But the money meant more than that. I knew it. More importantly, so did Gus.
The moment I took that fateful last step out of the real world and into the marble, brass, and glass extravaganza that was a fitting place for a guy nicknamed the Pope to call his home for all eternity, Gus had all the proof he needed that I was hooked. And the second I followed his directions, twitched back the Persian rug that covered the floor, and found the sliding panel and the pile of tens and twenties stashed under it, I knew I'd passed the ol' point of no return.
We had a deal, me and Gus.
I was now working for the mob.
Dan set my latte down in front of me, effectively drawing me out of my thoughts. The teddy bear smile he gave me didn't hurt, either. He slid into the seat across from mine. "So, what have you been up to?"
It was an innocent question. Dan wouldn't ask any other kind. Still, it made me uncomfortable enough to shift against the vinyl seat. I couldn't tell him what I'd really been up to so I didn't even try.
"Working mostly," I said instead, leaving out the part about how I was now employed by the most notorious bad guy this side of Al Capone.
"It must be fascinating to work at that cemetery."
I'd almost forgotten. "Oh, the cemetery! Fascinating isn't exactly the word for it. It's more like—"
"Interesting?"
No lie there, especially since I found myself officially in the private-investigation business.
"Speaking of interesting… " Dan took a sip of his coffee. House blend. No sugar. Black. "I have news. I got approval. For the study."
Suddenly, the invitation for coffee made a whole lot of sense.
"That's not why I wanted to see you tonight." Dan jumped in with the explanation so quickly, he must have been reading my mind. Or maybe he just noticed the flash of anger in my eyes. "I mean, I wanted to see you. Just to… you know… to see you." He blushed to the roots of his shaggy hair.
"But I wanted to tell you about the study, too," he added, his eyes glittering with excitement behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "It starts immediately and I'm authorized to recruit a dozen subjects. I can even pay. Well, a little, anyway. Enough to cover parking over at the hospital and dinner in the cafeteria on the nights we meet. I wanted to ask you—"
"To be one of your guinea pigs."
Dan's expectant smile faded. "It's all in the name of science."
Science.
I guess private investigation is something of a science, too. And it didn't take a peek at my college transcripts for me to remember that I'd never been very good at science. Which made me think that Dan might be good for something other than coffee and pissing me off.
I ripped open a little bag of sweetener, dumped it into my cup, and stirred. "How do you investigate?" I asked, "I mean, how do you know where to begin?"
He took my questions at face value. "I start with the basics," he said, and I checked it off on my mental clipboard. I'd started with the basics about Gus, too. Maybe I knew what I was doing after all. "And then I get into the nitty-gritty."
"Like?"
"Like details. You know, go one layer under the basics. Dig around. Then one layer under that. For instance, in this study… "
Dan had found a subject he knew more than a little something about, and he glommed onto it with gusto. While he rhapsodized about monosynaptic reflex pathways and nonmyelinated neurons, I zoned out. It was the perfect opportunity to think about my investigation.
It would have helped, of course, if I had even an inkling about what to do next.
"… and then there's receptors." Poor Dan was talking and I wasn't listening. He raced right on, adorably oblivious. "In layman's terms, receptors encode information into electrochemical messages. Things like light and sound and touch. That's one of the things I'd like to focus on in my study. The relationship between my subjects' occipital lobes and how their electrochemical messages are transmitted by their sensory neurons. You don't have any siblings, do you? Because as an adjunct, I'd love to look at how any anomalies I might discover could be analogous to genetics and relationships within a family."
Family.
Even though Dan added another dozen ten-dollar words to the sentence, my receptors latched on to that one and wouldn't let go. I guess those electrochemical messages kicked in because a light-bulb went off over my head.
I was so grateful, I leaned over the table and kissed Dan on the cheek. That got his attention.
"What's that for?" he asked.
"For the quarter you're going to loan me." He continued to stare. I suppose he was waiting for an explanation. Or maybe he was wondering what sort of brain anomaly was making me act like a crazy person. I was too jazzed by the sudden insight to care. There was no use getting into it, the whole, ugly thing about how my cell-phone service was suspended because my carrier was a little touchy about bills being paid on time. Or at all. Thanks to Gus and my newfound fortune, I'd be back in the wireless age in a matter of days but until then, I needed a pay phone, a phone book, and a little bit of luck.
"Quarter," I reminded Dan, and when I snapped my fingers, he dutifully reached into his pocket, retrieved the coin, and handed it over. I was out of the booth and across the coffee shop in a flash. I staked out a place outside the restrooms and thumbed through the beat-up White Pages that hung from the wall next to the pay phone.
Honestly, I didn't really expect to find the phone number that I was looking for. But there it was, and my heart skipped a beat as I skimmed my finger across the name and held it there under the numbers so I wouldn't dial wrong. When I dropped Dan's quarter into the phone, my hands were shaking. I listened to it ring on the other end and held my breath.
He didn't answer his own phone. I didn't expect him to.
The man who did answer didn't bother to identify himself but he didn't blow me off, either. Another surprise. He listened while I went through my song and dance about how I was writing a book about Gus and how I needed all the primary-source information I could find.
I expected him to hang up on me. When he told me to hold on instead, I was so stunned, I could have been knocked over with a spritz of Eternity. After a wait that seemed like next to forever, I heard another phone receiver being lifted. A gravelly voice said, "So you're writing a book, huh? And I suppose you want to interview me. I'm a busy man. I don't have a lot of what do you call them… windows of opportunity."
I swallowed down the little voice of common sense that told me lying was wrong and that lying to the wrong people was dangerous. It didn't stop me from going through the writing-the-book story again. I ended it with a hopeful, "You'll see me, right?" My voice wavered over the question. My hand was so tight around the phone receiver that my knuckles were white. What I didn't expect was—
"Thursday? This Thursday?" No quavering in my voice this time. This was out-and-out I-can't-believe-this-is-happening. Thursday was the day I was supposed to have dinner with Quinn. And suddenly—
"Thursday." The single word rumbled from the other end of the phone like thunder. "Seven o'clock. It's a one-time offer. Take it or leave it."
I took it.
By the time I walked back to the booth, I didn't know if I should have been happy or scared to death. I did know that I owed Dan big time. For the quarter and for getting me started in what I hoped was the right direction. I knew two other things, too: it was hell having a conscience. And paybacks were a bitch.
I plunked down in the seat across from Dan. "I'll do it," I told him.
"Do—?"
"I'll be in your study."
At the same time I got the details and told him I'd show up at his lab the following week for our first session, I wondered how Dan would feel if he knew I'd only agreed to help him because I felt obligated. I wondered how Quinn would take the news that I was canceling out on him and, more importantly, if he'd ever give me a second chance for dinner. Just like I wondered what the sexy cop would say if he knew I was standing him up to spend my Thursday
night with Rudy the Cootie Scarpetti.
Whoever said that crime doesn't pay?
Rudy Scarpetti had an address in one of those out-in-the-country suburbs that made even the most social-climbing blue bloods green with envy. This wasn't the status-conscious, winter-home-in-Florida, Rolex-for- Christmas universe that, before Dad got greedy, I had always thought of as my comfortable little corner of the world. This was serious-money territory. The kind of place where residents never had to worry about status because they were status, the top of the upper crust that the rest of us could only dream about. When they weren't skiing in the Alps or tossing the dice in Monte Carlo, these folks spent their days thinking about which of their Rolls-Royces to take out for a drive.
Like most of the properties I had seen on my trip from the city, the Scarpetti household came complete with an iron gate at the mouth of a winding drive, grounds that were landscaped to perfection, and a house that was so spectacular I cut my engine and spent a couple minutes staring out my windshield, wide-eyed, at what must have been at least twelve thousand square feet of architectural achievement.
Sharp angles and clean, modern lines. Gleaming chrome. Glass. Lots of glass. Sweeping vistas. Slate walks. Patios and balconies and just a glimpse of an Olympic-size pool.
Oh, and two goons in black suits and Ray-Bans, one stationed on either side of the front door. They had automatic weapons in their hands.
I was pretty sure they weren't the standard neighborhood welcoming committee.
It was all the reminder I needed that this was no ordinary social call, and while I gathered the leather portfolio I'd bought specifically because it made me look like an author, and my tape recorder, I gulped down the lump of panic that suddenly blocked my throat.
"What? You're not gonna let those chumps scare you away, are you?"
At the same time I let out a little squeal, I gave myself a mental kick in the pants. I should have known that Gus was along for the ride. I plunked back against my seat. "Could you announce yourself, do you think? Maybe play some spooky music or something?"
"Music was never my thing." Gus sniffed and glanced at the extravaganza his son called home. "This was never my thing, either. Too showy."
"Let me guess, you lived a simple life."
"Simpler than this. I didn't need to keep up with them Joneses. All I ever wanted was to take care of my family."
"And so maybe your family took care of you."
It was a couple seconds before Gus got my meaning. "You think Rudy… ?" He glared at me, then swiped a hand in the air, dismissing my theory as effectively as if it were nothing more than an annoying insect. I made sure I kept well out of range of his hand. I had finally warmed up after our last too-close encounter. I wasn't going to take that chance again.
Gus's growl reminded me of Rudy's voice on the phone. "First you fingered Carmella. Now you're thinking Rudy. Not a chance, sweetheart. He's my son."
"Looks like he's done pretty well for himself. Family business, do you think?"
"You think he wanted to take over my turf so he could have it all for himself? You're not funny."
"I'm not trying to be. But Gus… " I turned in my seat, the better to see my passenger. "If you really want your murder solved—"
"You must want it solved, too, or you wouldn't have called off your date with that cop."
He spit out the last word like it tasted bad.
And I refused to get sidetracked. Gus wasn't going to get me to say out loud what I'd only admitted to myself: that I was working for him now and that meant (not too often, I hoped), that I'd have to put my social life on hold. He also wasn't going to pull me into a conversation about Quinn. Quinn was my business. And my business was private. It was bad enough that I had to cancel out on Quinn. Worse, that I made up a lie to justify it and told him there was a special evening cemetery tour that night and that I had to conduct it. Way worse because—
I sighed, trying not to think about how much I wanted a second chance with Quinn. Better to concentrate on what I was doing than thinking about Quinn and that candlelit restaurant. Or what might have happened when I invited him back to my apartment after dinner.
"We have to consider all the possibilities," I told Gus at the same time I warned myself that for the rest of that evening, the possibility of all that might have happened with Quinn was something I wasn't allowed to think about. "That's got to include the possibility that Rudy was behind your murder."
"And what are you going to do, come right out and ask if he's the one who put the contract out on me?"
"I'm not that dumb," I told Gus, and before I could convince myself that just being there pretty much proved I was, I got out of the car.
I had parked where a long walk led from the driveway to the house, and I had just gotten to where one part of it continued to the front door and another section swung around to the back of the property when an old lady rounded the corner.
I'm not kidding. Old. Really old.
The woman was half my height and skinny enough to be any fashionista's role model. She had a head of silvery hair that was pulled into a neat bun and she was dressed in an elegant pink pant-suit and wore a string of pearls every bit as flawless as her complexion. She was wearing white sneakers like the ones kids wear. The kind with Velcro instead of laces. They were the only sour note in an otherwise very-together presentation.
That, and her eyes.
"Did he come with you?" The woman plucked at my sleeve, and she didn't so much look at me as right through me. Her eyes were blank, like there was nothing going on behind them. They were also dark, like Gus's, and before I came to my senses and realized there was no way, I thought that might be who she was talking about.
"He… ?" I glanced over my shoulder in the direction she was looking but there was no one there. Not even Gus. "I didn't bring anyone. Anyone but me. I'm—"
"He told me he's coming. Today." Her hand tightened on my arm. Her voice was frazzled around the edges. "He called and said he'd be here. He promised."
I've never been very good with old people. Maybe I have issues because of my dad's practice and the fact that it was the Medicare fraud that finally did him in. But issues aside, I always find myself at a loss for words when it comes to this kind of rambling desperation. I would like to say that I'm caring and know exactly how to handle things, but I'm not. I don't.
One by one, I plucked the old lady's bony fingers from my arm and took a step back, well out of reach.
"If he said he'd be here, I'm sure he will be," I told her, mostly because I figured it was what she wanted to hear. "Maybe you just need to wait a little longer."
"I've been waiting and waiting." Her voice trailed away and I could have sworn she forgot I was there. "He called about the tulips. And he said he'd be here. He promised."
Okay, so tell me, who was the crazy one here? The woman blabbering on and on about some no-show and tulips? Or the one who decided that heading over to the wiseguys with weapons was a better choice than standing there being uncomfortable?
Unfortunately, it was impossible for me to get up a whole head of steam. The old lady latched on to me again, and when it looked like she was never going to let go, I gave up even trying. I tried to keep up a good pace but she kept forgetting the whole process of putting one foot in front of the other. Together, we clomped our way toward the front door.
Did I mention that the house was as big as my old high school? Before we were anywhere near the imposing entrance and the guys in the sunglasses, another woman raced around from the back. She was tall and broad and middle-aged and she had a severe underbite that was accentuated by her red lipstick. Her hair was salt-and-pepper, her eyes were colorless, and she wore a nurse's uniform. It was white, which did little for her complexion. It was also short enough to expose a strip of skin between where her skirt ended and her white knee-high stockings began.
So not attractive.
At the spot where the two paths intersected, the nurse screeched
to a stop fast enough that her thick-soled shoes squeaked. She glanced down the drive and into the woods that bordered us on every side, and the only way I can describe the look on her face is pure panic.
That is, until she spotted the old woman.
Then, the nurse's expression teetered between relief and anger. It wasn't until the anger won out and she came at the old lady, eyes flashing and teeth bared, that I stepped between them.
She hadn't noticed me until that moment, and when she did, she stopped dead in her tracks, no doubt trying to decide if I was somebody. Apparently, just the fact that I had made it past the front gate with its security system, video cameras, and motion detectors made it a very real possibility. She might be homely but she wasn't dumb. She wasn't about to take any chances.
She checked to make sure she hadn't attracted the attention of the two tough guys at the front door and, reassured, she slapped a smile on her face and reached out a hand to the old lady. "Marie, dear! There you are." She blinked really fast, the way people do when they're lying. "My goodness, you had me worried."
Call me a sucker, but it didn't seem fair to make pink, blubbering David face down that polyester-clad Goliath on her own. Marie ignored the nurse and clung to me like a limpet on a rock, her eyes round with terror. I guess that meant I was involved whether I wanted to be or not. "You didn't look worried," I told the nurse. "And Marie wasn't doing anything wrong. She was escorting me to the front door."
"And I just fell off a turnip truck." The nurse crossed her arms over a chest that would have done a linebacker proud. "You have no idea what it's like trying to keep an eye on her," she said, obviously building her case in the event that anyone called her on the carpet for her lapse. "All I did was go to the kitchen to get a cup of tea—"
"Tea for Marie? Or tea for yourself?"
"No one ever said I couldn't have a bit of a break." The nurse pulled back her shoulders and clutched her hands together in front of her. "I need one now and again. Four years she's been like this."
Don of the Dead Page 10
