“One or two.” He grins. “That reminds me, we need to stop off at Starbucks. I have a mocha frappa slappa...something...to deliver.”
Gina chuckles, closing the folder and grabbing up the entire contents of the safe including a bundle of cash, twenty-dollar bills stacked at least four inches high. “Here. Make the barista’s morning.” She hands him the cash.
“Morning? Hell, this ought to make her year.” He stands to join her, exchanging the cash for the photo of Lon and Braydon reassembled and sutured together with tape.
Gina tucks the picture away in her pocket. “You’re a sweet man, Tony Gronkowski.” She heads for the kitchen.
“Don’t go telling everybody.” He follows after her.
She searches the kitchen cupboards for matches and any form of alcohol. “How long does that jerky tranquilizer last?” she asks, concerned with the dog in the backyard.
“Apparently not long,” Tony points out the noisy ruckus at the sliding glass door. The dog barks and growls, his claws like nails on a chalkboard against the transparent exterior. “The gate’s open, Cujo,” Tony calls to the canine. “Now that’s a mean ass dog. He’d rather be in here tearing us apart than escaping to freedom.” He shakes his head. Whoosh! the sound erupts from the office, followed by crackles and pops. “DeLuca?” Tony spins circles looking for her.
“Let’s go,” she returns to the kitchen, pulling him toward the access door to the garage. The smell of smoke slowly seeping from the hallway.
Tony sniffs the air. “Arson, breaking and entering, hogtying,” he begins listing her offenses. “Any other illegal activities you’d like to check off your list?”
She swings the garage door open. “Just one.”
“Aw man,” Tony marvels, eyeing the classic frame of the pewter silver 1969 Chevelle SS.
“Well, I guess it’s technically not theft when you have the title,” Gina corrects, having obtained it from the safe deposit box. Tony hurls himself in front of her, winging the driver’s side door open, staking his claim under the wheel. “Knock yourself out,” she says, hitting the metal door release and climbing in beside him.
“What? No flack? No debate over who gets to drive?” he jeers, firing up the fully muscled machine.
Gina proudly shakes her head grinning. “You’ve earned this one, my friend.”
A near orgasmic expression overcomes him as the engine kicks in, a low thunderous rumble. He sighs. “Got a cigarette, DeLuca?”
She laughs heartily, her seat belt tightening against her chest with the heavy acceleration of Tony’s foot against the gas pedal. “I think I’ve missed you, Gronkowski,” she confesses, perfectly content to be in his company once again.
CHAPTER 11
Officer Sam Marks and Aubrey Raines pull up in front of Vanguard Police Headquarters. Marks eyes the building. “Still looks the same,” he says, a full year passed since his transfer.
“This stop isn’t on our itinerary,” Aubrey reminds. “Dr. Ryan specifically said you were to transport me to the compound. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Go directly to the compound,” she spins the Monopoly instructions, looking at her wristwatch. “If I’m not there in three hours she’ll send out the rescue squad. That woman does not consider patience a virtue.”
“Maybe she should.” He turns the radio on and the heater up, the car idling. “I won’t be long,” he encourages, exiting. Aubrey turns off the ignition, pocketing the keys, joining him. Marks shakes his head at her insolence. “Afraid you’re going to miss something?”
“Maybe.” She juts out her chin, working to keep up with his pace.
As they round the top of the steps to the main entrance, a man comes barging out the door. “Stop him!” a voice yells from inside the building chasing after the disobedient runaway.
Marks lunges toward the man, who pummels him like a linebacker, laying him flat out on his back.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Aubrey chimes, diving onto the charging man’s back, gripping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, her body jarring up and down like a bareback bronc rider at the rodeo as he takes the steps two at a time. The man balks attempting to throw her off. She pulls a fashionable red high heel from her foot, beating the man about the head, clinging to his neck with her other arm and gouging his mid-section with her legs.
“Get off me lady,” the man chokes out, losing his balance on the last step, tumbling to the street flat out on his stomach.
Aubrey goes down with him refusing to lose her quest, her ankle trapped under the man’s weight. “Gotcha!” she shouts triumphantly, her arm still locked around his neck. She pulls back against him, locking her other hand around her wrist, causing his back to bow, a move one might witness on wrestling’s Friday Night SmackDown. “Say Uncle,” she commands, pulling back on him, creating an even larger crescent along his back. “Say it!”
“Uncle,” the man gasps, his hand slapping the concrete, tapping out.
Marks and the officer from inside relieve her, handcuffing the man and pulling him to his feet. “You want a job, lady?” the officer inquires, shoving the man up the stairs to continue the booking process. “We’re hiring.” He chuckles.
Marks bends to Aubrey inspecting her ankle, chafed and red from its irritating contact with the sidewalk.
“Oh bugger,” she huffs, reaching for her shoe noticing a scuff mark in the red patent leather.
“Can you put weight on it?” Marks helps her to her feet.
She slips her foot inside her shoe, wincing, while taming her tousled blonde locks.
“Might be easier to walk without your foot crammed in that jacked up thing.” Marks notes the rather high heel.
She starts up the steps, gingerly favoring her right ankle. “More difficult feats have been achieved in the name of fashion,” she dismisses.
Marks gently supports her elbow walking along beside her. “I would’ve carried you, ya know?” He grins.
“Just wouldn’t feel right without the suit of armor, Lancelot.”
“Bonnie. Where’d you say that file was?” Chief Robert Burns questions through his phone, his full head of salt and pepper hair shifting from side to side as he searches for the document. Knock! Knock! the sound comes from the door casing to his office. He looks up, a pleasant smile surfacing, motioning Officer Marks and Aubrey inside.
“Left-hand side of your desk, Chief. It has a red tab sticking out the top,” Bonnie’s sweet voice comes through his speaker.
“Well, I can’t find the damn thing,” he says, rummaging through the stack of documents covered with a brown paper bag and cellophane wrap from lunch.
“Imagine that.” Bonnie chuckles. “Be right there, Chief.”
“Officer Sam Marks,” he says, standing to greet him.
Marks extends his hand exchanging a hefty, heartfelt handshake. “Aubrey Raines...Chief Burns,” he introduces.
“You look familiar young lady,” Chief greets her with the same gracious handshake. “DeLuca,” the light bulb goes off. “You represented her last year.”
“Yes Sir,” Aubrey acknowledges respectfully.
“Call me Bob, please.” He motions toward two chairs sitting against the wall across from his desk. “You know I went to see DeLuca...Gina,” he corrects. “At the correctional facility. Doesn’t seem quite like herself.”
Marks looks at him confused, prepping to speak. Aubrey elbows him taking his words away, quickly interjecting, “Being incarcerated can do that to a person.” She smiles apprehensively at Chief.
“I guess so. What’s she have, another year?” Chief inquires of her sentencing.
“Yes Sir...Bob,” Aubrey confirms.
“I always liked DeLuca,” he says with a reminiscent smile, running his thumbs along the waistband of his pants, gi
ving them a gentle tug before taking a seat. He looks to Marks. “So, Gronkowski sent you for his files?”
Marks nods, skittish about saying anything for fear it may be the wrong thing, his mind still turning, trying to figure out how Gina can be incarcerated and free as a bird in New Orleans at the same time.
“That boy just can’t let sleeping dogs lie.” Chief chuckles. “You tell him I said that. He’ll like that. I’ve been practicing my idioms.”
The smell of fragrant chocolate fills his office as Bonnie comes sashaying in, her auburn hair full and bouncing, her leopard print wrap dress accentuated with open-toed black strappy stilettos. She rifles through the paperwork on his desk removing the messy remnants from his lunch refraining from scolding him about the clutter, knowing it to be a lost cause. “Chief,” she says disappointed, wiping a smear of mustard from the wayward file, handing it over to him.
He eyes the folder quickly, tending to the residual stain with the cuff of his shirt, attempting a semblance of tidiness and order. “Bonnie, you remember Officer Marks,” Chief directs her attention to his company.
Expeditiously reorganizing his desk, she looks over her shoulder. “Of course. You transferred to New Orleans with Detective Gronkowski, right?”
Marks nods, his lack of words no longer related to misspeaking, but due to slight intimidation of the all-encompassing Secretary Bonnie, the highlight of many a young officer’s conversation while at Vanguard PD.
“And Aubrey Raines,” Chief introduces. “She defended DeLuca last year.”
With the mention of Gina’s name, Bonnie’s eyes light up. She spins around, her attention drawn. “How is she?”
Marks’ knee bounces up and down. Aubrey clears her throat searching for an answer without telling a lie. “As well as can be expected.”
“You know we still have people professing they’re the Vigilare,” Bonnie confides. “Huh, Chief? At least two or three times a week.”
“The whole damn city still has Vigilare fever,” he scoffs.
“I went to a Halloween party on the square,” Bonnie begins excitedly, “and you wouldn’t believe how many Vigilare costumes there were. Does she even have a costume?”
“That’s enough Vigilare talk,” Chief interrupts.
Bonnie rolls her eyes, smiling. “Are those Jimmy Choo’s?” Aubrey’s red patent leather high heels drawing her attention.
“Uh-huh.” Aubrey points her toe, giving Bonnie a better view.
“Those are to die for,” Bonnie squeals, kneeling to inspect the kicks.
“Jimmy Choo,” Chief says, shaking his head. “Sounds like it ought to be followed up with bless you.”
Marks chuckles.
“Ooh, what did you do?” Bonnie notices Aubrey’s scuffed and slightly swollen ankle.
“You should’ve seen it, Chief,” Marks begins proudly. “You had a runaway...from booking. This one here,” he points his thumb sideways at Aubrey, “tackled and wrestled him into submission.”
Aubrey pokes him again with her elbow. “It was nothing, really. I don’t know what got into me.”
“Sounds like some pretty swift reflexes for a lawyer,” Chief comments suspiciously.
“Probably from hanging around with Gina,” Bonnie deduces. “I always wanted her to show me some moves.” She stands, kicking her leg out mimicking a martial arts maneuver. She and Aubrey giggle at her uncoordinated attempt.
Marks gulps, the kick exposing her thigh.
“Now you watch yourself. Those floors are slick.” Chief stands pulling a box of Gronkowski’s files from the corner, setting it down on his desk. “I think you better stick to being my right hand. You fall down and crack your head, I’ll be up shit creek without a boat.”
“And I think you better keep practicing those idioms.” Bonnie chuckles, knowing the appropriate adage is up shit creek without a paddle. She throws her arms around Aubrey, whispering in her ear, “You tell Gina, Viva Vigilare!” She waves at Marks as she exits the office.
“I heard that,” Chief yells after her.
Marks stands, exchanging one more handshake with Chief, grabbing up the box of files.
“You boys be careful down there in New Orleans.”
“Yes Sir,” Marks confirms.
“Good seeing you again, young lady,” Chief adds, still eyeing Aubrey suspiciously. “You stop by the lounge and grab some ice for that ankle.”
She smiles, nodding, gently urging Marks out the door.
“Would you calm down,” Marks mutters out the side of his mouth. “I’ll have you there in a jiff.”
“It’s not that,” she scolds. “He keeps looking at me funny. You think he knows something’s going on?”
Marks shrugs. “He didn’t get to be Chief for nothing.” They walk the long corridor.
“That Bonnie sure is a looker,” Aubrey leads.
“She’s not bad,” Marks dismisses coolly.
“Ha!” Aubrey exclaims. “You drew up like a clam the moment she walked in,” she points out, a hint of jealousy in her inflection.
Marks has no reply.
“I understand.” She follows him out the door and down the steps. “I used to get that way in front of Tony.”
“Gronkowski?” he pipes, his ego wounded.
“Yeah. He’s handsome and charismatic and...”
“Maybe you should have Gronkowski take you home,” he barks, interrupting any further adjectives she might add in explaining the debonair detective.
CHAPTER 12
Dr. Godfrey leans over his microscope in his lab, a glass encasement built into the cool, dark underground panic room constructed of iron and stone. The sound of a treadmill hums in the corner as Detective Gronkowski runs at a steady level eight, part of his rigorous testing. Cords and wires attached to his person lead to high-tech contraptions measuring every vital statistic of his heart, lungs, skeletal and muscular systems. His entire body saturated in perspiration, his labored breathing is audible. The programmed treadmill automatically increases the incline.
“Geez-us,” he sputters attempting to keep up, causing Dr. Godfrey to look up from his study of Tony’s blood.
He eyes the monitor, taking note of Tony’s heart rate, blood pressure and oxygen saturation. “You’re doing great, my friend,” Dr. Godfrey encourages.
“How much longer?” Tony pants.
“Until you fatigue.”
“I think I’m there.” He swipes at his eyes, wiping the sweat from them, quickly returning his arm to his side, working in tandem with the other in propelling his forward momentum.
“You think,” Dr. Godfrey states. “That’s your mind. Your body says otherwise,” he references the competent numbers flashing back at him from the monitors. “You must learn control. Remove the negative thoughts and will yourself into homeostasis. The body is only as capable as the mind.”
Tony listens, reframing his thoughts, digging deeper into the treadmill with renewed spirit.
“You know, in Japanese culture much is attributed to blood types,” Dr. Godfrey begins, continuing to study slides of Tony’s blood, comparing it to Gina’s. “Their theory is not based so much on Rh-factor, be it negative or positive. They simply look at types, A...B...and O. You and Gina share O-blood type. The only difference, hers is negative, yours is positive. However, still alike,” he reasons. “The Japanese go so far as to measure compatibility with others based on like blood types. Think of it in terms of astrological signs...horoscopes.” He scrunches up his nose assisting his glasses to eye level, making notes about the interplay of their blood. “Horoscopes would have one believe the combination of certain signs are more compatible than others. For instance, I’m a Cancer, a water sign. For optimal relationship compatibility, astrology would advise me to seek out other water signs, such as
Scorpio and Pisces. My worst mates would be an Aries or a Libra, a fire and an air sign. My first wife was an Aries,” he remembers with a chuckle.
“Like oil and water, huh?” Tony comments, able to catch his breath as the treadmill slows to a more comforting speed momentarily.
“More like gunpowder and lead,” Dr. Godfrey jests. “My point, in Japanese culture asking one’s blood type is as common as you or me asking each other’s religious preference. In their culture, personality, temperament, even marital success can be gauged off blood types. It can be a huge faux pas to marry out of blood type.” He paces short choppy steps, slightly stooped in his white lab coat. “Maybe I’ve been looking at this all wrong, trying to come up with an explanation as to why you have Vigilare pedigree, seeing how you do not share the same Rh-factor as Gina. Maybe the Japanese are onto something, and the details are in blood type rather than blood factor. If that’s the case,” he throws his arms out to his sides, “then you and Gina are perfectly matched.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.” Tony’s attention is drawn back to the treadmill as it increases in both speed and incline. “Tell DeLuca that.”
“Tell DeLuca what?” Gina asks entering the lab.
“That you and I are a match made in Heaven,” Tony expels through heavy breathing, a smirk forming on his lips.
Gina walks to him picking up the remote control to the treadmill. She taps on a few buttons, causing the belt to significantly increase in speed, jolting Tony into action to maintain his footing. He gives her an exaggerated dirty look. “If you can still talk, you’re not working hard enough,” she points out. She shakes her head reading his impressive numbers from the monitor.
“We have a few new records,” Dr. Godfrey smiles, tapping on the book containing stress test readings from Gina, Emily and Aubrey.
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