by Nancy Martin
"Mick Abruzzo, I presume?" Jack said cordially.
Michael said something he shouldn't have, and Jack replied, "You're only making more trouble I'll have to clean up."
"You don't know how much trouble," Michael replied.
"Let's not have a fight," I said. "Please. Please, Michael."
Mocking, Jack said, "Please, Michael."
For an instant I thought Jack was going to be torn into very small pieces and squished into the floor. But then Michael was overcome by a Zenlike stillness.
He released Jack so carefully that I knew he'd learned this lesson a very hard way.
Two large men from Michael's posse came around the curtain and stood like a pair of sumo wrestlers ready for battle. They trained their eyes on Jack and dared him to budge.
Curtly, Michael said to me, "I have to take care of something. You have to leave the hospital. Aldo will make sure you're safe tonight."
I glanced at one of the henchmen standing close by, then back at Michael. "Where are you going?"
"I have to see Reed's mother."
Of course he did. "Let me come, too."
He shook his head. "I made some promises to her. I need to talk to her alone."
When Michael left the hospital, I turned to Jack. "You've hushed this up, haven't you? A young man has been shot, and you've made sure everyone will keep quiet."
"It will be better for everyone this way," Jack soothed, touching my arm. "My more immediate concern is getting you out of harm's way, Nora."
I pulled away from his hand. "I'm perfectly safe."
"You were the target tonight." Jack looked me dead in the eye. "You know that, don't you?"
"Yes."
"So let me take you somewhere where we can watch you."
"You wanted me to go up to Sidney's shop tonight," I said. "You wanted me to make something happen. Well, this happened instead, Jack. My confidence in your judgement isn't very high right now."
Chapter 14
My husband and I quarreled the evening of his death. I distinctly remember the moment I gave up, and he—relieved, and maybe even happy—went out the door to score his last cocaine. Hours later, when he was in the hospital, dying, I saw the whole argument flash in my mind and I wished that I had never stopped fighting him.
I wondered if Reed's mother felt the same way tonight. Blown apart by her inability to protect the one she loved.
When Aldo stopped the car, I had no idea where I was.
He said, "Boss told me to bring you here."
The river ran close by. I could see the silver water slipping swiftly past in the moonlight, going in the wrong direction. I realized we were on the New Jersey side of the Delaware. Wind hissed in the leafless trees overhead. A ramshackle house stood back from the water among the trees. I could make out the tall apex of darkened windows that overlooked the river the way a chalet might view a mountaintop.
"Where are we?"
Aldo jerked his head. "C'mon inside. You can call somebody, if you like."
His black hair was gelled into elaborate duck wings and a thick necklace nestled in his hairy chest.
A heavyset man, he hobbled with the gait of a peg-legged pirate.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He limped ahead of me. "Yeah, sure. Just my knee didn't heal so good."
"Oh. Some kind of surgery?"
"No," he said. "Gambling problem."
He found a key that had been hidden under the wooden deck. With a series of grunts, he laboriously climbed the steps. I heard a lock click, and he shouldered the door open, leading the way inside and flipping on a light.
It was Michael's house. I knew it as soon as I edged inside. The first floor was all one room like a summer cottage. A huge fireplace commanded the rear wall with a kitchen to the right. I could see copper-bottomed pots hanging from a rack over a stainless-steel stove. Fishing gear and a daunting collection of boots were left by the door. Mismatched bachelor furniture was arranged in front of a large television. A heap of automotive magazines spilled onto the floor from a thrift shop coffee table that looked like it was also used as a footstool.
Not speaking, Aldo systematically searched the house and returned to the television, which he switched on with a remote. While the sound blared at us, he took a cigarette lighter from his pocket and went over to the fireplace. The room was cold, and he lit the firewood that had already been laid, complete with tinder. A flame danced up immediately.
Aldo flopped down on the sofa with a thankful groan and looked up, surprised to see me still standing just inside the door. "You want to phone somebody? Maybe get some clothes brought over? A toothbrush?"
"I can't stay here."
He shrugged and looked at the television. With the remote, he began to click slowly through the channels.
I said, "Really, I can't stay here."
His attention was already glued to the screen. "Phone's in the kitchen."
A Turkish prison guard might have more flexibility.
I went into the kitchen and found a portable telephone hidden under a pot holder shaped like a fish. First I dialed the hospital, using the card I'd been given by the patient liaison. I was told Reed's surgery was going well and was expected to be over in an hour. The update didn't make me feel any better.
Next I dialed Emma. When she answered, sounding lush and languid, I explained everything that had happened and my current predicament.
She woke up fast. "Wait, reload. You okay?"
"I've been better."
"Somebody really shot at you?"
"Reed got hurt instead. Em, I'm so afraid for him."
"Jesus," she said again. "And you're staying at Mick's?"
"Not for long."
"You want me to bring you some sexy underwear in the meantime?"
"Emma!"
"Look, the kid is going to be fine. You might get yourself killed if you go home. Mick's got the right idea. You'll be out of trouble at his place."
"I feel as if I'm in bigger trouble here," I muttered.
"Scared to spend a night with the love machine?" Emma laughed. "It's like riding a bike, Sis. I'll be over in a little while. How do I get there?"
I handed the phone to Aldo, who gave succinct directions to my sister.
After they hung up, I sat on the sofa and watched the clock between glimpses of a television program called a "smackdown" that featured men who all seemed to look like Aldo, except with very small, patriotic costumes. I tried not to think about Aldo in a red-white-and-blue codpiece.
After about ten minutes, Aldo said, "You want to make us some food? Some pasta or something?"
"No," I told him.
He sighed. "Feminist, huh?"
Emma arrived half an hour later with a duffel bag of clothes that turned out to be hers, not mine.
"I can't fit into these things," I protested, pulling out the pants as we stood on the deck, out of Aldo's earshot.
"They'll fit," Emma promised, smirking. "Leather is very forgiving."
"I don't wear leather!"
"It's time you tried."
I yanked out something made of black satin. "And what's this? It laces up the back!"
"No, that's the front. You don't wear a bra, see?"
"I'm not going to dress like a hooker, Emma."
"So don't wear anything." She handed over a plastic shopping bag, too. "I stopped and bought you a new toothbrush and some shampoo and stuff. I figure Mick's not the herbal type. And a few condoms might come in useful until you can get on the pill. I needed a new box anyway."
Rummaging in the bag, my hand had already found several foil-wrapped condoms. I took one look at the neon packets and hastily shoved them back into the bottom of the duffel. "I can't believe you're my sister."
"So this is Mick's hideout, huh? Any suspicious characters around?"
"You have no idea."
"I gotta go," she said with a grin. "I've got a date."
I looked past her at a red monster pickup tr
uck idling in the driveway. Its tires looked like they'd been inflated by a fairy-tale giant. I couldn't make out the figure sitting in the driver's seat, except for a very large cowboy hat. Tartly, I said, "What if that huge truck is his way of compensating for an anatomical limitation?"
"It isn't," Emma reported. "Oh, one more thing. I heard the coroner released Laura Cooper's body. The funeral's in South Carolina tomorrow evening."
"The Coopers are going?"
Emma nodded. "One of Chaz's kids takes riding lessons from a friend of mine and was complaining that the whole family has to fly down to Charleston tomorrow. G'night, Sis." She waggled her eyebrows. "Hope you get lucky."
I went into the downstairs bathroom to change. Taking off my clothes, I discovered Reed's blood had even soaked through my bra. I rinsed it out in the sink, tears streaming off my nose and into the soapy water. Then I opened the duffel and pulled out some of Emma's choices. I decided I would almost rather wear bloodstained clothing than put on Emma's idea of alluring attire. The pants fit, but only if I didn't inhale. The black satin top made me look like an intergalactic milkmaid. I had cleavage I'd never seen before.
Fortunately, Michael had left a flannel shirt on the back of the door, so I put that on instead and was relieved to discover it came down to my midthighs, thereby covering everything embarrassing.
By the time I changed, washed my face and put the rest of my clothes into the sink to soak, Michael had arrived. I heard him dismiss Aldo in an exchange of low voices. I came out of the bathroom just as Aldo went out the door and Michael shut the sound off on the television. He was holding his telephone.
He looked exhausted in the firelight.
"Have you talked to the hospital?" I asked from across the room, hardly able to control my voice.
He pulled himself together before he turned towards me. "Yes, just now. Reed's out of surgery, in recovery. It went well. They didn't have to remove any of his lung. Just patched him up."
I put my hands over my face and felt the relief well up fiercely inside me.
"Hey." Michael came over and pulled my hands down. "He's young. He'll be fine."
I couldn't speak, just shook my head.
Michael pulled me to him and held me tight. "I took his mother to the hospital. Even she's not as upset as you are."
"It wasn't her fault," I managed to say against his shoulder. "She didn't put him in harm's way."
"It was one of those things," Michael said. "Hell, I gave him the job. And his mother insisted he drive you around. She reads your column. She thought you'd be good for him. You're beating yourself up too much."
"How is she?"
"His mom? Stronger than anyone I know. It's okay, Nora. He's going to be okay."
Against his chest, I said, "Reed could have been killed. If I hadn't asked him to take me to Jeweler's Row . . ."
"What were you doing there?"
I told him I'd gone to Sidney's because the newspaper put me on leave.
"I should have let the police take care of this," I said fiercely.
He slid a strand of my hair behind my ear, and his touch lingered there. "One big difference between you and me is that you assume the justice system works."
I looked up at his face. "But—"
"We'll handle this," he promised.
"Oh, no." I pushed him away as if I could also physically reject what he was saying. "No, Michael. Something truly horrible is going to happen if you do anything. Please, I have terrible luck with men. I couldn't live if you—"
"Stop." He pulled me down onto the couch and put an arm around me. "Take it easy."
"I don't want you involved," I said. "Not you. Not anyone else. Let the police do their job."
He smiled a little. "I'm not a puppy on a leash, Nora."
I felt my eyes start to sting and closed them. Too many uncontrollable people. Too much chaos to bring into order. I blurted out, "I know. That's what scares me."
He slid his hand up the back of my neck. "Let's be glad everybody's alive. Can we do that? Reed's fine. Let's just go to bed and—what are you wearing exactly? Are those leather? Is this my shirt? Hell, you look great!"
"You've seen me in some of the most exquisite designs ever created on earth, and this is what turns you on?"
He smiled. "It's you that turns me on."
The adrenaline that had gotten me through the last few hours was suddenly making me tremble. Or maybe it was because I was alive with Michael and feeling too weak to resist what we both wanted.
I gave him a shaky smile. "You're too tired."
"Never."
"I'm too tired."
"I can make you feel a whole lot better." His touch turned seductive. Softer, he said, "I've been a good boy for you, Nora."
"Have you?"
Something in his expression changed. "Well, pretty good."
"What does that mean?"
"Well," he said again and stopped.
I saw the truth and tried to pull myself together. As lightly as I could manage, I asked, "You didn't spend the summer pining for me?"
"I was seeing somebody," he admitted.
"Somebody who? Is she the psychologist?"
He paused to organize his thoughts. "She's an old friend. We've been together off and on for years, but neither of us ever took it more seriously than an occasional release of—of sexual tension when we needed it."
"So you slept with her?"
"A hundred times." Quickly, he added, "Over the years, I mean. Not this summer, though. It's been convenient. When the two of us are between serious relationships, we just—" He shrugged. "She's someone I can talk to."
"What's your girlfriend's name?"
"She's not my girlfriend."
"Your lover, then."
"Oh, shit. Nora, please."
I laughed unsteadily. I touched his face. I almost told him it didn't matter, but it did. I almost said I wanted to make love right there in front of the television wrestlers and make him forget about all the other women he'd ever been with.
But I didn't.
Because my nephew Rawlins came knocking at the door.
"What the hell?" Michael said.
"Hey," Rawlins said, when the door was opened for him. He strolled into the house, baggy jeans nearly falling off his hips and several rolled-up papers under his arm. He looked surprised to see me there. "Hi, Aunt Nora."
"Hello, Rawlins."
He shoved the rolls of paper at Michael. "I brought these over. You said you wanted to see them. Looks nice and cozy in here. You guys having some dinner?"
I heard the wistful note in his voice. "Are you hungry?" I asked.
Rawlins grinned. "Starved. Mom's at home breathing heavy with two totally bogus guys who wear matching tassel loafers and bring us salads all the time."
Michael looked confused. "What guys?"
"Libby's Lamaze coaches," I supplied.
"They chant." Rawlins rolled his eyes.
"What are those? Blueprints?" I couldn't help noticing the way Michael eased the rolled-up plans out of Rawlins's possession. The guilty expression that flitted across Michael's face was as unmistakable as Rawlins's unspoken angling for a free meal.
Rawlins said, "Yeah, some kind of plan for a house. We got 'em out of the car."
"Out of what car?"
"That big Jag you were in the other day."
"Rawlins," said Michael, "why don't you go see what's in the fridge? I might have some cold pizza or something."
"Wait a minute," I said. "Flan's Jag?"
Michael put his hand on the boy's shoulder and spun him towards the kitchen. "Go."
"Hold it."
My voice stopped them. Rawlins looked instinctively guilty.
"It was an honest mistake," Michael said at last. "We needed to get into the trunk, but there was all this junk in there. We forgot to put these back in, that's all. I was going to ask you to return them. Really."
"What are they exactly?"
"I don't know. B
lueprints, I guess."
I took one of the rolls from him. We spread the plans out on the kitchen counter. Rawlins raided the refrigerator while Michael and I looked at the unrolled blueprints.
"Big place," Michael said. "A hotel, maybe?"
I stared at the blueprints. "It's Oliver's house."
"Oliver Cooper's?"
I pointed to the bottom of the first page where the architect had printed Cooper Residence beneath the name and logo of the construction company that had built the home. "It's where the party was Friday night. Where Laura drowned."
Then I flipped to another page, and we both bent closer.
Michael whistled. "Wine cellar? Screening room?"
"These are Laura's copies of the blueprints. She must have designed all the extras for Oliver's house and left these prints in the trunk of her car."
"And these other ones must be left over from her other jobs?"
I glanced at the corners of some of the remaining pages. "Looks that way. We have to return them, Michael."
"To who? She's dead."
"To someone." I still had Doe's day planner, too.
"Maybe not yet," Michael said. "You never know what might come in handy."
"And," I added, hoping I sounded sincere, "I don't want to bother them at this difficult time."
Michael nodded. "Sure."
"I found the pizza," Rawlins called in triumph. "Hey, cool television!"
Michael and I watched him sprawl out on the sofa.
In unison, we sighed.
Rawlins ended up spending the night, parked contentedly in front of the television except for forays into Michael's refrigerator. By midnight, he'd even started in on cornflakes.
Michael took me upstairs to his bedroom and made sure I had a clean towel before he kissed me good night and went back downstairs. I could not get into his bed. I stood over it and wondered how recently he'd slept there with his longtime lover.
I didn't begrudge him a sex life. Frankly, I'd have been surprised if a man of Michael's age and constitution didn't have a lot of former partners. Still, it was disconcerting to look at that bed and imagine him there with somebody else.
I pulled the quilt off, curled up in an overstuffed chair under the window and wondered if I could possibly sleep.
