Seeing Love: Saints Protection & Investigations

by Maryann Jordan

  “Bart, you’re here because I know you will focus on my grandson and not be distracted by what my companies are involved in. You will be able to be objective when looking at my main competitors. Faith, you’re here because of your special gifts.”

  “Special gifts?” Bart questioned.

  “I’m also a psychologist,” Faith said softly, but with conviction. “Mr. Krustas is hoping that I’ll be able to get a handle on what type of personality we’re dealing with.”

  Bart turned and looked at the woman sitting on the other end of the sofa. Her eyes held his gaze, but something was off. He just was not sure what it was. “Do you work for the FBI?”

  “No,” she replied honestly. “I would have to go through their training to be an FBI profiler. I have a master’s degree in psychology and a minor in art.” Seeing his incredulous expression, she explained, “I know it seems to be a strange combination but they both interested me. I’ve worked with the local police as a sketch artist and use my background in psychology to get an idea of what type of person we’ll be checking into.”

  Bart nodded, carefully considering her words. Everything sounds normal, so why do I get a weird feeling she’s not telling me everything?

  Ivan interjected, “Anton is gathering the information that I have asked him to compile for you. Would the two of you be able to come back in two hours, once he’s ready?”

  Before Bart could agree, Mrs. Dukakas appeared at the door, saying, “Excuse me, Mr. Krustas, the doctor is here for Constance.”

  The weight that momentarily lifted from Ivan was firmly back on his shoulders. Looking over at Bart and Faith, he offered his apologies. “I’ll see you in about two hours. The FBI will have another report for us and Anton will have the information you’ll need.” Walking over to grasp Bart’s hand, he added, “Please keep me informed about anything you discover. I’ll be traveling back and forth to Norfolk, but will mostly be here. Anton will be taking care of many of our businesses back in Norfolk.”

  With that, he left the room and Mrs. Dukakas said, “I’ll show you out now.”

  As Bart and Faith left the mansion, they walked silently back down the driveway past the vigilant guards. Arriving at her small car, Bart noticed the old model vehicle. Not wanting to leave her side yet, he placed his hand on her arm.

  “Would you like to get some coffee?” he asked, turning on his famous charm.

  She looked up at his grin and hesitated. He looks like he never gets turned down.

  Bart noticed her reticence and pressed his point. “We can share information,” he enticed.

  Offering a small smile, she agreed. “There’s a coffee shop about a mile from here,” she commented.

  “You can ride with me and I’ll bring you back,” he said, already placing his hand on her shoulder to guide her to his truck.

  “No, thank you,” she declared. “I’ll drive and you can follow.” With that, she opened her car door, tossing her bag into the passenger seat.

  Bart realized it made sense for a woman to be cautious, especially with a large stranger. But damn, it feels odd. He could not remember the last time a woman refused to take him up on an offer. Hustling over to his truck, he pulled out behind her and followed her through the neighborhood and to a small shopping center with a little café.

  Parking behind her, he jogged to her side to offer his hand in assisting her from her car. She placed her hand in his as she alighted from the vehicle. She felt him squeeze her fingers before letting go, noting the sparks tingling long after the release. Wiggling her fingers, she wondered why this man had such a strong effect on her.

  Entering the café, the warm interior was inviting and they found a small booth toward the back. Once the coffee was ordered, they sat, both analyzing each other. Unbeknownst to her, he also felt the tingle from their touch. Unused to such reactions, he wondered about the beautiful woman sitting across from him.

  “So…um…are you with the FBI?” she asked, wanting to break the awkward silence. She wrapped her hands around the hot cup, hoping its warmth would thaw her freezing fingers.

  “No,” he answered. “I work for a private investigation company that Mr. Krustas has contracted.”

  “Oh,” Faith replied, not sure what working for a private investigation company entailed.

  Bart grinned as he leaned back in his seat, stretching his long legs to either side of hers. “And you? How does one become a psychologist and artist?”

  Smiling in return as she relaxed a little, she answered, “I was always interested in people. And art was a way for me to express myself. I only work part-time for the sheriff’s department. They call me in when they need me. So I also teach art part time at the local elementary school.”

  “Part time?”

  Sighing heavily as she absentmindedly twirled a lock of ebony hair, she nodded. “With budget cuts, the arts often are on the chopping block when the school systems have to cut costs. So I work three days a week at the elementary school teaching art and then I’m on call for the police department.”

  Bart quickly estimated what her income would be with the two part-time jobs and was curious how she managed to make a living. His eyes dropped to her clothes. Neat, clean, but not new.

  She watched his eyes assess her and wondered what he thought. She noticed the woman behind the counter strip Bart with her eyes and the waitress had freshened their coffee twice already, trying desperately to get his attention. She noticed his quick grin and wink at the waitress and wondered if he realized how many hearts probably broke every day when he would smile and then walk away. Oh yeah. I definitely get a feeling about him!

  Drawn to her like a moth to the light, Bart wanted to know more about her. She appeared immune to his charm, but that only made her more attractive to him. “Tell me more about yourself.”

  Giving a shrug, she admitted, “There’s not much to tell. I was raised in the Charlestown area by my mom and grandmother. They’ve both passed now.” She twisted the napkin on the table, her nerves taut. Why does he make me so nervous? It’s hard to clear my mind and think with his overpowering, testosterone, devilishly-handsome presence opposite of me! A giggle erupted as she thought of her description of him.

  Bart wondered what she was thinking that would make her laugh, unintentionally drawing focus to her perfect lips. Quirking his eyebrow, he noticed her blush. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “I…um…sorry. I just had a silly thought.” He must think I’m an idiot! Determined to redeem herself, she quickly asked, “And you? What does an independent investigator do?”

  Knowing she was attempting to lead the conversation away from whatever had made her laugh, he played along. He leaned back again, managing to move his leg so that it touched hers.

  She attempted to shift her leg over but found them trapped between his.

  Before she could protest, he said, “I was a SEAL, then did a year with Border Patrol when I was medically discharged. Found that I hated the red-tape that went along with our assignments, so when I heard about Saints Protection & Investigation, I knew it was perfect.” Seeing the question in her eyes, he said, “We take on cases and are able to work…outside of the agency regulations.”

  Unsure exactly what he meant, the twinkle in his blue eyes told her he enjoyed his job immensely. Unable to think of anything else to say, she just nodded, turning her cup up to finish the coffee dregs in the bottom.

  Bart wondered about her silent response. Usually women practically swoon when I tell them I was a SEAL. He was unsure if he should be insulted or relieved.

  Their coffee finished, they stood, Bart tossing a few bills on the table for the tip. He looked over and winked at the waitress again, who was still eying him as though he was the last cookie before a diet. Rolling her eyes, Faith proceeded him out of the door. His long legs quickly caught up to her before she reached her car.

  “You okay?” he asked, true concern on his face.

  R
ealizing the stupidity of being irritated at him for flirting with the waitress when they were doing nothing more than having a business lunch, she smiled and nodded.

  “I still don’t quite understand why Mr. Krustas hired you since there are no witnesses,” Bart said.

  She wondered how much to say. Glancing up into his face, his easy-going expression made her feel so accepted. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be understanding.

  “I don’t just draw what other people describe. I…feel things and see images in my head. Then I draw them as well. Sometimes it can help.”

  Bart’s expression was one of confusion as he cocked his head to the side. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Sometimes when I’m around someone or something where strong emotions have been involved, I…I don’t know. I…just get images in my head and draw them. Sometimes they’ve been helpful. The FBI has used me a couple of times for something local, but that’s completely off the record.”

  She watched in fascination as a myriad of emotions crossed Bart’s handsome face—confusion, dawning realization, then morphing into pure anger.

  “You…you’re psychic?” he barked out. “You’re shittin’ me. Seriously? You dig around a crime scene, see things, draw them down, and jerk some poor unsuspecting family who’s grieving, to pay for your services? Fuck me! And here I thought you were legitimate!” he yelled.

  Rearing back away from his rage, she tried to still her quivering while shaking her head. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong!”

  “Oh, I’ve got your number, sweetheart,” he growled. “I dealt with a slick-shit, fake medium a few months ago who was trying to rook my grandmother and cousin.” He whirled around, pacing furiously, his large frame menacing. Stalking back to her, he stopped only when his large boots were directly in front of her small pumps. Leaning down over her, using his size to intimidate, he said, “Well, your little scheme ends here, dearie. You won’t be getting rich off anyone else!” He refused to focus on her quivering chin and tears that formed on her lashes. “I’m officially calling our partnership quits right now. I’m telling Krustas you’re a phony and I’ve got no problem talking to our FBI and police contacts as well.”

  With his angry face inches from hers, he growled one more time. “Consider yourself officially out of business!” Pushing away, he whirled around and stalked to his truck, hopping inside and squealing out the parking lot, leaving Faith shaking in his retreat.

  Chapter 5

  Bart drove around for half an hour, furious with Faith’s deception, Krustas’ gullibility, and for allowing himself to become interested in a pair of dark, soulful eyes. Goddamnit! His mind rolled back to the previous summer when Cecil Nastelli, a con-artist disguised as a medium, was stealing millions from lonely, wealthy widows by pretending to speak to their dead husbands. Nastelli would then tell them their husbands wanted them to invest in bogus companies, all of which he owned.

  Bart’s grandmother was being scammed and he worked with his cousin and her fiancé, Jude, to catch the fuckin’ swindler.

  His mind continued to roll through Faith’s explanation. She gets feelings. She gets images and then draws them. What a crock of shit! She visits crime scenes for her images and then plays on the emotions of poor, unsuspecting people. I wonder how much she gets paid? He thought back to when he broke into Nastelli’s expensive condo when looking for evidence. I’ll bet she lives grand also!

  He finally found himself back in his neighborhood, determined his first order of business was to shut Miss Faith down. Faith! Jesus, she’s even given herself a name that would fit her scam! As soon as he hit his driveway, he called Jack.

  “Yeah,” Jack answered.

  “Bro, you’re not going to believe what I found out about that profiler Krustas hired. She’s a fuckin’ phony. Claims to be a psychic! Says she gets feelings and images that she draws. Hell, she visits crime scenes to get her visions!”

  Bart was met with silence on the other end. “Jack? You still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Okay, man,” Bart said. “You don’t seem too outraged by this.”

  He heard a deep sigh from his boss, before Jack said, “Look, I appreciate this is hard for you to swallow, especially in light of what happened last summer. Did she actually say she was psychic? Did she use that word?”

  Bart thought for a second before answering honestly. “No, but what the fuck does it matter what she calls herself? She’s still scamming people and I’m not gonna work with her. If Krustas wants to throw his money at a fake that’s his business, but she’s not getting me to do her investigating just so she can draw some bogus picture that has everyone claiming she did anything.” By this time, he was virtually yelling and growing more frustrated that Jack did not share his indignation. “Okay, Jack, you want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “All I know is that when Krustas called to ask for our help, he also said he had asked someone to assist. He used to know her grandmother and said the women in this family have the ability to see things. I know you don’t believe and you don’t have to, but Krustas has hired her and you have to, at least, pretend to work with her.”

  “You have got to be kidding?” Bart said, leaning back heavily against his truck headrest. “I do all the work and she gets to claim the glory of solving the case by psychic means.”

  “Since when do we care who gets the glory?” Jack challenged him. Not hearing an answer from Bart, he continued. “We solve cases and who the fuck gets the glory doesn’t matter. FBI. CIA. DEA. Hell, the local police department.”

  “I hear you, but I’m still telling Krustas what he’s gotten himself into.”

  Jack chuckled. “Go ahead, but I think you’ll be surprised.”

  “Boss, I gotta tell you, this whole conversation is shocking the shit outta me,” Bart confessed.

  “I’m not telling you to believe her. I am telling you that you have to work with her because, right now, that’s what our client wants. But you also have to really work with her and not against her. You prove she’s a phony in the meantime…that’s fine. But your job is to assist Ivan Krustas, not discredit Ms. Romani. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bart answered, frustration burning in him.

  “Now what else do you have for me?”

  “I need you to check out Sarah Dukakas. She’s Ivan’s housekeeper and was alone with Erik that night. They say she’s been with the family for years, including her parents. I figure Luke can dig up her finances. Also, a man named Roger Montague. Erik’s mom was out with him at a charity event that night.”

  “What about Sergio?”

  “Yeah, I was going to get to him. I got a bad feeling that, even from prison, he’s involved somehow. Ivan didn’t want to believe it, but I think I convinced him and Anton that Sergio can still be a threat.”

  “You talking to Ivan this afternoon?”

  “Yeah. I’m gonna talk to him about the psychic medium he’s hired.”

  “Just remember, you’re on the job regardless of who he’s pulled in.”

  “Got it,” Bart replied, disconnecting before tossing the phone to the console before running his hand over his face. Jesus, what have I gotten myself into? The more he thought about how she duped him with her innocent, doe-eyed appearance, the angrier he got. My job might not be to discredit you, but I sure as shit will work to do just that!

  *

  Faith drove to her apartment, angry tears streaming down her face. Oh, grandma. This is why I never told anyone what I saw when I was little. No one understands. She could not get the vision of Bart’s furious rant against her out of her mind. His accusations stung as his words sliced through her. Asshole! Who does he think he is? Pulling in a ragged breath, she parked her old car, leaning her head on the steering wheel for a moment before walking up the stairs to her apartment. Dropping her bag and kicking off her shoes, she walked the few steps to the worn sofa and plopped down. As she looked around at her meager
surroundings, his words echoed. You won’t be getting rich off anyone else. She would have laughed if the situation were not so ridiculous. Rich? What does he think I do?

  Thirty minutes passed while she lay back on the sofa, trying to quell her racing thoughts. The images of his handsome face twisted in anger—in rage—were stuck in her mind. Pulling out her phone, she googled the name, Taggart. The first thing that popped up was an article about Arlene Taggart and other wealthy widows in Virginia Beach being taken in by a swindler who was caught before the women lost any money. Great. Just great. Arlene Taggart must be the grandmother he mentioned.

  Grabbing her art pad, she closed her eyes, willing her mind to focus. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she quickly began sketching, allowing her pencil to flow over the paper, freely drawing lines, circles, shapes, shades. Bart’s angry face rose from the page, his rage palatable in the portrait. She was panting by the time it was finished and tears of frustration came again.

  Tossing the pad on the sofa, she rose and moved toward the kitchen, which was no more than a row of cabinets ending with a sink, next to a stove and refrigerator, both the avocado color of a long ago era. Eating a quick lunch, she rinsed out the dishes, stacking them back onto the drying rack. I’ve never felt so alone. Not even after grandma died. Oh, Babushka, I miss you.

  Walking back to the sofa, she picked up the art pad turning to a clean page. This time, her pencil flowed without anger or frustration. Slow strokes crossing the paper. Another image began to take shape. Another image of Bart appeared, but this time with the flirty, crooked smile he flashed. Funny, he would wink at the waitress but didn’t pay any attention to her. But to me? This smile would come out constantly. For a while he focused on me…and it felt…special. Damn!

  Sighing deeply, she turned off the lights and walked back down to her car. It was a little early, but she wanted to make sure she got there in time. She would have to tell Mr. Krustas that she would be unable to work for him.