The Mancini Saga (Book #1) I.O.U.

by April M. Reign

  After every dine-n-ditch, her full stomach—no matter how grateful for the sudden sustenance—left her feeling guilty. However, once the hunger pangs began to gnaw at the inner lining of her stomach again, she reluctantly found no choice but to steal another meal. But every time she did, and any time she stole a small item so that she could eat, she wrote it down. She was the thief who kept a tally, a record of her sins, a list of future paybacks.

  Every night, she curled up in a secluded place in Central Park, and closed her eyes, hoping that tomorrow would be the day that something good would happen. Tomorrow, she hoped to find a way off the streets where she could have a warm bed, hot meal and cleansing shower, but not necessarily in that order.

  ***

  Detective Benson shook his head. This was such a simple case, but a mystery nonetheless. There was nothing left to do but chuckle.

  “Another one? Did someone give you another one?” Benson’s partner looked inquisitively, but already knew the answer.

  “Yup. They struck again,” Benson replied with a mix of resignation and admiration, looking down at the scrawled note on a napkin, turned in by a restaurant owner.

  “C’mon, Benson, you know you can’t waste our time on that. We’ve got more pressing matters.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. I just wish I could figure out who this girl is.”

  “So, it’s a girl?”

  “Yeah, it has to be. I just don’t see a young boy writing like this. See the loops and circles?”

  “Well, I have to hand it to her, whoever she is; she’s trying to be honest.”

  “About as honest as a thief can be,” Benson replied, shaking his head. “She must be young, she’s obviously hungry, and she must be scared. I just wish we could help her. I have a feeling she will actually come through with these promises. Y’know?”

  “Yeah, I do, actually,” replied his partner. “I never thought I’d see the day when I could say we’re after an honest thief—the IOU thief.”

  “The IOU thief,” Benson repeated to himself. That was a good nickname. He created a new label and stuck it on the file folder: the IOU Thief.

  ***

  By the eighth week of enduring the tough streets of New York, all Mia could think of was a warm bed, a hot shower and uninterrupted sleep. She carried her worn backpack on her back, and wore dirty clothes that reeked of unpleasant body odors. She wanted to cry, but she no longer had the energy to produce the tears. One aching foot in front of the next, she walked nowhere.

  Then, as if an angel paved the road, she noticed a brilliant sparkle from the passenger seat of a parked car with the window rolled down. She walked toward the glitz, looking around for the vehicle’s owner. No one noticed her. She glanced down and there on the front seat sat a gorgeous jar adorned with large glistening jewels. She stared at the jar, admiring its beauty.

  She ran her dirty hand over the smooth surface while her fingertips circled each precious stone. She waited for the owner, but no one returned. Her eyebrows drew together, confused.

  She wanted . . . no needed, the money the jar would give her if she sold it, but she had never stolen anything of such value. Finally, exhaustion and hunger gave her the strength to decide that she needed the money more than she needed her values. She tore out an IOU note from her notebook and laid it gently on the seat, removing the jar from the car.

  Without looking up, Mia walked into a pawnshop, a hundred feet from where she took the adorned jar. She asked the pawnshop owner how much it was worth. He took the jar and placed it on his workstation. When he returned, he set the gold jar on the counter in front of her. “I can give you five hundred dollars.”

  Mia nearly fainted. That was enough money to get a hotel room with a real bed. She could draw a hot, bubble bath where the soothing water would soak away her aches and pains. Her scratchy voice trembled, “I’ll take it.”

  “You do know this is an urn, right? It holds the ashes of a dead body,” he nonchalantly mentioned as he went to the back of the store to get large bills he kept in a safe.

  Mia heard herself swallow. She looked at the beautiful urn sitting in front of her. Then she glanced at the money he held in his old, wrinkled hand. Dismay at the situation eclipsed the stomach pangs that ate at the inside wall of her stomach. She contemplated what she was going to do and she had mere seconds to decide.

  “I-I’m sorry, I can’t,” she mumbled, grabbing the urn off the countertop.

  “Hey!” the pawnshop owner called to her back as she retreated with the urn.

  Mia ran as fast as her blistered feet would take her—back to where she first saw the car—but it was gone. She stood in the exact space where it once was and turned each way, desperately looking for the vehicle.

  Her arms circled around the urn while tears ran down her cheeks. Her trembling legs buckled, and she fell to the ground, landing on her knees. She did not move. Instead, Mia rested her head on top of the urn and sobbed profusely. She was hungry and aching, she decided that it was time to leave New York.

  Distraught and alone, Mia could not spend another week on the streets. She needed a bed, shower, and meal. She needed to tend to her blistered feet, and she needed someone to talk with. She just—needed. Then she heard an angel’s voice speak to her.

  “Miss, are you okay?”

  Mia wondered if she had died. She could feel the warmth of the angel’s breath brush against the side of her face. She slowly blinked away the blur in her teary eyes and looked up. She looked blankly into the angelic face of a young black woman.

  “Wh-who are you?”

  “My name is Miesha.” She slid her hand under Mia’s arm and helped her to her feet.

  Mia was too tired to fight her off and besides, the woman was being nice to her. “Why do you help me?” her childlike-voice asked sincerely.

  “I help people who are lost, something like a social worker,” she explained.

  “A social worker? Do you know me?”

  “I don’t, but you look like you might need some help. I was walking into that store,” she pointed to a purse shop, “and I saw you crying and fall to your knees.”

  “I’m homeless and hungry,” Mia said simply.

  “I guess there’s a reason I found you in a city as big as Manhattan.”

  Mia did not respond. She did not realize how much she needed someone to talk with. When Miesha tried to take the urn from her arms, Mia yanked her arms away from her. Miesha threw her open hands up apologetically.

  “Where are you from?” Miesha guided her away from the side of the street and up on the sidewalk.

  “From here,” Mia quickly said.

  “Where?”

  Mia pointed to the sidewalk where she was standing. Miesha understood that she was reluctant to talk. She could tell Mia was a teenager and instead of throwing her into a shelter, she decided to give her a real chance at a decent life.

  “I’m tired,” Mia muttered.

  “I know, honey. Let’s get you something to eat.”

  Mia rested her head on top of the urn and took a deep breath. “Can I take a shower too?” she pleaded.

  “Of course—how about a hot shower, food, and a bed to get some sleep?”

  Mia instinctively laid her head on Miesha’s shoulder and sobbed tears of utter relief and exhaustion.

  Chapter Three

  Manhattan, N.Y.

  2008

  Carlo stood over her lifeless body, staring into her pale, blue eyes. He slipped on white latex gloves and methodically walked around her, searching for answers. One single thought swirled repeatedly through his mind: his own fourteen-year-old sister, Aldabella. The girl, dead on the asphalt in front of him, was only a few years older than Aldabella. That fact alone was the reason that he could not suppress his heightening anger.

  Oblivious to his surroundings, Carlo knelt down next to her body and slid his hand over her eyes, closing them. Who killed her? Why would she jump? What ailed her life so much that it caused such dest
ruction? How would her family take the news? Questions about this stranger cluttered his mind. He had an odd, stirring desire to know more.

  Frankie watched his partner from across the street. He knew that Carlo was struggling with his new job in the homicide division. Carlo had worked the burglary division for six years until they needed him on the homicide squad. Reluctantly, he agreed to take on the new challenge, not that he had much of a choice.

  After talking to a potential witness, Frankie ran across the street, in and out of slow moving, traffic-jammed cars to join his partner. He watched Carlo’s slumped shoulders and frustrated expression. Frankie wondered if Carlo would ever be able to handle the grim side of working homicide.

  Frankie jogged up to Carlo and slapped his back as he looked down at the young body sprawled on the asphalt. “What’s going on, Mancini?”

  “What does it look like? Another senseless death in this lovely city of ours.”

  “You should be used to it by now, man. Take a deep breath—smell the blood in the air.”

  “Don’t start with me, Frankie. Not today.”

  “Relax man, I’ve known you for a long time, and I know exactly what’s going through your mind.” Frankie slipped his hands into a pair of latex gloves and kneeled down, wrapping his fingers around the young girl’s wrist for a pulse. “Yep, dead as dead can be.” He dropped her hand and smirked at the serious look on Carlo’s face.

  “You’re a jerk.” Carlo shook his head, and turned around to talk with another officer. He was in need of a moment away from the stench of blood and death.

  Frankie studied the body, noticing the way that she landed on her back from her six-story fall. He took note of the obvious fractures she had sustained. He moved her shirt collar down with his gloved hand. Sure enough, she had marks around her neck. He inspected her fingernails for visible signs of struggling. Then he noticed the white corner of a piece of paper poking out from inside the pocket of her designer jeans. “Mancini, come here, I think you might want to see this.”

  Carlo looked over and saw his partner using tweezers to grasp the corner of a piece of paper. He immediately walked back and kneeled down next to the body.

  “If you give it time, the dead always talk.” Frankie pulled out the folded paper and handed it to Carlo.

  Carlo did not say a word. His forehead held deep lines as he furrowed his eyebrows. When Frankie handed him the paper, he opened it, and read the scribbled message. After a minute, he stood, patted Frankie on the back, and turned to leave. Without turning around he said, “Finish up, I’ll meet you at the precinct.”

  “Wait, what does the paper say?”

  “It says I need to have a chat with Ms. Mia Baker to find out why her name and phone number are in the pocket of our victim.”

  Frankie could tell that Carlo was trying to suppress his anger. He always put the weight of his family on his shoulders, especially when it came to his younger sister.

  “Hey, Carlo. Like I said, I know what’s going through your mind and she ain’t Aldabella!” he yelled.

  “Not this time,” Carlo said to himself without glancing back. Anger surged through his body. A young woman was dead, and her family would soon learn about the news. How could he feel anything but anger right now?

  ***

  Mia sat in front of her notebook, crossing off the second-to-last item on her IOU list. About 30 minutes earlier, she had paid for a dinner that she’d eaten at a restaurant in Times Square, ten years ago. She had put cash in an envelope and clipped a note to it that read: Thank you for feeding me when I had no food. On her way home from her own job as a waitress, she placed the envelope on the counter next to the register, knowing that the hostess would be back in a minute, after seating customers, and would find the envelope that fulfilled her IOU.

  After ten long years, Mia had just one thing left on her list, the urn with the ashes. That urn sat on a shelf, by itself, in her linen cabinet. She wondered how her one act of true greed had affected the family of the urn. Although she had tried to get the urn back to its rightful owner by borrowing money from Miesha and placing an article in the newspaper, no one had ever come forward.

  She crossed over to her bedroom closet, took off her black-and-green server uniform, and put on a pair of blue jeans and a fitted, white blouse. She removed the clips from her hair and let her chestnut-brown locks flow loosely down the middle of her back.

  Mia grabbed an orange from the refrigerator and sat down with the recent letter she had received from her brother, Kyle. Grateful that they were able to write to one another about four times a year through an unknown, inside contact at the compound, she began to read her brother’s three-page letter.

  Dear Mia,

  I’m ready to leave this prison. I’m trying to get Mom and Dad to see what a lunatic James is, but they honestly think he has a plan from God. I’m not sure how much longer I can stay here and try to work against James. Thanks for the pictures. I love the one of the New York rats. They are as big as dogs—

  Loud pounding on her front door startled Mia and she ripped her gaze from her brother’s words. Not expecting company, she cautiously walked to the door and opened it, leaving the chain-lock connected. A large, brawny man stood on the other side of the door, trying to look through the small crack.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Ma’am, I’m Detective Mancini. I’m looking for Mia Baker,” he said in an authoritative voice as he flashed his badge.

  Mia remained silent, knowing that James was relentless about sending his goons after those who escaped the cult—even years later.

  “Is Mia available?”

  “I’m her. What’s this about?”

  “A woman who we’re investigating gave us your name and number.”

  Mia did not respond.

  Carlo was becoming quite annoyed with her. He could see an almond-shaped, brown eye peeking through the door. “Ma’am, this is a police matter; I need a moment of your time.”

  “Can you show me your badge again, this time, a little slower?”

  He sighed, holding his badge in front of the crack in the door. She took a second to read the name on his badge.

  Mia glanced down at her clothing, inwardly sighing that she cared how she looked. She closed the door, unlatched the chain lock, and opened it again, this time, wide enough to welcome the detective into her home.

  “Please come inside, Detective.”

  Carlo’s feet felt like weights as he stared at the beautiful woman standing in front of him. He had never seen such natural beauty before. Her long, wavy hair draped over her shoulders. Ivory skin next to her red, supple lips held his inquisitive stare. Heavenly curves on a slender figure showed, even through her modest clothes. He stood in her doorway, trying to remember why he was there. Embarrassed, he ran his hand through his wavy brown hair and took a deep breath.

  “Well, you banged on my door; are you coming inside?” she asked after an awkward moment.

  He stepped through the doorway to the fragrant smell of a tart orange saturating the air. For a moment, he felt a bit dizzy. Slipping one hand in his jean pocket, he felt for a photocopy of the piece of paper that he had removed from the dead girl. Reality slapped him hard, and a flash of anger crossed his face.

  “Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

  “No, I’m good, thank you.” Gathering his thoughts, he glanced around her small apartment. Her place was quaint and tidy and located directly across the street from Central Park. As he looked around, Carlo noticed a bowl of cat food and water in the kitchen. “Is your cat male or female?”

  “Male, his name is Pirate.” She laughed while she poured coffee into a beige mug.

  “Don’t tell me, he’s missing an eye.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, flashed her white teeth, and nodded.

  A letter lay open on the coffee table next to a half-eaten orange. He curiously read the first couple lines. Prison? He pursed his lips.

  Mia noticed the
detective looking at the letter from her brother. She quickly intervened, “So, who was the girl that had my number?” She carried her hot coffee mug into the living room and placed it on a coaster.

  He sat down across from her, watching every move she made, forgetting once again why he was there. He took a deep breath to clear his mind. "Do you know someone named Denise Murphy?"

  Mia knew her. She and Miesha had helped her escape from a cult earlier that morning, not just any cult, but the one that Mia had left ten years ago. The Church of Biblical Truth was the same cult where her family still lived.