Jaron noticed the name of the trendy florist on the bouquet sleeve. The flowers had set the guy back a hundred bucks, easy. “I realize you’re eager to escape my company, but I’m not giving in on this.”
Giving him a direct look, she said, “Oh, you’re not so bad. In fact, I’m glad you insisted on dinner.”
She was being nice again. That was twice in five minutes. A record. Jaron looked down at her. She wasn’t so bad, either—now that their time together was nearing an end. And he could honestly say that he was glad he’d met her. He was debating telling her when he caught sight of their black Town Car turning the corner, and the moment passed.
The tires squealed as their driver completed the turn and sped up.
“Whoa. What did you say to the guy?” Bonnie took a step toward the curb.
“Just that we were ready and waiting out front.”
The car careened toward the sidewalk. Jaron took Bonnie’s elbow. “Hang on a minute.”
She didn’t argue with him, which was good because something wasn’t right.
The car finally slowed, but not enough to stop in front of the restaurant. A window lowered and Jaron saw the profile of a man with excruciatingly red hair as the car passed them.
“Hey! That’s the guy from the restaurant!” Bonnie tugged on Jaron’s arm. “What’s he doing in your car?”
“That’s not our car.” Jaron felt his heart give an extra thump as adrenaline spurted through his body a split second before a dark object appeared out the window.
A gun.
He flung himself at Bonnie, pushing her across the sidewalk all the way to the brick wall of the restaurant, where he stood, eyes closed, covering her body with his. She was apparently too stunned to struggle. Two pops sounded and the motor revved. Tires screaming, the car roared around the corner.
Everything had happened so quickly.
Jaron’s heart pounded harder than it ever had, and he had to consciously tell himself to breathe. He took several deep breaths while he was at it, then became aware of his body smashed up against Bonnie, who was smashed up against the wall.
It felt kind of good, except that he was disgusted he’d even noticed, considering the circumstances.
“Ouch?” Bonnie’s protest was a small sound in the eerie silence.
Jaron took a shaky step back and looked down the street. Less than a dozen yards away, the man who’d been carrying the roses lay on the sidewalk. Blood pooled around his head.
Jaron just stared, not believing what he saw. Things like this happened in movies and on television, not in real life.
“Did somebody throw firecrackers?”
“No.” Jaron shifted to the side so Bonnie wouldn’t see.
“The car backfired?” Her voice was small and thin.
“No.” Jaron drew a monster of a breath and forcibly exhaled. If he didn’t watch it, he was going to hyperventilate.
“It...it couldn’t have been a gun. Guns are loud. That was...was like popcorn.” She sounded wobbly. And with good reason.
“Bonnie—”
“Can you move a little?” She touched her hair. “I hit my head.”
Jaron stepped back, careful to block her line of vision. He was still a little wobbly himself. Bonnie’s face was white and he had a feeling he didn’t look any too great, either.
He gently moved her unprotesting fingers aside and found a lump already forming. Her cheek and temple were scraped.
He reached for his handkerchief.
“You carry a handkerchief? I might have known.”
“Hold this against your cheek.”
“Jaron—”
“Let’s go back inside the restaurant.”
Distant voices grew louder.
“But, Jaron, what’s going on? What happened?”
He was trying to figure out exactly how to tell her when she ducked around him and gasped.
“The rose man! He’s—” With an inarticulate cry, Bonnie started running toward the guy.
Jaron snapped out of his daze. “Bonnie, no!” He raced after her and grabbed her arm. She shook off his hand and knelt beside the man.
“Call 911,” she ordered, pressing Jaron’s handkerchief against the neat little hole in the man’s temple. A few curious folk came to see what was going on, took in the situation and retreated inside the other buildings and restaurants. In fact, the foot traffic on the street virtually disappeared. Music grew fainter as the windows of the apartments above were slammed shut.
Jaron had a bad feeling about this. “Bonnie, we have to get out of here.”
“Why? The car’s gone.”
“But it might come back and we don’t want to be here when it does. We’re witnesses. The man who did this doesn’t want to leave any loose ends. And right now, we’re as loose as they come.”
“Call 911.”
“Bonnie. This is one leak you aren’t going to be able to fix.” Jaron didn’t have to check for a pulse to know that the man was dead. “I don’t want my cell phone traced. I’ll call 911 from a pay phone. Come on.”
“No!” she snarled up at him. “I can’t believe you can be so heartless.”
A faint siren sounded, very gradually getting louder.
“There,” he said. “Somebody has already called the police. Let’s leave.”
“Without talking to the police?” She looked at him as though he’d shot the rose guy.
“It’s not going to make any difference to him.”
“We might help them catch his killer.”
“We don’t want them to find his killer! From what I know, which isn’t much, this looks like a hit, and the only people who do that kind of thing have friends in low places. They are not nice people, Bonnie. You would not find them living in Calico Corners.”
“Cooper’s Corner.”
Lights announced the approach of an emergency vehicle.
“Well, go on if you want to,” she told him.
It would serve her right if he did. Instead, Jaron made a last attempt to drag Bonnie away from the body. He literally seized her shoulders and pulled. She turned her head and opened her mouth.
“You bit me!” More surprised than hurt, Jaron dropped her, and Bonnie scrambled to resume her vigil by the dead man as a police cruiser zoomed toward them. “Oh, hell.”
“I am so sorry you’re feeling inconvenienced.”
“Bonnie, I just hope we survive long enough to be inconvenienced.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“I CAN’T GET OVER how much the police station looks like it does on TV.” Bonnie’s voice sounded loud in the bare interrogation room.
Without moving his head, Jaron rolled his eyes her way, then went back to staring at a crack in the gray-green plaster wall.
He’d been doing that for a while now, she realized.
He hadn’t said much since the police cruiser had arrived at the restaurant and she’d babbled their story to the two officers who’d emerged.
That had been the first time she’d told the story. There had been three other times, and Bonnie was no longer babbling. In fact, she could barely remember what she’d said.
She was sure Jaron could remember everything he’d said because he’d said so little—at least in her presence. At first, they’d been separated for a time, presumably to make sure their stories matched. She’d told her story to a man and a woman. Then they’d asked questions. Then she’d had to tell it all over again to another man. And he’d asked more questions—or, rather, the same questions once more. And if Bonnie didn’t answer exactly the same way she had previously, there were even more questions.
And that was another thing. It was nearly midnight and she was tired. The way she and Jaron had been treated, a person would have tho
ught they’d shot that poor man.
Bonnie shuddered.
“Are you cold?”
Not as cold as your voice. “Just from sitting so long.”
Jaron didn’t look at her as he spoke. “Get up and walk around our cell—excuse me, interrogation room.”
He was angry with her. Well, tough. Citizens had a duty, though Bonnie wasn’t quite as patriotically gung ho as she’d been a couple of hours ago.
She’d expected to have to “come to the station and make a statement.” Everyone who’d ever watched any police action in a movie expected that. What she hadn’t expected was to be shoved, along with Jaron, into a smelly police car with sticky seats and left to sit for more than half an hour.
All the blinking vehicles—eventually there were three police cars and an ambulance—had drawn people out of the buildings. They’d stared at her and Jaron sitting in the police car. Bonnie had wanted to make sure they knew she and Jaron weren’t suspects, but the police wouldn’t let anyone near the car. And with Jaron slumping down and concealing his face with his hand, they’d looked really guilty.
They’d been brought here, to the Fifth Precinct on Elizabeth, and questioned by people with unsmiling faces and hard eyes.
Bonnie was getting nervous and could have used a little reassurance from Jaron. “You know, you don’t have to be so grumpy about this. At least you’ll have plenty of material for your column.”
“You know, I didn’t take you for an airhead.” Jaron shifted on the metal folding chair. “Hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder why we’re still here?”
Bonnie bristled. “I assumed that either the paperwork was taking awhile, or they were trying to find that red-haired man for us to pick out of a lineup.” When Jaron rolled his eyes, she added, “Or the news media has discovered that you’re here and a crowd of paparazzi is blocking the door.”
“Or maybe, just maybe, the guy who was killed or the guy who did the killing is somebody big.”
“No, duh. That redheaded guy must have weighed close to three hundred pounds—oh, stop looking at me that way. I know what you meant. I’m just scared,” she admitted.
“Bonnie, I’m not scared. I’m terrified.” And Jaron went back to studying the crack in the plaster.
Well. That wasn’t quite the reassurance she’d hoped for.
She slid a glance his way and was caught by the expression on his face. Blank. No, that wasn’t right. It had a lack of the seen-it-all cynicism and made him look like a younger version of himself. She had a fanciful thought that she was seeing the man behind Jaron Darke.
“Why are you staring at me?” In an instant Jaron Darke had returned.
Bonnie didn’t know if she was sorry or not. “You said you were scared.”
“I said I was terrified.”
The door opened and a heavyset man with a gravelly voice spoke. “It’s good to know I don’t have to convince you two that we’ve got a serious situation here.” He strode forward, trailing underlings in his wake. “I’m Captain Frank Quigg with the detective unit,” he announced when he reached the table. He jabbed a thumb behind him. “Detectives Slade and Falco.”
Slade—or was it Falco?—positioned himself by the door. What? Did he think they’d try to escape? Falco—or maybe Slade—sat at the table and stared silently at them. He wore an earpiece and occasionally got a vacant expression that Bonnie guessed meant he was listening to something.
And speaking of listening... “You—how did you know...? Is there a microphone in here? Have you been eavesdropping on us?”
Captain Quigg gave her an incredulous look as he dumped files and binders on the table and dragged out a chair. “Of course.”
“She’s from out of town,” Jaron said.
“Ah.” Propping both hands on the table, Quigg lowered himself onto the chair. “I do apologize for keeping you two waiting.”
Bonnie was mollified somewhat, even though he didn’t sound particularly sorry.
“I’ve got some pictures for you to look at.” Opening one of the file folders, he tossed photos on the table as though dealing a hand of cards.
Bonnie gasped. “It’s the red-haired man!” She recognized him even though the pictures were in black-and-white.
Captain Quigg looked at Jaron.
Reluctantly, Jaron turned in his chair and picked up the mug shot. He stared at it, then picked up another shot of two men walking along a street.
“Jaron—”
Quigg interrupted her with a raised hand. “Not so sure, are you?”
Closing his eyes, Jaron exhaled heavily. “I’m sure. I just don’t want to be.”
“In your situation, I wouldn’t want to be, either.” Quigg gathered up the photos, then tossed some more at them.
Both Jaron and Bonnie shook their heads.
Quigg tried again. Bonnie figured she was staring at major riffraff. She shook her head again.
“How about him?”
It was a fax of a driver’s license photograph. The dark-haired man looked vaguely familiar. “I don’t know,” Bonnie said.
Jaron snorted. “May I?” He gestured for a pen. Quigg handed it to him and Jaron drew a small, dark circle on the left side of the head.
“Oh.” Bonnie covered her hand with her mouth.
“Who was he?” Jaron asked.
“Maurice Fenister.”
“Was he a criminal?” Bonnie asked.
“He was an interior decorator.”
“Same thing,” Jaron said.
“Jaron!”
“I know the name. He never met a chintz he didn’t like.”
Quigg tapped the picture. “This one’s got us puzzled. The man you’ve identified as the shooter—”
“Neither of us saw the actual shooting,” Jaron pointed out.
“No, but you saw a man with a gun, you sensed danger and ran for cover. And the man you have identified is Sonny O’Brien.”
The name meant nothing to Bonnie. She looked at Jaron, who shook his head.
“We’ve linked him to the McDormand clan. Irish mafia, if you will.”
“I knew it.” Jaron rubbed his forehead with both hands.
“Now, what’s so strange here is that Sonny is above doing actual hits. And he’s certainly rusty if he left you two standing there.”
Bonnie felt the chill of the room seep into her bones. She’d been shaken when Jaron had pushed her up against the wall, but everything had seemed unreal. Even after two hours in the police station, she felt distanced from what was happening.
Now she felt it. Now she understood why Jaron had been so tight-lipped.
And why he’d tried to drag her away.
Quigg was talking. “My best guess is that Sonny got a little hotheaded and this is an old-fashioned crime of passion.” His lips curved and Bonnie realized he was attempting to smile. “Sonny must have really hated chintz.”
“I know exactly how he feels,” Jaron said.
Quigg consulted some notes. “You say that you first saw Sonny O’Brien in Lorenzo’s Restaurant and that he was dining with another man.”
“The other man sent Jaron a bottle of wine.”
Quigg raised his bushy gray eyebrows and Jaron gave Bonnie a long-suffering look.
“I have no idea who the man is,” Jaron told Quigg.
“Let’s see if he’s in the family album.” He took one of the binders, opened it and turned it around to face them.
Bonnie glanced at the other binders and knew she wasn’t getting back to her aunt Cokie’s for a long time yet.
They flipped through the first binder, which had page after plastic page of surveillance photos and mug shots, and two more binders just like it, without seeing the man who’d sent Jaron the wine.
; “Must not have been a family member,” Quigg said with audible disappointment. He stacked the binders and stared at them, tapping his fingers against the tops. Blowing out his cheeks, he exhaled, then looked toward the detective with the earpiece. “Get me a photo of McDormand.”
“There’s just the one,” the detective said.
“So go get it.” From the look he gave the younger man, Bonnie figured that Captain Quigg wasn’t used to being questioned.
“Are we nearly finished?” she asked. “I don’t know anything else.”
“We didn’t know that much to start with,” Jaron said.
Quigg gave him a look. “You know enough.”
The detective returned to the room with a file folder and handed it to Quigg.
Quigg opened the folder and extracted a photograph. There was only one other piece of paper in the file. “Saint Patrick’s Day three years ago.” He carefully placed the photo on the table, turned it around and slid it toward them.
The man, wearing a green bowler with a shamrock in the hat band, was getting into a car. He’d glanced toward the photographer, a look of irritation on his face.
The picture had been enlarged and wasn’t clear, but Bonnie recognized the man from the restaurant.
Jaron groaned and thunked his head on the table. “Why me?”
Quigg tensed and leaned forward. “You’ve seen this man?”
Bonnie nodded. “He was the man at the table with the other man.”
“You mean Sonny?”
“Yes, she means Sonny!” Jaron snapped.
“Are you sure?”
“She’s sure. I’m sure.” Jaron shoved the picture back across the table. “We’re dead.”
“We’ll try to make very sure that won’t happen.” Quigg smiled, creasing new lines in his seasoned face. “This was worth missing the end of Law and Order.”
“Why? Who is that man?” Bonnie asked.
Still smiling, Quigg nodded to the detectives, who melted from the room. “Seamus McDormand, head of the McDormand crime ring.”
Bonnie’s jaw dropped. She’d eaten spaghetti and meatballs just feet away from...from... “But he sent Jaron wine! He’s a fan of Jaron’s—Jaron writes a column.”
After Darke Page 5
