Another Day, Another Dali

by Sandra Orchard

My captor shot a panicked glance at Tasha’s captor. “What do we do?”

  They outnumbered Malgucci three to one, but clearly they took his threat very seriously.

  “Dmitri will kill us if we start a turf war.”

  Pete’s gaze briefly shifted sideways. There was no way he couldn’t have seen Ty. But he didn’t let on.

  The guy holding Tasha suddenly did a double take at the car’s rear window. “Hey, it’s the kid.” He reached for the door with his gun hand, with Tasha in tow under his other arm.

  Malgucci squeezed off a shot in his direction.

  The guy yelped, dropping his hold on the door handle and on Tasha. A second shot sent his gun toppling to the tarmac.

  I hammered a heel into my captor’s kneecap and spun a left hook to his nose.

  His hold dropped for a nanosecond, then he plowed into me, grabbing me around my arms and middle. Squeezed the air from my lungs.

  A shot rang out, and his grip loosened.

  My gaze slammed into Pete’s. His chin dipped in the slightest nod. I shoved the creep off of me and scanned the scene.

  Malgucci’s aim veered from the guy who’d been trying to get into the car to Pete.

  “Not him,” I screamed as the guy he’d been watching rolled onto his belly, snatched up his fallen gun, and aimed at Tasha hysterically running back and forth like a duck in a shooting gallery, one three-inch heel on, one broken. “Tasha, down!” I dove toward her to take her down myself.

  I didn’t hear the shot.

  No, that’s not true. I heard an explosion of shots. And one of them ripped through my arm. I huddled over Tasha on the ground, shielding her body with mine. I could smell the blood spurting hot and sticky.

  Someone lifted me to my feet. Tanner in full SWAT gear. A St. Louis police officer, also in SWAT gear, helped Tasha to her feet.

  “How?” I babbled, not thinking clearly enough to form a complete question with Tasha wailing.

  “What were you thinking, keeping me in the dark?” Tanner hissed through gritted teeth as he tied a band around my bleeding arm with jerky movements.

  I bit down on a cry of pain.

  “Ouch. Sorry.” His hands gentled, but his tongue-lashing continued. “We’re supposed to trust each other. Have each other’s back. I was five minutes away when I called, and you sent me in the opposite direction. Then got yourself shot.” He exhaled, the rush of his pent-up breath stirring the ends of the bandage.

  “I’m sorry.” I cupped a hand over the seeping wound, fighting a wince. “I—”

  He nailed me with a hard look. “You could’ve been killed!”

  I swallowed miserably and looked away. I was an idiot. And I had the screaming pain to prove it. He had every right to be angry. “How did you”—I leaned heavily against him, feeling woozy—“know to come?”

  “Pete called us before he engaged. He’s on the joint task force investigating Dmitri’s organization. He’d won their trust by pretending to be on their payroll, feeding them just enough police intelligence so they’d believe it, while collecting evidence against them.”

  “Oh,” I said faintly, glad he was still holding me up, even though he’d clearly rather drop me on my sorry backside.

  Tasha rushed into her brother’s arms. “I knew you couldn’t be dirty.”

  “Huh,” I murmured. “That’s not what she was babbling ten minutes ago. She thought he was ready to throw her under the bus.” I managed a grin, albeit a weak one.

  Tanner didn’t return it. “Yeah,” he said. “There was a significant lack of trust going around, wasn’t there?”

  I winced.

  The other SWAT members busied themselves trussing up Dmitri’s guys.

  I glanced around. “Where’s—?” I swallowed Malgucci’s name before saying it aloud. He’d disappeared. And considering the firepower he’d been packing, it was a good thing. He didn’t deserve to be carted off to the station with this lot.

  And something told me Dmitri’s men wouldn’t be too quick to explain the source of the unidentified bullet or two that were bound to be located by the evidence recovery team.

  Aunt Martha hauled herself out of the car, along with her giant purse, and stalked over to the guy who’d tried to go after Ty, now lying facedown on the ground, getting his hands tie-wrapped. She kicked him in the hip. “Not such a bad guy now, are you? How does it feel to be the one getting tied up?”

  She reached into her purse, and I had visions of her pulling her gun. “Aunt Martha,” I cried out.

  “Spoilsport.” She closed up her purse with a pout.

  Pete handed his clinging sister over to the waiting officer.

  Her eyes widened. “I still have to go to jail?”

  “You committed a crime,” Pete said.

  “I didn’t kill that artist like they said. I didn’t!”

  “At this point, it’s your word against Ted’s. I suggest you tell the detectives everything you know.” Pete nodded to the officer, who escorted her to a police car.

  Another SWAT guy handcuffed Ty.

  “Whoa, wait,” Aunt Martha said. She swung around to face him, looking ready to club the muscle-bound officer with her gun-weighted handbag. “What are you doing, young man? Ty didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “There’s a warrant for his arrest.”

  She turned pleadingly toward Pete. “You know he didn’t do it.”

  Pete stepped forward. “I’ll take charge of the boy.” To Aunt Martha, he added, “Don’t worry, I’ll see that the charges get dropped.”

  I hoped he could do that before the poor kid had to endure the humiliation of being processed like a common criminal. I turned to Tanner. “We need to go back to Tyrone’s house. I think I know where Capone stashed the evidence on Dmitri’s organization.”

  Tanner cupped my elbow. “You’re not going anywhere until you get that gunshot wound tended.”

  As if on cue, an ambulance careened into the lot, and Tanner motioned them toward us.

  Now that I thought about it, I was feeling more than just a little woozy, and my arm felt like it was on fire. Then a shadow dropped over my vision, and my knees crumpled.

  “Whoa, hang on there,” Tanner whispered, his breath stirring my hair.

  My cheek lay against his solid chest. I blinked. “What . . . what happened?”

  Tanner deposited me onto a gurney. “You passed out.”

  “Oh”—my mind felt as if it was slogging through murky water—“that’s not good, huh?”

  “No. Nothing about the way this went down was good.”

  29

  “She’s my granddaughter. You can’t keep us away from her.” Nana’s angry voice carried down the hospital’s hall.

  I offered an apologetic smile to the nurse checking my IV. “That sounds like my grandmother. Would it be okay for her to come in?”

  “Yes, of course.” She made an adjustment on the IV, then left the room.

  The bullet had gone clear through the fleshy part of my arm with minimal damage, but I’d apparently lost a lot of blood.

  Mom and Dad piled into the room with Nana trailing. “Tanner called us.”

  “Oh.” I mustered a smile.

  Of course Tanner had called them. He was a decent guy. But he hadn’t responded to my texts apologizing—again—for not calling him to back me up.

  Mom stroked the hair from my face and kissed my cheek. “How do you feel?”

  She looked like she’d been crying, and from the way she was plying the tissue in her other hand, it was taking every ounce of her self-control not to lecture me.

  “I’m fine, Mom. We got the bad guys.”

  Trying to be unobtrusive, I reached for my phone on the nightstand and shifted it a little closer to me.

  Dad came around to my other side and kissed my cheek. “From the sounds of it, you might’ve toppled a lot of bad guys.” He smiled down at me, pride beaming in his eyes.

  Nana stood at the foot of my bed, her fingertips grazing the
sheet.

  “I’m sorry about Tasha,” I said. “I’m sure Pete will do all he can to get her a reduced sentence for her part in Capone’s murder.”

  Nana dipped her chin in a single nod. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” she said, her words shaky, her eyes red rimmed.

  “It goes with the . . .” I was about to say territory, but one glance at Mom had me rethinking the pat response. I shrugged. “Things happen. I’m sorry we were too late to recover the Dali, but it’s been logged into the Art Loss Register, so it might turn up yet.”

  Mom shook her head. “I can’t believe Tasha knew that man was a murderer and didn’t come forward.”

  “She was afraid.” Probably as much of Ted’s retaliation as of being socially humiliated if her theft came to light. I surreptitiously glanced at my phone to make sure I hadn’t missed an alert.

  “Being afraid is no excuse,” Mom said, disgust coloring her voice.

  I winced because the excuse was uncomfortably familiar.

  Tell them, a still, small voice inside my head said.

  I shrank at the idea. I can’t. They’d be more disappointed in me than Tanner is.

  Dad chucked my chin. “What’s the matter?”

  Tell them, the voice repeated, more forcefully this time.

  I scrunched the bedsheets in my fists and gave my head a shake, as if that would silence it.

  They won’t hate you.

  I stilled, because the voice sounded an awful lot like Granddad’s. I blinked back tears. What had they put in my IV? Something that made me hallucinate? Hear voices?

  “Serena?” Mom said gently. “Should we call the nurse?”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “No, there’s something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you a long time ago but was too afraid of what you would think of me.”

  Warm fingers curled around mine.

  My eyes popped open, and Dad was gazing down at me, his expression serene. “We love you, sweetheart. You can tell us anything.”

  A lump lodged in my throat. They could say that now, but if I told them, it would always be there in the back of their minds—my failure, my selfishness, the what-ifs if I’d been brave enough to say something then, not eighteen years too late.

  Mom looked worried. Dad didn’t. His expression was resolute. I couldn’t bring myself to glance Nana’s way.

  I took a deep breath, and the confession spewed out. “I was there the night Granddad died. I was hiding in the secret passage behind his office wall.”

  They gasped.

  “We thought it was Nana coming home early,” I rushed on before I lost my nerve. “Granddad didn’t want me to get caught staying up past my bedtime, so he showed me the passage to sneak through to my bedroom. But as soon as I was inside, he must’ve realized it wasn’t Nana coming in, and he told me to stay in the passage, to not come out, no matter what I heard.”

  Mom’s hand flew to her mouth.

  I didn’t dare look at her, at any of them. I fixed my gaze on a spot on the wall and forged on. If they were going to be disappointed in me, they might as well hear the whole story. “I heard the person come into Granddad’s office. Heard the struggle. I couldn’t see anything. Didn’t think I knew anything that would help the police. Except earlier this year I remembered one thing I’d seen that I must’ve blocked out all those years ago.”

  This time the sharp intake of breath came from Nana’s direction.

  “I saw a hand return a book to the shelf on the wall I was huddled behind. I don’t know how long I sat behind the wall like Granddad told me, hugging my legs, gnawing on my sleeve to keep from screaming. I was sure he would get me when it was okay.” Tears welled in my throat. I swallowed hard and forced myself to continue. “But later, much later, I think I must’ve fallen asleep. I heard Nana say I was in the bedroom. That’s when I rushed out the other side of the passage and dove into bed and pretended I’d been there all along.”

  Dad pulled me into his arms and hugged me hard against his chest. “You must’ve been so scared when you learned what happened. I’m sorry we didn’t know. We should’ve known. We could’ve helped you.”

  Tears streamed down my cheeks and soaked his shirt.

  Mom patted my back. “That’s why you’re so afraid of enclosed spaces,” she said as if it was the biggest revelation of what I’d said, not that I’d been a spineless wimp, too scared to come forward and help the police figure out who broke in and killed my grandfather.

  I lifted my face from Dad’s shoulder, and my gaze collided with Nana’s.

  “You saw? You heard?” she asked in halting sentences. “And you didn’t tell anyone?” She turned away, and any hope she might forgive me vanished at the sight of her stiff back.

  My heart shattered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they suspected you. I could have spared you that.” My voice broke. “I miss him so much. And I was so ashamed.” I knew I was babbling, but I couldn’t help myself. The sight of her rigid back undammed a lifetime of regret. “I know that if I hadn’t begged you to let me stay over so I could paint with Granddad, he would’ve been out with you when the burglar came. I know that’s why you hated me so. That’s why I joined the FBI. I thought one day I’d track down his murderer, bring him to justice.”

  “It won’t bring your grandfather back,” she spat, her words as cold as ice. “Nothing can bring him back.”

  The breath seeped from my lungs.

  Dad hugged me tighter. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not. My work is pointless. She’ll never be able to forgive me, and I don’t blame her.” For the first time, I admitted to myself what I’d really yearned for all these years. It wasn’t really to bring Granddad’s murderer to justice. It was absolution.

  Absolution for my role in his death. Absolution for not somehow trying to stop the intruder. Absolution for not talking to the police.

  Nana turned back toward my bed, and a tear splashed onto her cheek.

  I froze. I’d never seen her cry.

  Her lips quivered. She blinked rapidly, staving off the tears clinging to her lashes. “I never blamed you. Never. I just . . .” She looked away.

  I shook my head. I wasn’t ten years old anymore. I didn’t need it sugarcoated. “You do. You can scarcely bear to look at me. It’s okay. I understand.”

  “No, that’s not why.” She lifted her gaze back to mine, and the anguish in her eyes tore at my heart. “You remind me too much of your grandfather.” She looked away. Inhaled, straightened her waist jacket as if refortifying the walls that had let too much undignified emotion seep through. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” Her voice had turned cool once more. “That wasn’t my intention.”

  Mom stroked my hair. “You always reminded me so much of your grandfather.”

  “You were the apple of his eye,” Dad added, his smile tinged with sadness.

  Was that why they’d never wanted to talk about him? Were they afraid it would make me too sad? Or maybe make them too sad?

  “Blaming you for his death never crossed my mind,” Nana added.

  I squashed the cynical thought I’d just supplied her a reason and stole another glance at my mute phone.

  “I was to blame.” Nana glanced at Dad and swiped a tissue across her nose. “We should’ve sold that house years before, but I was too proud to let him.”

  My mind flashed to the photo at Capone’s apartment and puzzle pieces started falling into place. “And the stolen painting?”

  Pain flickered across Nana’s face. “A copy. We paid Capone to copy our entire art collection, then quietly auctioned off the originals.”

  Looking deep in her eyes, I could see the grief she valiantly strained to hide. And for the first time, I realized that in my egocentric childhood world, I hadn’t fathomed that it wasn’t all about me. Much like Tasha’s assumptions about her mother’s affections.

  “Knock, knock,” Nate said from the doorway of my hospital room. He held a gigantic bouquet of at least
a couple dozen red and yellow and peach roses.

  My heart jumped at the sight of him. Them. Both him and the roses.

  Mom’s eyes popped. “Here”—she cleared her purse from the table next to my bed—“you can set them here. Isn’t this lovely?”

  Yes, it was. There was a man in my life who cared that I was lying in a hospital bed.

  “A bunch of the residents chipped in when your aunt told us what happened.”

  My chest deflated just a tad.

  “Aunt Martha told you? How did she hear about it?” Mom asked.

  I exchanged an uneasy glance with Nate. Mom and Dad clearly hadn’t heard about Aunt Martha’s involvement in today’s takedown. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to break it to them.

  “Oh, uh . . .” Nate stalled. “I think maybe . . .”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to blurt “She’s friends with Gladys’s neighbor,” but one glimpse at Nana squashed the notion. I’d already kept my family in the dark about one too many things. “Aunt Martha was there,” I said solemnly. “The bad guys used her as bait to lure me to the ambush.”

  Nana let out a tiny chuckle.

  Not Mom. Her face went white.

  Dad moved to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “But she’s fine, right? Everyone’s fine.”

  “Not a scratch on her,” Nate piped up as if it was no big deal.

  I gave him a grateful smile.

  Dad jostled Mom’s arm. “Hear that, honey? Not a scratch.”

  “She was pumped,” Nate went on. “You know how she likes an adventure.”

  Mom looked at me pleadingly. “Why can’t you get a safe job? Settle down. Start a family”—she glanced at Nate—“with a nice young man.”

  “Um . . .” I floundered, not really up for fending off my mom’s heavy-handed matchmaking.

  Nate gave me a smile and a conspiratorial wink, then before I could come up with a suitably noncommittal response, a movement at the door caught my eye.

  A stunning arrangement of purple roses and hydrangea, accented with hot pink roses and white freesia, hovered in the doorway, attached to a disembodied arm.

  Then Tanner followed the spectacular bouquet into the room.

  My heart skipped a beat.