A brisk wind blew down the street, the smell of snow mingled with it. It’s hard to define the smell of snow, but it has a smell all its own. My high school science teacher would laugh when I said it smelled like it was about to snow. He’d start this long recitation on how the crystals come into being, blah, blah, blah. My attention would always wander after the first three seconds. I smiled at the memory and trudged along the sidewalk.
Soft lights glowed from windows of homes where people had hunkered down for the night. Winter in New England could be bitter, though this one hadn’t been so. The day’s events still niggled at me. Especially niggling were the circumstances surrounding the shooting victim, Tony Jabroni. I considered his rap sheet and wondered about his connection to my father.
I was unwilling to believe that Dad had been involved with the mob in any way. My gaze wandered the near-silent street. I walked up the driveway, entered the house and withdrew the bundle of mail from my pocket.
There were two bills, a letter from the university and a card of some sort with no return address. Fancy hand-scripted lettering was printed on the front. I wondered what I was in for now. Maybe someone was getting married. What a thought.
My jacket hung open as I settled at the kitchen counter snack bar. The envelope tore unevenly when I ripped it open to scan the card. I read my invitation to the grand opening of a gallery. I glanced down to the name of the artist whose work would be unveiled to the world. A gasp left my lips when I saw Lanky Larry’s formal name, Lawrence Fishbrinker, in scroll lettering. With a wide grin, I picked up the phone.
He answered on the first ring, the sound of excitement in his voice.
“Hey, Larry, it’s Vinnie. I just got the invitation to your gallery opening, congratulations. How did this come about?”
He giggled and said, “I’m so glad you called. I left four messages on your phone. Didn’t you get them?” He rambled on in his usual bubbly voice.
My glance slid to the blinking light on the phone cradle indicating I had messages. I told him I had just come through the door and hadn’t even checked them. After I apologized, he reminded me that before the Christmas holidays I’d agreed to help him faux finish a house for a customer. He was nearly finished with the work and wondered if I would paint a foliage design around the double doors in the family room.
“Sure, no problem. Now tell me how this gallery show came into being.”
“Gilda Trimming has been a fan of mine forever,” Larry said. “She commissioned me to do a ton of work in that mausoleum she lives in out in Jamestown. When I saw her two weeks ago, she asked if I would consider doing a show at this new gallery. It wouldn’t be prudent to say no, so that’s how it happened. Great, huh?”
“You bet. I can’t wait to see your work.” I chuckled at his excitement. “When do you want to finish up this other job? I’m on vacation from the university until the middle of the month.”
“Great, how about tomorrow, then? I have the design all worked out, just bring your brushes. You’ll paint it in no time.”
“Good deal. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll pick you up around nine.”
His offer meant I wouldn’t need to drive Lola’s car. My luck was on the upswing. I agreed to be ready and then hung up.
I pressed the button on the answering machine and listened to Larry’s messages and then one from Lola. Her message explained that her uncle, who owned the car rental shop that I had used before, was under investigation. Someone had made allegations that he dealt with stolen cars. Unwilling to have me go to his car lot and become embroiled in his troubles, Lola said that was her reason for lending me the MINI Cooper. The Cooper would be in my driveway with the keys in it. With a warning not to smash her car, lose it, or cause any other dastardly things to happen to it, she rang off.
It wasn’t until later that I realized I’d promised to make the report on Tony Jabroni as well as paint for Larry. I quickly dialed Freedom’s cell. She answered after a couple rings.
“I know I promised to meet you tomorrow Free, but it will have to be later in the day, okay?”
“Vinnie, you have to come in. This is a serious matter that I can’t let slide. Just make sure you get your ass into the station, but call me first so I can meet you there. Hope I won’t be out on a call.”
“I know, Free. I promise I’ll be there. I wouldn’t want you to get jammed up with the colonel over this. I know he isn’t fond of you as it is.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s life, ain’t it?”
I could hear the smirk in her voice and smirked a bit myself.
“You gettin’ a car tomorrow or what?” she asked.
“Lola said I can use her Cooper. I promise not to stop and help anyone.” Again, I smirked when I heard a snort on the other end of the phone.
“Yeah, right. It’d be a miracle if you could stay the hell out of trouble. I hear all kinds of stories about your mishaps and wonder how you do it. How do you manage to get into so much shit anyway?”
“Just my luck, I guess.”
“Not the kind of luck I’d wish on anyone. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget.” With that said, Freedom disconnected. She hadn’t sounded angry, just serious.
I guess ‘shots fired’ is something that the colonel of the police department might have concerns about. If I could manage to leave out Jabroni’s name, I would. After all, it was a matter of survival, right? My survival. I had more to fear from Jabroni than from Freedom Banger.
Well, maybe.
Slumped on the sofa, I flicked on the plasma TV and scrolled through the channels until I found an old movie. The Thin Man, starring Myrna Loy and William Powell, had just started, so I settled in for the night. At least I thought I was settling in. About half-an-hour into the show, I heard feet pummel down the stairs and a fist bang on the kitchen door of the apartment.
What had Aaron in an uproar? I went through the apartment to answer the summons. Aaron, big guy that he is, is usually quiet. I never hear him arrive or leave. This could only mean one thing—he was more than upset about something.
“Vinnie, are you awake?” he called from the other side of the door as I reached for the lock. “Vin, open up.”
“Wait one minute, will you?” I said, unlocking the door and swinging it open. “What’s the problem?” I asked and gestured for him to enter.
“When I asked you earlier if anything else had happened today, you sidestepped the question. Why?”
Unable to come up with a way to evade his stern look and his curiosity, I took a seat at the counter and indicated he do the same. Anything to buy some time as my mind raced over the possibilities.
“I don’t think I sidestepped anything. Why do you ask?”
Aaron’s eyes narrowed a tad as he stared at me. Suddenly, he leaned back in the chair. With his eyes still on me, he waited. Cops, super cops, and super, super cops all have this same ability: They watch and wait for the least sign of a lie.
Sometimes liars will give themselves away with a nervous tick, like the one I have where I flip my hair off my shoulders. Someone else might wring their hands or even lick their lips. Their eyes might slide away from the interrogator. Those are all things I try not to do when I lie, even when it’s by omission. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. With Aaron, it mostly doesn’t.
“You’re lying. Why?” He sat relaxed as though this were a friendly chat.
“I’m not lying.”
“You are too,” he said, as one eyebrow hiked up a notch. “Why? What happened?” His eyes darkened a bit as he waited. It was a sign that he was upset, but he held his emotions in check.
“It’s like this, I was robbed at gunpoint. Then while I waited for Officer Banger to arrive, a low-life homeboy tried to pick me up for some action.”
“What else?”
Shit, this wasn’t going very well at all. Had he heard about the shots fired? Had someone called the FBI over this stupid incident?
My inner vo
ice chose that moment to start ranting. Tell him the truth. You’ll feel better if you do. Geez, I hate when that happens.
“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you.” I threw my hands into the air. “I was sitting at the desk waiting for Free and a man came in with blood running down his hand. He’d been shot, not seriously wounded, but enough to make me throw up.”
“And?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest.
“And nothing.” I shrugged a bit. “I gave him some paper towels and a guy came to pick him up. They left and I threw the towels in the trash.” It had happened kind-of sort-of that way, right?
“Did he tell you his name?”
“No, he didn’t.” At least that was the whole truth.
“So why didn’t you tell me this before?” He did the eyebrow thing again as he continued to stare.
“It was an unpleasant event, and I didn’t want to relive it.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t lie to me. You know I can always tell.” He was serious.
Sweat prickled on my neck. I guess I would never hold up under torture or any other form of intense scrutiny.
“I’m not lying, honest. It happened just that way. Why do you want to know?”
“No reason.”
“Now who’s lying?” I crossed my arms and glared at him.
On a heavy sigh, Aaron said, “There’s an ongoing investigation that includes some people from the Hill. I just wondered if this shooting victim was one of them. You should have reported the incident.” His nostrils flared a bit as his eyes pierced me.
“You always have an ongoing investigation. I think that FBI investigations run into each other like converging rivers. I reported the incident to Freedom Banger and will go to her office tomorrow to give a statement.” I huffed at the end of the sentence.
“You sure you didn’t get his name?”
“No. I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did he say why he wouldn’t give his name?”
“No, he just wouldn’t give it. Who do you think this guy is?”
“I can’t say,” Aaron said. “What did he look like?”
“Grey hair, square shoulders, about my height, brown eyes. He might have weighed around two hundred pounds or so . . . fluffy around the middle. I never saw his car, but the other car was a newer model foreign car.”
“License plate number?”
“I didn’t catch it. Sorry. I was trying not to throw up. Blood does that to me.” Just the thought made me nauseous again. I stepped away from the counter and paced the floor a few times before I leaned against the fridge. “Why are you so mad at me? I’ve been yelled at all day today.”
“I’m not mad . . . well maybe I am a little bit. I’m more worried than anything. The people we’re after are really bad. I want you to stay as far away from the Hill as possible. Understand?” Aaron rose from the chair and approached me. He wrapped his fingers around my arms, his expression softening.
Aaron stands a head and neck above me, so I tilted my head to look up at him.
“I understand. I’ll do my best.”
Our eyes locked for a moment before he leaned in to kiss me lightly on the lips. My heart thudded as my blood raced. Shit, this was bad. I had the hots for two men—both cops, both gorgeous to a fault. The problem is that I am ‘in love’ with one, more than the other. Both are good men, but one is more understanding.
I took a step back. Aaron let go of my arms while a tiny smile played around those luscious lips. He was just too handsome for his own good.
“You’ll comply, right? Stay off the Hill for a while, won’t you?”
“I said I will do my best.”
With that agreement, Aaron kissed my forehead and left the apartment to return to his. About an hour later as the movie ended, I heard his truck pull out of the driveway. I peeked through the interior shutters that covered the living room windows and watched Aaron head toward Providence.
My curiosity was aroused as to why it was so important that I stay off the Hill, but it was a sure bet neither he nor Marcus would ever enlighten me. I knew better than to ask questions that would go unanswered. I lounged on the sofa and fell asleep during the middle of the sequel to The Thin Man.
Chapter 5
Over coffee, I opened and read the letter from the university. I usually traveled to Portsmouth—a historic college town on the far side of the state, in the East Bay area—to teach. This letter was notification that my classes had been changed to the downtown Providence campus this semester. I would teach double classes to cover for a professor on medical leave. I had agreed to do so before the last semester ended so that was no surprise.
I considered the change and realized how much easier it would be to drive into the city instead of across the state. In the past, I had been run off the road, chased, cut off and smashed into on my way across the George Washington Bridge. With the change in location, maybe my luck would change. For the better.
I tossed the letter aside and changed into old, paint-stained clothes. It would be nice to work with Lanky Larry. He was a happy soul who found the best in everyone. We met in art class in college. I studied Criminal Justice with art as a minor while Larry studied whatever, with a major in something. I wasn’t sure what he’d gone to college for—I only knew he was one heck of an artist.
The clock had just chimed nine when I heard the van pull up in front of the house. I glanced around to make sure my supplies were all packed in the rucksack. I was determined not to leave anything behind that I would need for the day.
Larry knocked at the door and I answered it. His face was red—not from the cold, but from something else. I stared at him for a few seconds. His flaming cheeks held a sheen of moisture. It wasn’t a healthy sheen either.
“Your face is beet red. Have you been tanning?” I asked him.
“Nah, I think I might be coming down with a sore throat. Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said. “You ready?”
I nodded and followed the short, chubby, butterball out to his van.
We drove through the back roads into a ritzy area of Western Cranston that ended in an expensive development. Huge homes sprawled out over their lots, leaving little space for lawns and gardens. I figured each must exceed at least three thousand square feet of living space. It was a safe bet property taxes for a year were more than my car cost when I bought it new.
A friend of mine from the electric company had said this type of neighborhood had the highest disconnect rate for nonpayment than anywhere else. What is it with people anyway? If you can’t afford to live someplace, it’s simple: Don’t. That’s my take on it, anyway.
Larry slowed the van in front of an ornate house. A brick wall with gargoyle-topped posts caged the front yard and driveway. A scrolled, wrought-iron fence lay open so we could drive up to the house. Larry pulled up to the door to unload.
“We’ll put the supplies outside the door and I’ll park in the street. That way whoever needs to get out can do so.”
I heaved ladders and paint buckets from the back of the van. There was a mound of stuff on the edge of the driveway when we finished. Larry huffed and puffed from the exertion. He really needed to lose some weight. I waited while he pulled the van onto the street and parked near the gated entrance.
We stood outside in the cold while the doorbell chimed. It seemed to take forever, but it was probably only a minute, before the lady of the manor answered the summons. Pink curlers adorned the unnatural henna hair of an extremely mature woman who beckoned us inside. A lit cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth. She had more wrinkles than I’d ever seen on a woman’s face and the upper lip hair was out of control. With a little moustache wax, she could have passed for Snidely Whiplash, a cartoon character from back in the day.
A pink chenille robe and fluffy matching slippers coordinated with her curlers. Blood-red, claw-like fingernails ruined the effect. For an instant, I wondered if she
had a broom idling in the garage. I managed to keep a straight face and glanced around the gigantic house. The woman looked my way, her narrowed eyes held a glint of malice that took me aback. I was sure we hadn’t ever met, yet wondered why she seemed familiar. I shook my head a bit when she turned away, figuring my imagination was once again on overdrive.
My two-story colonial, is a large building with spacious rooms. This house was way more than that. I wondered if a gaggle of kids lived here with this woman, but she seemed too old. Grandchildren, maybe.
She mumbled something to Larry before scooting off to another section of the house.
We carried the supplies and equipment into the house. Larry ushered me downstairs to the family room that had short windows like the ones in the lower level of a raised ranch. The far wall held a gorgeous set of French doors, leading to the backyard. These doors made the ones in my house look shabby. Larry explained what his client had requested and gave me a piece of poster board with the design painted on it before he headed upstairs. I nodded and got to work with a chalk pencil, sketching leaves and flowers around the outer edge of the French door casings.
An hour had passed when I heard voices and the front door close. Larry strolled down the stairs to tell me the Mrs. had gone out to her bridge game and wouldn’t be back until late afternoon. I nodded and kept working until Larry brought down fresh coffee and delectable pastries.
“Hilda left these for us.” He smiled and nibbled at the flaky pastry. He had difficulty swallowing and left most of the scrumptious fare on the plate. “She is such a nice lady. Her husband is something else, though,” he whispered as he glanced around the room. He leaned back on the soft, comfy sofa and eyeballed the flat screen TV that took up most of the wall.
I glanced at him. “Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s rumored that he has connections, if ya know what I mean?” His brows waggled up and down.
“Really? What kind of connections? The murderous kind, the betting kind, or maybe the stock market kind?” I asked, considering the possibilities, my mind leapt forward.
He was about to answer when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number and told me it was important that he take the call. He didn’t just walk a few feet away, he hurried up the stairs. Nodding, I went back to work until Larry returned several minutes later to ask if I minded if we left early.
Cold Moon Dead Page 4
