1532750838

by Lotta Smith

  But they couldn’t figure out how. Even more confounding was why he’d used a giant candle in the well-lit room.

  CHAPTER 8

  While the detectives from the 34th Precinct were hard at surveying John Sangenis, I was having a problem of my own.

  Rick Rowling decided it was a good idea to home-deliver me to my parents’ townhouse in the suburb of Queens. I declined his offer politely, but he didn’t listen.

  “You know, you’ll be disappointed. It’s a no-frills, boring suburb with nothing interesting to see,” I warned Rowling while riding shotgun in the Ferrari. “And the house is small.”

  “Sounds very interesting,” he said nonchalantly. “As a resident of Fifth Avenue, visiting a little house in the suburbs is good for a change.”

  When we crossed into the neighborhood casually referred to as ‘the hood,’ my phone chirped.

  “Hello?”

  As soon as I took the call, Nana’s chipper voice jumped into my left ear. “Guess what, Mandy? Mrs. Luciano just called me, and she says she saw a flashy Ferrari speeding through the town.”

  “Oh, really?” I responded. I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Yup. Then again, her vision’s not so clear due to cataracts and everything, so I’m pretty much skeptical,” she said. “By the way, where are you?”

  “I’m close to home. Will be there in, say, three minutes.” I looked out the window. It should have been the same old view, but this time, it felt like I had wandered into The Twilight Zone.

  “Good. Don’t be late. Today’s dinner will be meatloaf, and it won’t be good when it’s cold. Look out for the Ferrari and take a photo if you can, okay?” Nana said, and she hung up.

  “Ciao,” I said to the silent phone, and turned to Rowling. “Hey, Rick, guess what? Mrs. Luciano has called everyone in the neighborhood about a flashy Ferrari. I guess the whole town’s talking about you.”

  “Hmm, no problem.” He pushed on the gas.

  A minute later, we came to a skidding stop at the driveway of my parents’ townhouse.

  Nana and Mom were outside, probably waiting for me. Nana was from my mother’s side of the family, and she had been living with my parents since Granddad passed away three years ago. She resided in the room that used to be my younger sister Alicia’s. Good thing she was happily married to a corporate lawyer in L.A.; otherwise, I’d have to share my room with Nana. I loved her, but she snores like a locomotive. Anyway, I had yet to be accustomed to the hustle and bustle of living with my folks. I really needed space.

  When I crawled out of the Ferrari, trying my best not to puke, Rowling was already shaking hands with them. And before I had a chance to make an intervention, Rick Rowling was invited to dinner at my parents’ place.

  In an attempt to scare my boss off, I warned him, “You know what? They’re not serving Kobe beef, not even grass-fed Angus beef. Are you sure you’d like to eat commoner food in the commoner neighborhood?”

  “For your information, I’m a commoner, just like you,” he responded matter-of-factly.

  “Guess what? Nana’s Italian and my mother’s half-Romanian and half-Italian, and they’ll ask you a lot of personal questions. Especially Nana. She’s nosy. If there’s anyone nosier than her, it’s Mrs. Luciano, who lives in a house three blocks behind our lane.”

  “What about your father?” He cocked his head to the side.

  “He’s polite but awkward. Guess what? He’s British.”

  “Then I see no problem.” He flashed his perfect set of pearly whites.

  And there I was, sitting at the table set for five, feeling as awkward and surreal as ever.

  Actually, surreal was a better word to describe my perception than the reality, which was impossible and unthinkable. Things were not going very conventionally. Usually, you didn’t get delivered to your parents and grandma in your boss’s Ferrari, or eat two meals of the day with your boss. Then throw in the fact that your grandma was taking selfies in the driver’s seat and on the rooftop of said Ferrari. Talk about wickedness!

  Indeed, everything was so out of the ordinary, I was either in a bizarre daydream or out of my mind.

  While I busied myself with escapism, I caught Mom saying, “Would you like more mashed potatoes, Rick?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you, Mrs. Meyer.” Rowling smiled. Against my speculations, he was acting like a pleasant gentleman. I wondered why he couldn’t behave himself during the job, where he could be a man of honor.

  “What a lovely evening!” Nana said, grinning ear to ear. “We’re so pleased to have you here, Rick. You should come more often.”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Moretti. I’m so happy to work with a person from such a nice family.”

  “Oh no, Rick, you can call me Leonora.”

  “Great, Leonora. Nice meeting you.”

  Before I knew it, Rowling was on a first-name basis with Nana.

  “Are you married?” Nana asked abruptly.

  “No, I’m single.”

  “That’s great, isn’t it?” said Nana. “Mandy here is single as well. She used to be engaged to a doctor, but he died.”

  “If I remember correctly, he’s not dead,” Dad corrected. He wasn’t a chatty guy, but he had this tendency with accuracy. Perhaps it had something to do with him being an accountant.

  “He’s as good as dead,” Nana retorted. “I put the dreaded Romanian eye on that heartless, gutless, spineless bastard. His whole body will swell up and turn into a pukey shade of puce, and then kaboom! He’s a dead man. He deserves to die, walking away from his fiancée like that.”

  I groaned. I really, really hated when they reminded me of Justin, especially in front of guests—above all, in front of Rick Rowling. So I did what I could—I pretended not to be listening.

  “Mother! We’re at the table and have a guest!” Mom snapped. “In addition, everybody dies, eventually. Oh, and don’t even think about my baby being accused of being the Grim Reaper!” My mother, of all people, announced my biggest taboo.

  I wished to drop dead on the spot, just to save myself from the misery of living. Obviously, Rowling was gathering enough information to pick on me until the day of my retirement.

  While I was seriously weighing the pros and cons of slashing my gut with a dinner knife, Nana said, “What are we having for dessert?”

  “Pineapple upside-down cake” was Mom’s response.

  My ears perked up. I loved pineapple upside-down cake. Okay, so I could commit hara-kiri after dessert.

  After an hour of additional agony, dinner was over.

  When Rowling thanked my folks and stood to leave, carrying leftovers, I followed him out the door, just to be polite. If I didn’t need to be polite, I’d have snatched the leftovers, curled up in the corner of my room, and drank my sorrows away with cold meatloaf and mashed potatoes on the side. It’s common knowledge that leftovers are the yummiest part of the dinner, and I didn’t like the fact that my brand new boss got them.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you about my dysfunctional family,” I said.

  “Dysfunctional? Your family?” A corner of his mouth lifted. “After all, there was no bloodbath during the meal. You should see mine to get an idea of a dysfunctional family.” He didn’t seem to be kidding.

  “Wow,” I replied.

  “By the way, Mandy.” He looked me in the eye. “Do you want him dead?”

  “Him? Who? What are you talking about?”

  “Justin, your ex-fiancé,” he said nonchalantly. “If you’d like, I can have him killed, make his death look like a totally innocent accident. People often die of freak accidents, such as—”

  “Too much information!” I covered my ears with my hands. “And no, thanks. You don’t need to have him…. You know what,” I added hurriedly. Okay, so technically, I often fantasized about my ex-fiancé dropping dead by stumbling on the wet operation room floor and stabbing himself with the scalpel. Then again, it seemed like having Rick Rowling’s help in h
iring a contract killer came with a huge price tag.

  “Hmm, okay.” He nodded, loading the leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes on the passenger’s seat. “Remember, you can always change your mind.”

  I thought a little, and said, “Thank you for the offer.”

  “No prob.” He shrugged. “Hey, the doctor guy’s not worth your time.”

  “What do you know about him?” I asked.

  “He’s a self-centered, no good, arrogant asshole.”

  “I know.” I chuckled.

  “In addition, he’s deep in debt up to his eyeballs following a screw-up in options trading. His desperate attempt to recover the loss by scoring big in Vegas completely backfired. Obviously, card counting isn’t one of his strong suits. Anyway, even his family has cut him off.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Do you really want to know how I got the info?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “No,” I replied. “I was just saying.”

  For a brief moment, we fell silent.

  “Thanks for dinner,” Rowling said finally.

  When I was about to say “It was nice having you over,” he cupped my face and kissed me lightly. On. The. Lips.

  I knew I could have resisted, and I should have, but I didn’t.

  It was just a brush of a kiss, but still deep enough to make me want for more.

  “Good night.” He climbed into the Ferrari and drove away.

  “Good night.” I stood outside until the taillights faded in the night.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next day was Saturday, and I slept late. I was planning to spend the rest of the day lazily, but then I got a phone call from Detective Fender.

  “He disappeared!” he announced. “John Sangenis disappeared from his own apartment in front of two detectives on a stakeout!”

  He told me to call Rick Rowling, sounding happy. When I asked him why, he said, “That’s because you’re the one responsible for calling him, not me.” Then it dawned on me why the detective was so keen on exchanging phone numbers, saying, “Just in case of progress or a situation.”

  Shaking my head, I called Rowling, who answered on the second ring.

  “I knew he wasn’t the killer,” he said, yawning. “You saw how he responded when I dissed him in Spanish in the interrogation room, didn’t you? Considering he totally stank as an actor, it’s plausible to assume the guy didn’t understand the language, especially from the sixteenth century.”

  I recalled the previous day’s events. Though at that moment, I was busy chatting with Detective Fender, I caught John Sangenis saying something about trying to speak in a language he could understand. I finally realized he meant it literally, not rhetorically.

  “So, who is the killer?” I mumbled.

  “It’s simple. Ruth MacMahon is our killer.”

  “Ruth MacMahon? As in John’s girlfriend?”

  “Yup, as in the girl who dated not just one but two losers.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. The father of the MacMahon sisters used to be an ambassador, and they used to travel a lot in their youth, including many Spanish-speaking countries like Spain, Argentina, Mexico, and Peru. In addition, she’s taken multiple trips to Cape Verde in the past three months.”

  The part about Cape Verde sounded perfectly convincing, even to me, except for a tiny issue.

  “Still, what’s the motive for offing the boyfriends?” I questioned. “Okay, assuming Ivan Flynn was as dim-witted as John Sangenis, I can easily imagine Ruth getting sick of them. Then again, she could have just broken up with them.”

  “I think she wanted to tidy up around herself.”

  “By killing them? For what purpose? Was she meeting a new guy?” I muttered. “No, she’s been two-timing those boys. She could always three-time.”

  “Actually, she happens to be one of those hardcore, corporate-type women.” Rowling snorted. “She’s just joined USCAB and will be starting at the West Coast branch in L.A. in a month. That said, it wouldn’t be over the top to assume she decided to eliminate the worthless guys with larger-than-life egos before they started messing with her new career and potential success.”

  Listening to his words, I recalled the way Justin ditched me like a gallstone because standing up for me or sticking by me was bad for his career. “That’s cruel!” I felt like crawling in the corner of the room and crying away my sorrows.

  Before I started sobbing, Rowling’s chuckle from the other end of the line dragged me back to reality. “Hmm, it looks like my strategy has worked nice and smooth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knew Ruth would screw up if I accused Sangenis of the murder of Flynn, which makes it appear as if she’s off the suspects list.”

  “Excuse me? Does that mean you were accusing a totally innocent guy yesterday?”

  “Yep. At that time, it seemed like a good idea. You admitted he was an asshole, didn’t you?” he responded.

  “That doesn’t entitle you to make a false accusation!”

  “I know,” he said. “So, I’m going to close this case instantaneously to make amends. Look, Mandy, a driver will pick you up in five minutes, so get dressed.”

  Then he disconnected.

  Twenty minutes later, I was delivered to a condo building in Midtown, the home of Ruth MacMahon. It was an elegant, upscale place, but I wasn’t feeling strong enough to be impressed or envious.

  Actually, I was glad I’d been delivered in one piece. The driver Rowling mentioned came to pick me up on a monstrous Harley-Davidson. As a suburban girl, I was accustomed to riding shotgun in a minivan, not a Harley. And reaching the destination in fifteen minutes instead of thirty, as suggested by Google Maps, might appeal to some people, but it was a traumatic journey for me. In addition, the biker guy, named Hawk, was a huge alpha male with way too much of his body covered in tattoos. I was almost compelled to ask him if he’d ever heard of contracting Hepatitis-B during tattoo procedures, but I was busy trying my best not to pee myself.

  “Hey, Hawk, you’re one minute late,” Rowling, who was leaning on his parked Ferrari, remarked.

  “Sorry, Head,” said Hawk in his raspy voice. “I had to make a brief stop for Miz Meyer so she could take a moment to recover. You wouldn’t be happy if she was dead due to suffocation by vomit, would you?”

  “Good point.” Rowling nodded. “I appreciate your work. Now you can go.”

  “Any time you need my service.” The biker flashed white, straight teeth and left with the engine roaring.

  “I didn’t know he worked for the FBI,” I said.

  “He doesn’t.” Rowling shook his head. “Hawk is the president of a motorcycle club called Devils of Anarchy, and he’s not affiliated with the Feds.”

  “Devils of Anarchy?” My eyes grew wide. My eyeballs would have popped out, rolling on the ground like a pair of bouncy balls, if it were a cartoon and not my life. “Isn’t that an outlaw bikers’ club with a long rap sheet of criminal allegations?” Then I recalled Hawk called Rowling ‘Head.’ “Are you a member of that club?”

  “No, I’m not.” He shrugged. “You’re asking because he called me Head, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s so lame, and I’ve repeatedly told him to stop calling me that, but he always forgets. That meathead. Officially, I have no affiliation with the club. It’s just that Hawk likes doing errands for me.” When I continued staring at him incredulously, he continued. “Okay, so it’s true they took some part in several criminal allegations and incidents in the past, but now they’ve reformed.” He shrugged.

  “How did the president of a notorious outlaw bikers’ club end up running errands for you?”

  “If I tell you that, I’d have to kill you.” He winked. “Let’s go catch our killer.”

  When Rowling beeped Ruth MacMahon on the intercom from the entrance hall, she told him it was not a good time for a visitor, as she was going out. However, she buzzed us in when
he mentioned the part about John Sangenis’s death. Technically, it was just a disappearance, since his body hadn’t been discovered, but I wasn’t going to let this fact become the point of an argument. Considering the metal implants that should be in his body were found at the scene of his disappearance, it seemed like enough to presume he was dead as well. With or without the corpses, it didn’t make this case any more bizarre.

  When I set foot into Ruth’s unit, I was impressed. The foyer was grand, the marble floor gleaming. The décor was stylish modern, with furniture from name brands such as a sofa from Cassina and an unbelievably beautiful coffee table from Creazioni. It seemed as if her place had popped out of some super-luxurious interior design magazine. In the depth of the room, one side of the wall consisted of a huge floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking Central Park. I felt almost compelled to take a selfie, with the window and the park beneath as the background. The place looked like a paradise for someone hoping to score killer selfies.

  Rick Rowling, on the other hand, wasn’t impressed at all.

  Ruth was sitting on the sofa, dressed in a smart little black dress, looking delicate yet stunningly beautiful. When she invited us to sit down, Rowling declined her offer, to my disappointment. I was tempted to sit on all the beautiful chairs to see which ones I liked. So I was deep in debt—that didn’t mean I had completely given up on getting rich. I could always score a jackpot in Powerball.

  “I apologize for your inconvenience,” he said, smiling. “Indeed, I feel really bad about interrupting your project after you have gone so far as to kill your loser boyfriends. I’d be really pissed if I were you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ruth furrowed her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

  “By the way, I have some urgent business lined up, so I have to close this case within a couple of hours. Okay, so you’re a much better actor than the late John Sangenis. Then again, you’re not worth spending my precious time on. Luckily for you, the state of New York doesn’t offer the death penalty, so why don’t you just fess up to make my job easier?”