Cold Moon Dead

by J. M. Griffin

  Chapter 10

  I yawned, refreshed by a good night’s sleep. It took a minute to realize I wasn’t in my own bed, but at Marcus’s house instead. His side of the bed was empty. I could smell fresh perked coffee as the aroma wafted up the stairs.

  “Are you coming down, Little Miss Sunshine?” Marcus called.

  My mouth tasted like crap, I knew I looked like hell, but I answered that I’d be down shortly. Within minutes, I had scooted down the staircase into the kitchen. My hair was brushed back into a clip. I’d washed my face, and brushed my teeth with an extra toothbrush from the bathroom cabinet, and then donned a robe from Marcus’s closet. It was a warm robe—big, but warm all the same.

  Marcus stared at me when I entered the room, and a smile flitted across his face. He was dressed in jeans, a sweater with sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and socks on his feet. No shoes, just socks. I grinned back at him when he offered me a cup of coffee and some blueberry pancakes. The man could make a decent cup of coffee and cook, too. Hmm, I should definitely hang onto him.

  “Rested enough?” he asked with a grin.

  “Yeah, the best sleep I’ve had in a while.” I chortled at the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

  We chatted about mundane topics for a while as we ate and then cleared the dishes away. I sipped fresh coffee and prepared to go upstairs to dress. Before I put the cup in the sink, Marcus leaned his elbows on the table and stared at me.

  “You had a call on your cell phone this morning,” he said.

  I pulled the phone from my jacket pocket and scanned the calls. Freedom had left a message. I plunked my butt into the chair across from Marcus. Maybe my Altima had been found. I hit the send button and waited while the phone rang.

  “Hey, Free,” I said when she answered. “It’s Vin. What’s up?”

  “Can you meet me at Central Station today?” she asked.

  Central Station is the main complex of the police department. It’s all glass and angles, bordering Washington Street on one side and overlooking Route 95 on another. An awesome structure.

  “Sure, what time is good for you?” Reluctant to ask why, I wondered what had happened.

  “Just come down anytime, and call me before you get there. I’ll meet you, okay?”

  I couldn’t stand the suspense another minute. I asked, “What’s this about?”

  “I’ll show you when you get here,” Free said before she disconnected the call.

  Free’s tone had been quiet, which for her is an amazing feat. Free yells a lot of the time. It’s in her nature that her temper flares easily. The fact that she hadn’t yelled put me on my guard and sent my curiosity into orbit like a Sputnik.

  Curious eyes regarded me across the table. Marcus didn’t ask any questions, but sat quietly instead.

  “I have to get dressed and go down to Central Station.” I rose from the table and headed toward the staircase.

  “Do you want company?” he asked.

  “Sure, if you’d like to tag along.”

  “Then get dressed and we’ll go.”

  Maybe his curiosity was out of control, too. I nodded and ran up the stairs to retrieve my wrinkled clothing. I slipped my sweater on and donned the blue jeans. My shoes were in the living room. I dashed downstairs, slid my feet into the shoes, and rushed into the kitchen where Marcus had just packed the dishes into the dishwasher.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  We left in his pickup truck and headed for Providence. His house wasn’t far outside the city and it didn’t take long to get there. As we pulled onto Dean Street, which runs along the entrance side of the police station, I hit speed dial and waited for Freedom to answer the call. When she did, I told her we had almost arrived at the station. She gave a grunt of acknowledgement and said she’d be right there.

  We hung around the vacant lot adjacent to the department while we waited for Freedom. Within a few minutes, she pulled up next to the truck, nodded to Marcus, and greeted me.

  “I think we found your car. Follow me,” Free said.

  My curiosity was out of control, as was my heartbeat. What had happened to my Altima? Was it a total wreck? Couldn’t it be identified? I considered the possibilities as we drove two blocks west and then a block south from PPD headquarters.

  Twelve to fifteen cops milled around the oversized garage and fenced-in lot. BCI, the crime scene people, were there with forensic equipment, and several detectives stood around with their heads together, deep in conversation. I glanced at the building. It could definitely be a chop shop. Odd car parts were stacked outside and a female officer was in the process of forming an inventory list. At least that’s what it looked like from where I stood.

  The inventory officer nodded to Free and motioned for us to head inside the garage. Marcus and I followed Freedom without a word. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I saw the vehicle in front of me and let it out with a whoosh.

  In the back of the huge structure, I saw a light blue car door, a hood, and some fenders. The skeletal frame of the car stood on concrete blocks. No tires, no rims, and no motor. Even the windows were missing. The car was stripped from stem to stern.

  I walked around the frame before I glanced at Free.

  “What makes you think this is my car?” I asked.

  “We aren’t sure, but hoped there was some way you could identify it. The VIN number is missing and the plates are gone. Most of it is gone, as you can see.”

  Personally, I’d never gotten past the registration and insurance end of things. So anything else a vehicle identification number was used for was out of my knowledge range.

  After a quick glance at Marcus, I turned to Free and said, “This isn’t like identifying the remains of a dead person, Free. The car never broke a leg or an arm, you know. I took good care of my car, no scratches, dents, or stuff like that.”

  She smirked and then turned a wiseass glare toward me. “I just thought you might know your own car when you saw it. There were two Altimas with the same description stolen within a day or so of each other. This has to be one of them. One belonged to you.”

  “Sorry, Free, I can’t help you. Besides, I saw my car in traffic last night. The college parking sticker was on the windshield. That’s how I recognized it.”

  “I heard that story. Not a smart move to chase a car, but I can understand your need to do so.”

  “You spoke to Posely, huh?”

  She snorted. “Yeah, the story is all over the station about how you and Marcus had an argument in the middle of the street.”

  “I knew that would happen.” I shook my head. “It was too much to hope Posely would forget about it.”

  A look of disbelief was Free’s response. She snickered under her breath and walked away to have a word with another officer. Her head dipped back toward me as she spoke. She nodded and walked toward us again. Marcus watched, but said nothing. His eyes appeared to be taking in all that went on, but he stored the information without a sound.

  “We just got confirmation on this car. You’re right it’s not yours. The team found a VIN number, and a few other parts in the yard out back. They also found Mercedes parts and even a whole Porsche out there that was about to be shipped overseas somewhere. Sorry to bring you down here for nothing.”

  Far from disappointed, I felt hopeful that I’d get my car back in one piece.

  I thanked Free, looked over at Marcus, and we left the garage. Once outside I asked him what his impressions were. He said to wait until we got into the truck.

  The ride back started out quietly, until we hit the Route 6 connector. My mind flew over possibilities where his thoughts were concerned, until he started to talk.

  “This was a high tech operation. The squad and the PPD must have searched high and low for this place and it was only two blocks from the damned station? That’s an insult, if there ever was one.” He turned to me. “When this woman robbed you and stole your car, was there any indicat
ion that she might be involved with an operation like this?”

  “None that I could see,” I said. “She had the gun, of course, but appeared reluctant to use it. She said there wasn’t any need for me to get hurt if I just did as I was told. She waggled the gun back and forth, but never stuck it into my side or put it to my head.”

  “Right, she probably figured you’d be smart enough, or scared enough, to follow her directions. Most people would be afraid when just confronted with a weapon. She wouldn’t necessarily have to use it. She may not even have wanted to do so.”

  “I guess you’re right. It did seem prudent to do as I was told.”

  Marcus laughed. “Now if only you would do that with the rest of us.”

  I rolled my eyes and said, “Give me a break, will you?”

  Marcus chuckled. I smiled to think he would even consider that possibility. I had never been good at taking orders, not from anyone—and that included my father.

  Gino Esposito could be quite fearsome, but it hadn’t fazed me much during childhood and did so even less now that I was an adult. Call me stupid, but I acted on impulse more often than not. Another gift from God, I guess.

  Traffic slowed and we were held up for a while as an accident was cleared from the highway. Conversation was lighthearted even though I was pretty sure Marcus had his mind on my car and the chop shop. I know that’s where my attention was and, for the life of me, I couldn’t come up with an answer to the question of whether the old hag was involved in that operation. Something about her bothered me, but I couldn’t pinpoint what that was.

  The MINI Cooper zipped over the back roads as I drove toward home . . . and some fresh clothes. I’d left Marcus at his apartment and, though I’d considered a quick stop to visit my mother, I decided to freshen up instead.

  The house was the same as I’d left it. Laundry sat piled on the floor in front of the washer. I tossed it back into the hamper and headed for the bathroom and a shower. About fifteen minutes later, I stepped from the stream of hot water, dried off, and got dressed in clean clothes.

  There was no sign of Aaron. I felt fortunate. The last thing I wanted was another blowout with him. While he was a good person, a friend, above all, he was an FBI agent with an allegiance to law and order. Cops often bend the rules, but FBI agents are taken to task big time for any indiscretions. I knew he would do what he could to protect me, but his influence would only go so far. My penchant for trouble could lead to an impossible situation for him. It occurred to me that I needed to be a tad more careful where Aaron’s job was concerned. The last thing I wanted or needed was for him to be reprimanded due to my problems with the mob.

  The phone rang. Lola’s voice sounded far away. Surprised to hear from her, I asked where she was.

  “We landed in New Orleans this morning. I’ve just had lunch in the French Quarter and thought I should call to check on the house.”

  “I’ve been there every day—sometimes twice a day. The furnace is fine and the house is snug and warm. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it. I’ll be back in a few days, but won’t be able to call again. See you then.”

  “Have fun,” I said, and ended the call.

  With my jacket slung over my shoulders, I took the car and headed for Lola’s house to make sure I hadn’t lied about the furnace. It would be just my luck to say that all was well and then have the house burn down or something equally tragic happen.

  I swung the car around the curve and into the driveway and pulled up to the bottom of the stairs. The house looked quiet and peaceful as I hiked up the steps. I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and heard loud thumps, like feet on stairs. I tossed my handbag onto the counter as I headed toward the noise.

  As there was no attic, the only stairs inside the house led down to the basement.

  I took the steps two at a time, jumped off the last three and hit the floor running as the bulkhead door banged open. It swung inward fast. I shoved it hard and leapt through the opening. The backyard sloped downward and had a steep pitch. Ahead of me, the intruder slipped on dry leaves in his effort to flee.

  It took less than a minute for me to catch up to him. I grabbed the tail of his jacket. When I yanked hard, he stopped short and then slipped his arms from the sleeves. I stood with the jacket in my hands for a second before I flung it on the ground and ran after him once again.

  “Hey, come back here, you little shit,” I yelled as I scrambled through the brush along the side of the road.

  He kept on moving. I pushed myself to cover the distance between us. It wasn’t long before I was on his heels again. I reached out and grasped his shirt, ran into him when he hesitated and tumbled with him to the ground.

  Breathless, we both landed hard. I still had his shirt curled in my fist.

  “Kid, what the hell are you doing?” I asked between breaths.

  He turned toward me and I stared, speechless. It was Eric Strom, a kid that I had met before—a good kid whose life without parents had led him into trouble. He had a tough life. Why he had broken into Lola’s house was a mystery about to be solved.

  Eric stared at me a second, and said, “Miss Esposito, I didn’t know that was you.”

  “Answer the question,” I demanded. We both stood up and brushed the dirt off our clothes.

  Wide-eyed, he asked, “Was it you that kept coming to the house the past couple of days?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go inside and talk about this. I’m freezing.”

  A car rolled to a stop behind us and a cop stepped out.

  “Is everything all right here?” he asked.

  I turned around to stare at the local Scituate police officer eye-balling both of us. I glanced at Eric and then back at the cop.

  “We’re fine, sir. I slipped and fell and this young man helped me to my feet.”

  The cop was clearly not sure about accepting my explanation. I could see it in his face. He finally nodded and told me to take care. He climbed back into his car and drove away.

  A sigh escaped Eric as he turned his frightened eyes toward me. I pointed toward the house and motioned him forward. We went in the way we’d come out. I bolted the bulkhead door from the inside after we entered the basement. I checked the furnace, looked around the cellar and then went up the stairs behind Eric.

  Hot water boiled on the stove as I prepared hot chocolate for the two of us. I noticed the sink was clear of dishes and the house remained neat as a pin. Apparently, Eric had taken the hint when I had straightened things up.

  As we sipped the steaming beverage, I asked Eric to explain why he was holed up at Lola’s.

  “My father is in jail for drunk driving, and I didn’t have any place to go. When I went to the deli to get warm one day, I heard Miss Trapezi tell the woman who works there about the cruise. I figured I could stay here and try to solve my homeless problem, at least until she came home.”

  “When your father went to jail, weren’t you assigned to stay with someone?”

  “No, and I won’t go to one of those foster homes. I lied and said that I had an aunt in the village and told them it was Miss Trapezi. They believed me, so I didn’t have to go live with people I didn’t know. It took a while to find the house key, but Miss Trapezi keeps it under the loose shingle near the door.”

  Call me foolish, but my heart went out to this scrawny kid with hand-me-down clothes and a bleak outlook. Scared, and nervous as a cat, Eric had a hungry look to him.

  “When was the last time you had a decent meal?”

  “I ate the last of the bread this morning. Miss Trapezi didn’t leave any extra food in the refrigerator. I couldn’t cook anything since you’d already cleaned the pan once. I was afraid I’d get caught.”

  Again, my heart went out to him. It was unlikely that he had a decent home life if his father was an alcoholic. Where was his mother? I wondered and then asked.

  “She died of cancer about three years ago. My dad started to drink real heavy af
ter that. Things haven’t been too great at our house since she’s been gone.”

  The hot chocolate had grown cold so I put it in the microwave to reheat it. I checked the fridge and then the freezer. Nothing ready-made and frozen, so I turned back to Eric with a smile.

  “Wash your hands and comb your hair. We’re going shopping for groceries.”

  “Why are we doing that?”

  “I don’t have any food at my house and can use a hand at the market. That’s why.”

  “Okay.” A small grin curled the corners of his mouth and he did as I asked. It didn’t take long before he was ready to go.

  Chapter 11

  We’d filled the grocery cart and gone through the store’s checkout. While we shopped, Eric explained that he liked to cook. I smiled. I don’t know why, but he’d taken up residence in my heart. He seemed like a lost stray.

  We arrived at my house with bundles and bags of food. More food than I’d actually bought in the past six months. It took a couple of trips to the car to unload it all and a while to sort and put it all away. By then we were both hungry, so we opted to go to the deli for something to eat. I knew it didn’t make any sense, but I figured everyone went grocery shopping and then out to eat. That’s what I usually do, anyway.

  We ordered soup and sandwiches at the deli and settled at a table near the window to watch the traffic. It didn’t take Millie long to bring our food. I watched Eric dig in. He was a hungry kid, and like most teenagers he could eat more than his fair share. I smiled and munched my own meal.

  Millie watched us from behind the counter, ready to take our dishes away and bring more food if necessary. I could see her curiosity as she glanced at Eric more than once. That was when the idea came to me.

  “Eric, how old are you?”

  “I just turned sixteen, why?” he asked, as he gazed around the shop.

  The interest in his eyes and the expression on his face told me I was on the right track. “Do you have a job?”