The good news is that Quinn looked just as disappointed to see that we had company as I felt. A spark in his eyes that mirrored the fire that threatened me with self-combustion, he shrugged his regret, gave me a grin that promised another time, and let go of my hand. The last I saw of him, he was headed down a long aisle where cardboard boxes Were stacked one on top of the other in a precarious version of organization.
Every inch of me tingling as if I'd touched electricity, I waited for Quinn to return, nodding hello when the volunteer couple sidled by with piles of newspapers in their arms. They staked out the only desk in the room and got down to work, which meant that when Quinn finally came back carrying a roll of paper towels and a battered box labeled Scarpetti, we had no choice but to drag two wobbly metal chairs over to one corner and set the box on the floor between us.
Not much room to move much less work, but the tight quarters had advantages. Quinn ripped a paper towel from the roll and leaned over to wipe an inch-thick layer of dust off the top of the box. His knees touched mine.
It wasn't much, but the contact sent a shiver of anticipation through me.
Maybe that's why my breath was tight in my chest as I watched him open the box. Or maybe it was because now that I found myself so close to information that might explain so much about Gus, my heartbeat sped up a couple dozen beats and my palms itched. I scraped them against my pant legs, craned my neck, and bent over the box. "What's inside?"
"Newspaper articles." Quinn reached in and pulled out a stack of old newspapers that matched the ones in the cemetery archives. Down to the coating of mold.
I I sneezed and reached into my purse for a tissue.
Quinn dug deeper into the cardboard box. "More photographs like the ones in the museum display." He took them out and set them on the a floor, and once again, I found myself face-to-face with the young Gus Scarpetti. Dead Gus wasn't a handsome man, but even when he was young and alive, he was nothing to write home about. Beefy neck. Prominent nose. Piercing eyes that glared at the camera as if he was daring it and anyone brave enough to look at his picture to come and get a piece of him.
"What?" The sound of Quinn's voice snapped me out of my thoughts, and I looked up to find him studying me, his head cocked to one side. "You're looking at the guy like you know him."
"Me? Scarpetti was dead before I was born." I laughed and wondered if Quinn noticed that I relayed the fact and sidestepped his comment at the same time. "I was just thinking. That's all. About looking at the face of a guy who has a mausoleum over at the cemetery."
And about how one bright and sunny afternoon, Gus Scarpetti stepped out of that mausoleum and into my life.
The now-familiar chill came back in spades and before I even realized I was doing it, I found myself with my arms crossed over my chest.
"Cold?"
Quinn's question was innocent enough. His expression was anything but. I could practically see the wheels turning inside his head. I didn't need him to figure out that I had more than just a professional interest in Gus's life.
"Just a chill." To prove my point, I sniffed into my tissue. "I've been a little under the weather."
He grinned. "Glad you warned me before we exchanged any germs."
"I'll let you know when it's safe to get close again," I promised, and he got back to work, bending over the cardboard box and fishing around inside.
He came up holding a stack of yellowed papers that he set on his lap so he could riffle through them. "Arrest records. Witness statements." He laid them aside and reached into the box again. This time, he pulled out a folder. It was once manila-colored but by then, it was a shade that reminded me of the caramel they used as the not-so-secret ingredient in the tiramisu at the coffee shop downstairs from my apartment. "There's even a copy of Scarpetti's autopsy report in here."
For reasons I can't explain and are probably way too close to deranged to even think about, there was something about reading the cold, hard facts of Gus's death that fascinated me. Before Quinn could offer it, I snatched the autopsy report out of his hand.
"Cold hard facts" doesn't begin to describe what I found inside the folder. At the top of the first page was a case number, along with Gus's name and the date and time of his death.
No big news there.
I also found out how tall he was, how much he weighed, and that when he went to Lucia's for veal parmigiana and ended up kicking the bucket, he was suitably attired in a gray suit, white shirt, black and red silk tie, white jockey shorts, black socks, and alligator shoes. All custom made, I was sure, and as flashy as what he'd been buried in.
I didn't care how much Gus's brain, his heart, and the rest of his internal organs weighed so I zipped past that info and on to a section titled Evidence of Injury. The information here confirmed what I'd read in the newspaper articles. All told, Gus had sustained sixteen bullet wounds. The autopsy report described each and every one in its own paragraph, complete with long medical words I didn't know and didn't really want to understand. None of that mattered. What was important was the last line of a couple of the descriptions: "This is a fatal wound."
It wasn't like I didn't know that Gus was dead, but just reading the words, detached and clinical, made my insides bunch. Before my gag reflex could get the best of me, I leafed past the anatomical data.
A good plan.
If I hadn't found myself staring at the autopsy photos.
Looking at the pictures of Gus cut open and laid out on a surgical table made my stomach do a flip-flop. I shuffled through the pictures as quickly as I could, and I would have kept right on shuffling if one photo in particular hadn't caught my eye.
One of the wounds listed as "unfatal" was to Gus's right thigh and the photo showed it in detail. But it wasn't the bruised flesh around the bullet hole that caught my eye and held me spellbound.
It was the red mark on Gus's right hip. The one that was about the size of a quarter and shaped like a rose.
"Hey, you look a little green." Quinn plucked the folder out of my hand. "Not everybody's cut out to look at this stuff and not get queasy. You okay?"
Was I? Not if okay involved finding the irrefutable evidence Gus had displayed the first day I met him.
A birthmark.
One I couldn't have dreamed up, no matter how warped my imagination might be.
I promised myself that when I got home, I'd scream. Or cry. Or whatever you were supposed to do when you discovered that something you knew couldn't possibly be true really was.
For now, I had a handsome detective to deal with.
I cringed, looking at the autopsy folder he still held in one hand. A shiver snaked up my spine. "How can anybody get used to looking at dead bodies?"
He shrugged. "You get used to it."
"You? Does that mean—"
"I'm in Homicide," he said. "All it takes is a couple weeks on the job and a couple of shootings. After that, all the bodies, they pretty much look alike."
His assessment was just as clinical as that of Gus's autopsy report. But I didn't hold it against him. Something told me it was the only way professionals were able to deal with a daily dose of death and not lose their marbles.
An idea popped into my head. "Homicide, huh? So tell me, if this was your case, how would you investigate?"
"If this was my case, I'd still be sitting here doing nothing." There was no mistaking the sudden sting of bitterness in Quinn's words or that he regretted it instantly.
"Sorry." This time, I knew he was. Not for getting angry. For letting it show. He was sorry he'd lost control and let me get a glimpse of his vulnerability. Just as sorry as he was that now that he'd mentioned it, he had to explain himself.
"I'm not exactly on the job at the moment," he said. "Administrative leave."
"You did something you shouldn't have done."
"Oh no!" Quinn's eyes sparked with defiance. "I did something I should have done. I just shouldn't have gotten caught."
"Which explains why you'
re trying to get back into your lieutenant's good graces."
"You got that right."
"Is it working?"
"God, I hope so." He got up from his chair, and if there had been a little more room than none, I think he would have paced like a caged lion. "I'm as bored as hell."
It wasn't fair but, hey, how often did I have the advantage of professional input? I used Quinn's confession to my advantage. "So indulge me," I said. "Pretend it all just happened and that it's your case. How would you investigate Scarpetti's death?"
Quinn was still hanging on to the autopsy report. He tossed it into the box. "Nothing to investigate. Never is when it comes to these sorts of organized crime killings."
"But wouldn't you wonder? About who was behind the shooting? And why? How would you find out what really happened?"
"I'd do exactly what I'm sure the cops did back then. Talk to all the usual suspects. And I guarantee I'd find out exactly what they found out—nothing. They never could prove who ordered the hit. As to why… " Quinn dropped back into his chair. He tucked the rest of the papers into the box and folded the top closed. "Back then, they probably figured it didn't matter who issued the orders. One dead mob boss was as good as another. And I bet that's exactly what happened. One bad guy whacked another bad guy. End of story."
I knew it wasn't but there was no way I could tell Quinn. Not without looking like a certified nutcase.
I stuck to the facts. Always a better choice than dabbling in possibilities. Especially when one of those possibilities was that the dead guy was definitely dead but not gone. And that this same dead guy was convinced that there was more to his murder than a simple mob hit.
"So you think there's a possibility that Gus's death wasn't investigated as carefully as it could have been?" I asked Quinn.
He held out one hand, palm out, the gesture so authoritative I wondered if at one time he'd been a traffic cop. "I never said that. I said—"
"That one dead mob boss is as good as another. That it doesn't matter who killed Scarpetti. Doesn't justice figure into this anywhere?"
"Hold on!" Quinn studied me, his eyes narrowed. "Are you a reporter or something?"
"No."
"Then a relative? Do you know the Scarpetti family?"
I sighed. It was a genuine enough reaction to my frustration, and I hoped the rise and fall of my breasts might distract Quinn long enough to make him notice my body. And forget his accusations.
It didn't work.
Apparently, a cop could be as single-minded as a research scientist.
I sighed again.
"Look, I might as well tell you the truth," I said, even as I prepared for another lie. "I got interested in Scarpetti because of my work at the cemetery. And now I'm thinking I might want to write a book about him. That's why I'm doing this extra research. I thought I could make the story more interesting if I could find out—"
"Something juicy that no one else knows."
"Yeah. Something like that. I thought if I looked through the records, I might come up with something that wasn't mentioned in the newspapers. You know, something that will make my manuscript stand out. Maybe even get it turned into a movie."
"I hate to burst your bubble, but I don't think it's going to happen. You saw the reports. Gunshot wounds, blood and guts, blah, blah, blah. There's nothing new here."
"Then I guess I'll have to look somewhere else."
Quinn jumped out of his chair, reached for my hand, and dragged me up alongside him.
"I want you to make me a promise," he said.
The comment came out of left field and I hesitated.
Quinn's eyes glittered. "I don't like the way you're talking, Pepper. I want you to tell me that you don't have any crazy ideas about poking around in Scarpetti Family business."
"But—"
"These are dangerous people. If I didn't have an appointment with my union attorney in… " He checked his watch. "… exactly twenty minutes, I'd give you chapter and verse about just how dangerous they are. You understand that these aren't ordinary, everyday folks, don't you?"
"Sure, but—"
"And they're not going to like somebody asking questions. Even when that somebody is as innocent-looking as you."
"Am I?" I stepped closer. "Innocent-looking, I mean?"
The spark in Quinn's eyes told me that he got my message. Even if he wasn't about to be distracted by it. He tightened his hold on my hand. "I'm serious, Pepper. You may think it's a sort of scavenger hunt and that you'll find information you can use on your cemetery tour or in your book, but Rudy Scarpetti is as much of a scumbag as his father ever was. That's why they call him the Cootie. If he hears that you've been poking your pretty little nose—"
"Is my nose pretty?"
It was Quinn's turn to sigh. "You're trying to change the subject and it's not going to work. Yes, your nose is pretty. So is the rest of you. But—" His compliments were completely ruined by that one word. "You have to believe me when I say I know what I'm talking about. I've had some dealings with these people and it hasn't been pretty. I want you to promise. Right here. Right now."
"Promise that—"
"That you won't pry. That you won't ask questions. That you'll stay out of Scarpetti business."
I promised.
And if Quinn didn't happen to notice that behind my back, my fingers were crossed?
It was just as well. There was no use trying to explain that staying out of Scarpetti Family business… well, it was way too late for that.
Chapter 7
Things were finally looking up.
And it wasn't just because of my close-but-not-quite-close-enough encounter with Quinn, either. All right, sure, right before he hurried out to meet with his attorney, we talked about seeing each other again and every time I thought about it, my heart pumped hot and hard, like I'd drained an entire pot of the high-octane coffee Jennine made at the office. But like they say on those hokey TV commercials… wait! There was even more.
There were three messages on my answering machine when I got back to Garden View on Monday morning. One was from the aforementioned Quinn, who didn't ask if I had the evening free or even if I wanted to go; he'd called in a favor, he told me, and he got us a table. His message was short and sweet: I was to meet him at Pietro's the next Thursday night at eight o'clock sharp.
If I listened to half of the female-empowerment speeches Ella spouted, I would have known enough to be insulted by his high-handed tactics.
Guess I'm not much of a listener. I wrote Pietro's on my calendar for eight o'clock on Thursday and underlined it. In red.
The second message was from Dan. In spite of how it probably sounds, I hadn't forgotten about him. At least not completely. As opposed to Quinn who, cashmere aside, struck me as the take-no-prisoners type, Dan was one of those guys who held doors for women. Heck, he'd even asked my permission before he walked me home.
There were times a girl needed to feed off the kind of raw energy that shivered around Quinn like the halo of a flame. But there were times she was looking for warm and fuzzy, too.
Until I decided which I wanted—and needed—more, I'd be a dope to let either Quinn or Dan get away.
Especially since when Dan called and asked me if I could please meet him for coffee, he never once mentioned my cerebellum.
The third message…
Well, as soon as I heard it, my spirits soared and the reason was simple. The third message—finally and hallelujah—was from Saks.
"Saks. Saks. Saks." It was Monday evening and I chanted the single, wonderful word in a happy sing-song as I drove up Cedar Road
toward Beechwood Mall, the city's premier shopping area.
Saks, where I used to shop with wild abandon and my dad's credit card.
Saks, where long before I ended up leading old people around the graves of dead people, I'd applied for a job, number one, because I had to pay my rent and number two (and far more important), because I loved everything fr
om the ambiance to the merchandise to the pricey smell of the place. I'd filled out the application so long before, I figured they'd lost it in the shuffle. But then…
A call. From Saks. About a job.
Saks.
Where I'd bought my wedding gown.
The ugly thought struck out of nowhere, and I got rid of it with a twitch of my shoulders. There was no room in my head for negative energy. Not that evening. That evening was about positive vibes, a confident attitude, and—with a spot of luck and the skilled application of a little of my legendary chutzpah—a favorable outcome.
I eased my car into a parking place, checked my lipstick in the rearview mirror, and headed inside. I hoped that by the time I walked out again, I'd have an offer for a new job.
Yeah, I know. It would mean leaving Garden View. That, of course, was the whole point. Not only did the Saks job pay two dollars more an hour than my job at the cemetery, but getting away from the mausoleums and headstones would also mean that I could put a whole lot of distance between myself and Gus.
So what if I hadn't solved his little mystery?
What were the chances of that happening, anyway?
And who ever said that I cared enough to really try?
The woman in Human Resources said I was "ideal." The shift manager in Women's Wear used the word "perfect." After an hour and a half of filling out papers, smiling my way through interviews, and completing not one but two personality profiles, I had only one more hurdle to cross: the manager of the shoe department.
It was a good thing I'd used my head as well as my fashion sense and slipped on my Ferragamos before I left the apartment.
I arrived at Shoes wearing a hopeful smile, my newly created personnel file under my arm, waiting for this crucial and final stamp of approval. The department manager's name was Charles. He was young and black and he was dressed in a navy suit that fit his tall, thin frame to perfection. He moved with elegance and efficiency, and after only a couple of minutes watching him in action, I knew I'd like working with him.
Don of the Dead Page 8
