by Kylie Brant
They were both seated in the car when she prompted him again. “Well?”
His mouth quirked. She really wasn’t long on patience. He could read that in her rigid posture. He’d be willing to bet she had a temper to match that head of hair, although he hadn’t had occasion to experience it yet. He wondered how much longer he had before she reached over and throttled him for keeping her in suspense. Not long, he surmised, gauging her short, jerky movements as she switched on the car and put it into gear. He deliberately waited another moment before answering her question. “It was after you’d been talking to Ricky for a while. Ramsey was getting a little distracted, trying to hear what you two were saying and at the same time answer my questions. He slipped up once. I’d asked him if he had insurance to take care of the hospital bill and he answered that Dirk would take care of it. Then he caught himself, and said he could take care of it.”
“Dirk,” Madeline murmured, her mind swiftly flipping through her memory banks.
“Dirk Cantoney,” be supplied.
She nodded, knowing where she’d seen that name. “Leader of the Lords.”
“Exactly. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, just why Cantoney would be willing to come up with that much money for a kid who just joined the gang a few months ago?”
“Maybe Ramsey is something of a hero now that he’s been shot,” she suggested.
“I haven’t had any luck finding Cantoney yet, but I’ve told the Lords members I’ve talked to that I want to meet with him.”
“He’d be the one who would deal on the gun if they’re planning to retaliate,” Madeline agreed.
Cruz nodded. “We’ll go looking for him right after lunch.”
“I have just the spot,” she answered, driving surely. “Driver gets to pick where we eat dinner.”
“I didn’t get to pick yesterday.”
“Thanks to your driving, we didn’t get to eat yesterday.”
He quibbled good-naturedly with her until she pulled the car over to the side of a street. He looked at the corner and then back at her, dismay written all over his face.
“A hot dog stand?”
“Best hot dogs in Philadelphia,” she informed him as she got out of the car. “If you haven’t eaten one outside, you don’t know what you’re missing. It’s all in the presentation and ambience.” He followed her reluctantly. She was obviously not the only fan. There were several other people waiting in line to be served.
“Do you know what they make these things from?” he asked in a loud whisper.
“Yep.”
“They make them from animals’ intestines.” He didn’t know that for sure, but he thought he’d heard that once, and it sounded suitably disgusting.
“I like intestines,” she responded imperturbably. She bought two hot dogs and handed him one. He took it resignedly and moved aside to heap it with various condiments. He eyed her askance as she munched contentedly.
“Aren’t you at least going to put relish on it?” he asked, holding up a spoonful.
“I don’t eat green things.”
He shook his head in mock regret. “You really need to be taken in hand. Your dining habits are deplorable.” He eyed the hot dog suspiciously before giving an inward sigh. Hunger won out over the desire for nutrition. He devoured the meal hastily, but not before a large drop of mustard landed on his shirt.
Madeline bit her lip to keep from laughing at his aggrieved look. “It’s your own fault. You had your hot dog piled too high. There’s an art to eating without a plate.”
“Obviously,” he mumbled, dabbing at the stain with a napkin. “This was my favorite shirt, too.”
“Considering what I’ve seen of your wardrobe so far, you probably have a dozen more just like it,” she answered without sympathy.
He looked affronted. “Are you implying that my wardrobe lacks imagination?”
“No,” she responded, “just taste.”
He grinned at her then. “Speaking of tasteless, you have ketchup on your face.”
Madeline scrubbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Where?”
“You missed it, it’s right…” His finger went to the corner of her mouth just as her tongue swept her lips, searching for the errant drop. The tip of her tongue barely grazed his finger, and his breath hissed in at the scorching wake of sensation.
The entire scope of his focus narrowed to her lips. “Here,” he said huskily, wiping away the minuscule trace. His eyes followed the movement of his finger.
Madeline looked up, a little embarrassed, but forgot what she was going to say when her gaze caught his.
Hot. Her stomach jumped crazily. How could eyes that dark look so heated? She was unable to tear her gaze away. His face came closer, and still she couldn’t move. Instead she watched, entranced by those hypnotic eyes. They weren’t really black, she thought a little dizzily. But they were so dark a brown that the pupil showed only at a close range. This close. Kissing close. Unconsciously her lips parted, and her eyelids grew heavy.
“Cruz!”
Madeline looked up, a little dazed, but came back down to earth with a crash when a pretty young woman came running up and launched herself into Cruz’s arms, kissing him soundly. “Where have you been?” the woman scolded. “I’ve missed you.”
Chapter 4
Madeline tore her eyes from the embracing couple with difficulty. Movements suddenly jerky, she walked a few steps to throw her napkin into a nearby trash container. She felt like a fool, and she didn’t enjoy the emotion. The girl had saved her from looking even more foolish, though. If it hadn’t been for her arrival, Madeline was quite certain that Cruz would have kissed her. And she was very much afraid that she would have let him.
She forced herself to turn back to the couple. She observed the affectionate way Cruz had his arm draped around the girl’s shoulders. And she wasn’t much more than a girl, Madeline noted. She looked no more than twenty, and had a figure normally found on centerfolds. She was a full foot shorter than Cruz. She was exactly the kind of woman who’d always made Madeline feel like a giraffe, as she towered over her from her own height of five-ten. She squelched the urge to slouch and cross her arms.
Cruz was laughing at something the girl had said, and, turning, he introduced the two. “Madeline, this is Maureen. She’s-”
“Hush,” the girl said, clapping a hand over his mouth. “I’ll bet Madeline can tell who I am. Can’t you, Madeline?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” Madeline agreed tightly.
Cruz rolled his eyes at the dark-haired woman’s crow of delight. “See! I told you, I look just like you. You’re the only one who refuses to see it.”
Madeline froze. For the first time she really looked at the woman. Dark hair tumbled in artful disarray down her narrow shoulders. Her face was heart shaped, lightly made-up, but there was a trace of resemblance in the eyes. Madeline’s gaze bounced to Cruz as he continued the introduction.
“As I was saying, this is my younger sister Maureen. My baby sister,” he stressed, earning himself a punch on the arm.
Madeline smiled tentatively. “Nice to meet you.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Cruz asked Maureen. “Don’t you have classes?”
“Not until three,” she replied. “And that bookstore,” she said, pointing across the street, “is where I started working part-time last week, which you would have known if you hadn’t missed the last two Sunday dinners.” She continued chattering, barely pausing to take a breath. “You’re in big trouble at home and Mom is ready to lynch you. Pop says you’d better show up this week, if you know what’s good for you, or you’d better have a damn good reason.”
“Maureen!” Both women blinked at the tone of command that had entered his voice, but it accomplished its goal. His sister’s mouth snapped shut. Then, in a normal voice, he continued, “As I’ve tried to explain, I’ve been busy recently. But tell Mom and Pop I should be able to make it this Sunday.”
“You call and
tell them,” his sister retorted calmly, plainly unfazed by her brother’s order. “I’m sure they have lots to say to you.” She reached up and kissed him lightly again. “Gotta run. See you this weekend. Bye, Madeline.” Her voice carried over her shoulder as she waved blithely and hurried back across the street.
Madeline smiled at the look of sheer frustration stamped on Cruz’s face as he watched his sister swing away. “Who was that masked woman?” she joked.
He shook his head wryly. “My conscience, she thinks. She could give Jiminy Cricket lessons.”
“And do you need an extra conscience?” Madeline asked, suddenly serious. She was again thinking of what he’d been accused of. At times like these he seemed so real, so human, that she wondered how he could be a suspect. But she knew too well that the most successful criminals didn’t look the part. Getting others to trust them was their stock-in-trade.
He nodded and said with mock solemnity, “Sometimes. My own doesn’t have a very loud speaking voice. I can’t always hear it.”
I’ll bet, Madeline thought darkly. And somehow she was no longer thinking at all about the crime he might have committed.
As they walked back to the car he explained, “I’m one of six kids in what is a pretty close-knit family. Too close, sometimes. It’s kind of an unspoken rule that if you live in the city, you’re expected home for dinners on Sundays, unless you have a good excuse. Mom doesn’t accept too many of those. Since all of us live here when everyone’s out of school, the weekly dinner gets to be pretty wild sometimes.”
She tried to visualize the scene he’d just described, a large warm family gathered around a dinner table, voices vying to be heard. Though she’d never experienced such a scene, it was easy to picture. She was curious to hear more about his family, and finding out from him would save her some checking. At least, that’s what she told herself. “Where do you fall in the family?”
“Second to the oldest. Let’s see, there’s Sean, me, Shannon, Antonio, Maureen and Miguel.”
Madeline blinked. “I know I’ll hate myself for asking,” she muttered, “but Sean, Shannon and Maureen… Martinez?”
They’d reached the car, but neither made a move to get in. Cruz chuckled. “We’re a little unconventional, I guess. I’m only half Puerto Rican-my mother is Irish.”
“Hence the names,” she surmised, interest caught despite herself.
“Mom and Pop decided they would take turns naming us when we were born.” He winked. “Lucky there was an even number of us. I’d hate to consider what kind of name they would have chosen as a compromise.”
“Six kids is a large family,” Madeline said. “Where did you live?”
“A series of apartments on the northeast side,” he answered. “Pop works on the docks, and as he improved his job, his first concern was always getting us a better place to live. A few years ago they moved to a small house. Mom was home with us when we were growing up, but Maureen and Miguel are both in college. A few years ago Mom went back to school and now she works as a legal secretary.”
She tried and failed to imagine what it must have been like growing up with an apartment full of siblings in crowded rooms, with a mother home all day to ride herd. Noisy, she guessed. The one thing she remembered above all else from her own childhood was the quiet. She was the only child in the huge home most of the time, and even though her mother hadn’t worked, she’d been gone frequently, involved in her clubs and charity work. Madeline had always looked forward to cleaning day each week, when the housekeeper ran the vacuum. For that short time the house would seem a little less empty.
“So by now you’ve probably guessed how safe you are with me.” His words interrupted her thoughts and she looked across the car at him. He was leaning; he seemed to do that a lot, she noted.
“How’s that?”
“Puerto Rican and Irish-of course I had the required Catholic upbringing.” His eyes glinted wickedly. “I was even an altar boy.”
She smiled at that information. “Proof that God does work in mysterious ways.”
“That’s just what Father Dougherty used to say to me,” he agreed. “I think he believed that I was his own personal trial on earth. I got along better with the nuns at school. At least, most of them. Sister Mary Joseph never understood me. Did you ever notice that the nuns all used to have men’s names?” he added irrelevantly.
Madeline shook her head. She hadn’t had much experience with nuns.
“Things are different now,” he went on. “The school my nieces and nephews attend has nuns with names like Sister Cathy and Rosita Marie. They worry about developing positive self-concepts instead of repressing evil thoughts, and they never, ever rap students on the knuckles with a ruler.”
“Now, why do I have the feeling that your knuckles didn’t get rapped a fraction as often as you deserved it?” she wondered aloud. It was all too easy to picture him as he must have appeared when he was a mischievous youngster, all dancing dark eyes with a mop of black hair. The charm would have been apparent even then, and no doubt he’d used it shamelessly.
He shrugged. “You misunderstand me, I suppose. Just like Sister Mary Joseph.”
She gave up and got in the car. She had Cruz Martinez’s number, all right. Exactly like Sister Mary Joseph. “Where to?” she asked when he joined her in the front seat.
Cruz leaned over and turned up the radio, smiling as she winced at the mournful tune filling the air. “I think it’s time to talk to some members of the Lords, especially one Dirk Cantoney.”
Madeline agreed and Cruz directed her through the streets. “What about you?” he asked as she drove silently. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“An older brother, but he was away at school much of the time when I was growing up.”
“I should bring you home with me some Sunday,” he said idly. “Give you a look at all you missed.”
“No!” Even she was shocked at the vehement denial. At his quizzical look she explained quickly, “I mean, it wouldn’t be a good idea. Your parents probably look forward to spending the day with family, not with strangers.”
He laughed at the thought. “My parents don’t understand the word ‘stranger.’ And they always encourage us to bring friends home to meet them. My mom is a firm believer in the power of good cooking.”
She mentally scolded herself for reacting so strongly to his invitation. She should have seized the chance to observe more about Cruz Martinez-who he was, where he came from. But everything inside her recoiled from the thought of getting to know his family, even casually. She couldn’t imagine anything more uncomfortable than sitting across from his parents, being treated as a friend, all the while trying to establish whether a link existed between Cruz and the supplier. She could imagine herself conversing with his parents. “Actually, Mr. and Mrs. Martinez, I’m more than Cruz’s partner-I’m the lady who’s going to get his butt hauled to jail if he’s involved in illegal arms sales.”
She shuddered. She didn’t think she was that cool an actress. Especially if the entire family was as open and friendly as Cruz was. Seemingly open, she corrected herself. She had to keep that in mind. Here she was doubting her own ability to carry off such a masquerade at his home and he might even now be delivering an act deserving of an Academy Award. She couldn’t remember the last time a case had left a worse taste in her mouth. She wished it had been possible to do as her father wished, and ask Brewer to put someone else on this case. But that had never been an option. She was too much a professional for that.
“Slow down,” Cruz commanded as she drove by the parking lot of a business that had been vacated. He peered out the window at the people collected there, then sat back in the seat. “Keep driving.” They cruised slowly up and down streets in the area, slowing down at corners, or wherever a group of youths was found. Finally he said, “Here we are. Pull over.”
She obeyed and they got out of the car and approached a knot of several young men of various races, all of whom were
wearing Lords colors.
The young men had been talking and joking loudly, occasionally jostling one another, but silence fell over the group when the unmarked car stopped and the detectives got out and approached them.
“Hey, nice wheels, man,” one finally remarked, and the rest guffawed.
“Yo, Mama,” another said to Madeline. “What you doing wasting your time with a cop?”
Madeline reached into her breast pocket and took out her shield, flipping it open. “Earning a living,” she said succinctly. “And I’m not your mama. But if I were, I’d tell you that smoking is bad for your health.”
There was a short silence at her words before the group broke into laughter again, ribbing the boy who was holding a cigarette in his hand.
“I’ve talked to some of you guys already,” Cruz interjected. “I’m Detective Martinez, and this is Detective Casey. We’re investigating the shooting of Ramsey Elliot.”
“I was there,” one volunteered. “I told you about the car. When are you going to find it?”
“Yeah, man,” said another, “you talked to all of us who was there. You mean you ain’t found the guy yet?”
“Just checking,” Cruz answered. “I don’t suppose any of you have remembered anything else about the car or its occupants, have you? Or something really helpful, like the license number?”
“It had local plates, I know that,” one said surely.
“It didn’t have no plates,” contradicted another.
“I didn’t see nuthin’. I wasn’t paying attention before, and once the bullets started flying I hit the dirt,” said a third. “I wasn’t looking at the car then, I was looking at Ramsey. There was blood all over the place.” Several others nodded at this.
“Why hasn’t Dirk Cantoney gotten in touch with me?” Cruz asked. No one spoke a word. A few glanced at each other, some shuffled their feet, but no one seemed willing to answer. Cruz went on, “I left word with several of you that I wanted to speak to him. Did any of you tell him that?” Still no response.
