw his eyes spark with excitement.
Some guys get that look when they talk about money. Or sports. Or sex.
Dan's hot button was bound to be a little different. Just like Dan himself.
He shrugged out of his windbreaker and leaned his elbows on the table. "The time got away from me," he confessed. "That happens a lot. I was getting ready to leave the hospital when I ran into Dr. Cho. I told her how I'd talked to you in the ER the other day and she mentioned why you were there. That's when it hit me. You see, I've been searching for just the right topic for a new study. Not that I don't have enough on my plate to keep me busy what with working with the patients in the psych unit, but… " His words trailed away. I guess he figured he'd said enough for me to understand the workings of a mind that was obviously way above mine.
"There's always room for more research," Dan said, and because he had no idea how much I didn't agree with him, he went right on. "I had this really great idea about the possibilities of comparing the aberrant behavior of patients who had sustained head injuries and showed damage to their occipital lobes to the behavior of patients who—"
"Aberrant behavior?"
I admit, it was a touchy subject. I guess that's why I jumped on it, my voice sharp, my insides suddenly bunched, as if a hand had reached down my throat and tied my stomach into a couple hundred tight, painful knots.
Dan was talking about aberrant behavior. He was talking about me. All in the same sentence.
It pissed me off, especially since it was impossible to even begin to come up with any sort of argument to counter his. At that point, I suspected my behavior was a little aberrant, too.
Not that I was about to admit it.
To him or to myself.
I took a deep breath and offered him a smile that was tight around the edges. "Just so we can set the record straight, I want you to know that when I talked to Dr. Cho about hallucinations, it was a hypothetical sort of thing. I'm not a nutcase. I wasn't talking about me."
The twinkle in Dan's eyes melted into an expression so close to disappointment, I almost felt guilty for not being crazy.
My guilt lasted about as long as his disappointment did. Not one to be put off, he cocked his head and studied me with a sort of laser intensity, the way I remembered him looking at my X-rays back in the ER. "That's exactly how I thought you'd respond," he said. He tapped a finger against my file folder. "But remember, brain scans speak louder than words."
"I thought that was actions."
He either didn't get it or he didn't want to. He ignored me and went right on. "Even though Dr. Cho didn't find any physical problems as a result of your fall, your brain scans are unusual, Pepper. When I thought about that, it made the whole thing click. I suppose I owe you a great big thank you."
What he really owed me was some kind of explanation about what the hell he was talking about.
My blank expression pretty much said it all, but Dan didn't let that stop him. His eyes lit with that weird spark that told me that, occipital lobes notwithstanding, his brain functioned in a different dimension from mine. "You've heard the old saying: Publish or Perish. Well, I haven't published anything recently. Not for at least six months. I've been on a sort of hiatus and let me tell you, for a researcher, that's not a good thing. Then I met you and it all came together in a flash of inspiration. That's when I realized how lucky I was that we were meeting here tonight."
Okay, so it wasn't exactly the most romantic thing a guy had ever said to me.
It was, however—pathetically enough—the most romantic thing a guy had said to me in a long time. It was also the perfect opportunity for me to change the subject.
I grinned and leaned forward, fingering the edge of the file folder and walking the fine line between flirting and sounding too cutsie.
"I think we're pretty lucky, too," I said. "I mean, tripping over each other like that in the ER. It was as if fate—"
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Fate? Do you believe in it? In something you can't see and can't touch and can't feel?"
I was a practical woman. At least I always had been before I'd started hanging around with a guy who'd been dead since before I was born. Before I met Gus, I would have told Dan that I didn't believe in anything that wasn't as real as the table between us.
Now I wasn't so sure.
I got rid of the thought with a twitch of my shoulders and reminded myself that Mangia Mania was a Gus-free zone. That night, I wasn't supposed to be thinking about the ether. Or the ozone. Or wherever it was that ghosts came from. I was thinking Pepper. Pepper and Dan. I was thinking a couple drinks, a few laughs, a little fun.
If any of that good stuff was going to happen, I knew I had to toe the line between sounding philosophical and coming across as a whack job. "I believe things exist that none of us have ever imagined. But that doesn't mean I hallucinate," I added, so he didn't get the wrong idea.
Dan gave me that laser look for another couple seconds. "You're awfully defensive and you really don't need to be. You see, I believe in stuff like that, too. Most people are surprised when I tell them. They think that scientists don't have any imagination. But I do. After all, I'm a researcher. If I only believed in what I can see and touch and feel, I'd never discover anything."
It made sense. It also provided me with the perfect opportunity to bare my soul and share my secret.
I didn't.
Dan was just waiting for me to prove his aberrant-behavior theory and no way was I going to fall for that. It was too early in our relationship to admit that I had my very own thing that went bump in the night.
Something told me that even if we ended up living happily ever after with two-and-a-half kids, a house with a picket fence, and a golden retriever romping in the backyard, it would still be too early in our relationship.
"I believe in opportunity as well as in fate," Dan said, his voice whisking me out of my daydream and back to the reality of the Mangia Mania bar and the manila file folder that sat on the table like the reminder I didn't need that I was there because of Dan, and Dan was there because of my occipital lobe.
"That's the thing I wanted to talk to you about tonight," he continued. "This study could be monumental. Groundbreaking. If I can get approval from the hospital board and the
right funding, I'd like you to—"
Whatever he was going to say, he was interrupted by a burst of applause and a chorus of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" coming from the next room. Like most of the art galleries, restaurants, and bars in the area, Mangia Mania was located in a building that was as old as Little Italy. From my work at the cemetery, I knew that the neighborhood was established when the cemetery was—back in the middle of the nineteenth century. A cemetery needed stonemasons to sculpt statues and carve headstones, and Garden View imported artisans all the way from Italy for the task. The stonecutters brought their families. Their families brought their culture and their Old World traditions.
The bar at Mangia Mania was long and skinny with a window that looked out at the pizza place across the street, and walls that were covered in sepia-toned photographs of women holding steaming bowls of pasta, men playing bocci ball, and kids in Catholic school uniforms. There was a doorway on my left and through that, the main restaurant, a room that was just as long but not as skinny. It was filled with tables, people, and the beginnings of what sounded like one kick-ass celebration.
Another explosion of laughter broke through my thoughts.
"Some party." I made the off-hand comment at the same time the waitress finally arrived to take our orders.
She glanced over her shoulder toward the restaurant. "Retirement," she said, turning and aiming a thousand mega-watt smile on Dan as if he was the one who had made the comment. "The party is for Nick, our cook. Been here like forever and is finally calling it quits. Heading to Arizona."
Personally, I didn't much care, and if she expected a reaction from Dan… well, she didn't know him nearly as well as I did, and though I didn't know him well, I knew that social niceties weren't his bag. He nodded in a distracted sort of way and ordered a German beer. I opted for a sour-apple martini.
Dan's mind was clearly on brains, and it was going to take a lot more than small talk about retirement and Arizona to sidetrack him. He was back at it even before the waitress walked away.
"I suspected all along that there was an unusual reason for your second visit to the ER. Dr. Cho confirmed that for me. If you would consider—" Dan's gaze drifted to the front of my shirt and he lost his train of thought. I had to admit, I breathed a little sigh of relief. Finally, he wasn't thinking brains.
Don of the Dead Page 4
